The daughter was the key to his vengeance. He had understood that for months now. Through her he would have his revenge on the entire Faringdon clan, for of the four men who owed him for what had happened twenty-three years ago, Broderick Faringdon owed him the most of all.

She was the means by which he would regain his birthright and punish the one who had stolen it from him.

Simon Augustus Traherne, Earl of Blade, brought the big chestnut stallion to a halt amid a stand of bare elm trees and sat silently staring at the great house. He had not seen St. Clair Hall in twenty-three years but to his brooding eyes it looked much the same as it had the day he had left.

The gray light of a late winter sun caused the stone walls of the hall to gleam with the cold sheen of gray marble. The country house was starkly graceful, not a sprawling architectural jumble as so many similar residences were. It had been built in the Palladian style that had been popular in the last century and it had an air of grave and remote dignity.

The house was not as massive as some, but there was an unshakable, if chilly, elegance in every line, from the tall, stately windows to the wide staircase that led to the front door.

While the house had not changed, the landscape in which it stood definitely had, Simon noted. Gone were the austere, aloof vistas of endless green lawn punctuated with the occasional classical fountain. In their place were flower gardens.

A great many flower gardens.

Somebody had obviously run amok putting in flower gardens.

Even in the middle of winter the softening effect on the house was obvious. In the spring and summer St. Clair Hall's cold gray walls would rise from amid a warm welter of brilliant flowers, cascading vines, and fancifully trimmed hedges.

It was ludicrous. The hall had never been a warm, inviting sort of house. It should not be surrounded by bright, cheerful gardens and hedges cut in silly shapes. Simon had a hunch he knew who was to blame for the outrageous landscaping.

The chestnut pranced restlessly. The earl absently patted the stallion's neck with a leather-gloved hand. "Not long now, Lap Seng," he muttered to the horse as he tightened the reins. "I'll have that lot of Faringdon bastards out soon enough. After twenty-three years, I will finally have my revenge."

And the daughter was the key.

It was not as if Miss Emily Faringdon was an innocent young chit fresh out of the schoolroom. She was four and twenty years old and, according to his hostess, Lady Gillingham, the young woman was well aware she had precious little chance of contracting a good marriage. There had been veiled references to some sort of scandal in the lady's past, a scandal that had blighted any hope of a respectable alliance.

That fact made Emily Faringdon extremely useful.

It occurred to Simon that he had spent so many years living amid the strange cultures of the East Indies that he no longer thought quite like an Englishman. Indeed, his friends and acquaintances often accused him of being enigmatic and mysterious.

Perhaps it was true. Revenge, for example, was no longer a simple, straightforward concept for him, but rather one involving exquisite care and planning. In the Eastern manner, it required the destruction of an entire family, not just one member of it.

A decent English gentleman of noble birth would never have dreamed of using an innocent young woman in his quest for vengeance. But Simon found he had no problem with the notion. None at all. In any event, if the rumors were true, the lady was not all that innocent.

Icy satisfaction settled deep inside Simon as he rode swiftly back toward the country house of his hosts. After twenty-three years of waiting, St. Clair Hall and vengeance were at last within his grasp.

Emily Faringdon knew she was in love. She had never met the object of her affections but that did not lessen her certainty in the least. She knew from his letters that Mr. S. A. Traherne was a man with whom her soul communicated on a higher plane. He was a paragon among males, an insightful man of refined sensibilities, a man of vision and intelligence, a man of strong character. He was, in short, quite perfect.

It was unfortunate that the odds against her ever meeting him, let alone of developing a romantic liaison with him, were infinitely worse than the odds in a game of hazard.

Emily sighed, put on her silver-framed spectacles, and pulled S. A. Traherne's letter from the stack of letters, newspapers, and journals that had arrived with the morning post. She had gotten very adept at spotting Traherne's bold, graceful handwriting and his unusual dragon's head seal during the past few months. Her extensive correspondence and wide variety of subscriptions always resulted in a great deal of mail stacked on the huge mahogany desk but she could always spot a S. A. Traherne letter.

She used the letter opener with great care so as not to damage the precious seal. Every part of an S. A. Traherne missive was very important and worthy of being stored forever in a special box Emily had bought for the purpose.

She was gently breaking the red wax seal when the library door opened and her brother sauntered into the room.

"Good morning, Em. I see you're hard at work, as usual. Don't know how you do it, sister dear."

"Hello, Charles."

Charles Faringdon gave his sister a brief peck on the cheek and then sank gracefully into the chair across from the wide desk. He gave her the careless, engaging smile that was a hallmark of the Faringdon men as he crossed his elegantly clad legs. " 'Course, I don't know what we'd all do if you did not enjoy burying yourself in here and poring over all that nasty, boring correspondence."

Emily reluctantly put S. A. Traherne's letter down on her desk and unobtrusively placed the latest copy of the The Gentleman's Magazine over it. Traherne letters were private and personal items, not to be left lying out in the open where they might draw the casual interest of some other member of the family.

"You appear to be in excellent spirits," she said lightly. "I assume you have recovered from the discouragement of your recent gaming losses and plan to return to town soon?" She peered at her handsome brother through the round lenses of her spectacles, aware of a familiar mixture of irritation and affection.

Emily loved Charles, just as she loved his twin, Devlin, and her easygoing, gregarious father. But there was no getting around the fact that there was a certain strain of irresponsible, devil-may-care casualness in the attitudes of the Faringdon men which could be extremely trying at times. Even her beautiful mother, who had died six years ago, had frequently complained of it.

Still, Emily had to admit that, with the rather glaring exception of herself, the Faringdons were a handsome bunch.

This morning Charles was magnificent as always in his riding clothes. His coat had been cut by Weston. Emily knew that because she had just paid the bill for it. Hisbreeches were perfectly tailored to show off his excellent build and his boots were polished to a high gloss. Emily could almost see her reflection in them.

Tall, with hair so fair it looked like gilt in the sun and with eyes as blue as a summer sky, Charles was a typical Faringdon. In addition to the features of a young Adonis, he also had the Faringdon charm.

"As it happens, I am quite recovered," Charles assured her cheerfully. "I leave for London in a few minutes. Fine day for riding. If you have any instructions for Davenport, I'll be happy to convey them. I'm bound to beat the post back to town. Got a wager with Pearson on the matter, in fact."