"Bloody hell," Emily muttered.

"Good God, what is this?" Broderick stared in astonishment, first at the opening in the wall and then at his daughter.

Emily sat up, attempting to douse the candle she had been carrying, straighten her skirts, and adjust her spectacles all at the same time. She peered up at Simon, who towered over her. "How did you know I was back there, my lord?"

"You must attribute my uncanny knowledge to the fact that we obviously do communicate on a higher plane, my dear. In the metaphysical realm such things as mental communication are no doubt everyday occurrences. We shall have to accustom ourselves to the experience."

"Oh, of course." Emily smiled in delight.

Simon reached down, helped her up, and set her lightly on her feet. He smiled down into her brilliant eyes and wondered if he should add that her presence on the other side of the bookcase had been a safe enough guess on his part. He knew her well enough by now to know she would have been unable to resist the opportunity to eavesdrop. Especially not when there was a secret passageway conveniently available in which to do so.

Emily sighed philosophically as she brushed at the dust on her peach-colored muslin gown. "So much for my dignity. But at least the business is completed, is it not?" She looked up at him quite hopefully. "We are engaged to be married?"

"We are, indeed, my dear," Simon assured her. "I have many faults, as you will no doubt discover soon enough, but I am not stupid. I could not possibly pass up the chance of making the best investment of my life."

On a dreary, damp morning two weeks later Simon sat in the library of his Grosvenor Square townhouse reading the letter from Emily that had arrived at breakfast. It contained, as usual, a lively report on the discussions at the latest meeting of the literary society, discussions which seemed to have been devoted entirely to Byron again. There was also a long paragraph describing the new verses being added to The Mysterious Lady and a few desultory remarks about the weather.

When he finished reading, Simon was vaguely aware of an odd flicker of disappointment. It was obvious Emily had fought valiantly to resist the temptation to put anything into her note that might be interpreted as an excess of passion.

Simon gently refolded the letter and sat gazing into the fire. After a moment's contemplation, he reached out to pick up the beautifully enameled Chinese teapot that sat on a nearby table. He poured the Lap Seng into a gossamer thin cup decorated with a green and gold dragon. As he started to lift the cup, he paused, studying the figure of the mythical beast.

Emily had called him a dragon. And her eyes had been full of wonder and passion and sweet, feminine adoration when she said it.

Simon glanced around the room in which he sat. When she saw his townhouse she would undoubtedly term it a suitable lair for a dragon.

The entire house was done in the rich, exotic shades he had grown to appreciate while living in the East: Chinese red, dark green, midnight black, and glowing gold.

The lush library was filled with reminders of the strange lands he had traveled. The richly hued Oriental carpet was a suitable backdrop for the black lacquered cabinets with their fabulous motifs. The heavily carved teak settee and armchairs were covered with red velvet and trimmed with gold tassels.

The desk was a massive thing, intricately inlaid and worked by master craftsmen. He'd had it made in Canton. Incense urns from India filled the room with a fragrance that had been blended in Bombay to his exact specifications. Huge golden silk brocade pillows large enough to double as beds were arranged near the hearth.

And everywhere there were dragons, beautifully sculpted images of ferocious mythical creatures from the folklore of the Far East. The dragons were green, black, red, and gold and each was encrusted with a fortune in gems. Wherever one happened to look in the library one saw fantastic beasts with emerald and ruby eyes, golden scales, onyx claws, and topaz-studded tails.

Simon had a hunch the creatures would appeal to Emily.

He inhaled the smoky-scented tea as he leaned his head back against the crimson cushion of his chair and thought about his forthcoming marriage. He did not know quite when he had decided to marry Emily Faringdon. He'd certainly had no such intention when he'd laid his initial plans several months past. But life, he had learned over the years, had a way of reshaping a man's intentions.

He was mentally composing a reply to Emily's letter when his singularly ugly butler announced Lady Araminta Merryweather. Simon got to his feet as a vivacious woman in her late forties swept into the room amid a cloud of expensive scent.

Lady Merryweather was, as usual, dressed in the first style of fashion. Today she was wearing a pale blue merino wool gown cut with long, tight sleeves and a delicate flounce. Her height, which was unusual for a woman, gave her a regal air. Her hat was a charming little confection perched rakishly atop her graying curls. Her eyes were the same yellow gold as Simon's. Her handsome, patrician features were flushed from the cold.

"Simon. I have only just got back to town and discovered the news of your engagement. To a Faringdon, no less. I came around at once, of course. I can scarcely believe it. Absolutely astonishing. And never a hint. You must tell me all about it, dear boy."

"Hello, Aunt Araminta." Simon kissed the back of her hand and invited her to seat herself in front of the fire. "I appreciate your coming here this morning. As it happens, I was going to call on you tomorrow."

"I could not have waited until tomorrow," Araminta assured him. "Now, then, I want to know precisely what is going on here. How on earth did you come to get yourself engaged to the Faringdon girl?"

Simon smiled faintly. "I am not precisely certain of just how it happened myself. Miss Faringdon is a most unusual creature."

Araminta's eyes grew speculative. "But you are far too clever to have gotten caught up in any woman's toils."

"Am I?"

"Of course you are. Simon, do not play games with me. I know you are up to something. You are always plotting. I vow you are the most devious creature I have ever met and there is not a soul in town who does not agree with me. But surely you can trust me."

Simon smiled faintly. "You are the only person in the whole of England whom I completely trust, Araminta. You know that."

"Then you know I would never breathe a word of your plans. Have you developed some monstrous scheme that will bring down the entire bunch of Flighty, Feckless Faringdons?"

"There have been some modifications in the original scheme," Simon admitted. "But I will be getting St. Clair Hall back."

Araminta arched her elegantly thin brows. "Will you, indeed? How did you arrange that?"

"The house will be my wife's dowry."

"Oh, my. I know you have been obsessed with that house since the day your father died, but was it worth shackling yourself to a Faringdon in order to get it?"

"Emily Faringdon is not an ordinary Faringdon. Soon, she will not be a Faringdon at all. She will be my wife."

"Do not tell me this is a love match," Araminta exclaimed.

"More of a business investment. Or so I am told."

"A business investment. This is too much, by half. Simon, what on earth are you about?"

"I am thirty-five years old." Simon studied the flames on the hearth. "And the last of my line. You have been telling me for some time that I should do my duty and set up my nursery."

"Granted. But you are the Earl of Blade and you have accrued a sizable fortune during the past years. You could have your choice on the marriage mart. Why choose Miss Faringdon, of all people?"