Callie trotted along rapidly, only vaguely aware that Major Sturgeon's horse kept pace behind her. She had taken the shortcut into Shelford, jumping two stiles and a hedge and trespassing on Farmer Dauncy's orchard to reach the lane. She left word with everyone she passed, calling Mr. Rankin out from the Antlers and informing him of the emergency without even dismounting.

Colonel Davenport lived at some distance from the village, several miles along the Bromyard road. As she rode she scanned the autumn landscape, searching for a familiar f lash of red and white hide among the laden apple trees or across the fields. It shouldn't be difficult to locate something as large as a bull, but they could be amazingly easy to overlook. Hubert would be enticed by the countless orchards or any fencerow that contained sweet grass, still green under the holly and hawthorn this late in the year. He could manage to obscure himself quite nicely behind an overgrown hedge.

A brief pause at Colonel Davenport's house discov ered only the empty paddock. The colonel himself was not at home. A stable lad showed her where Hubert had cracked the rails right through, tearing them out of the posts. Callie had dressed the boy down, quite unfairly, for the f limsiness of a fence that would not have held Hubert when he was a yearling, much less as a full-grown bull. It wasn't the lad's fault that Colonel Davenport didn't keep sturdy fences, but she was incensed. The boy seemed to think that Hubert must have smashed the rails with his horns, which would have alerted the whole neighborhood to his escape, but Callie knew better. All that would have been required was a long, slow, steady push by a bull that preferred to be outside the paddock rather than in it.

Whether he had been ready to go home or just stretching for that farthest blade of grass, she didn't know. From the colonel's house she took the route that the drover would have followed from Shelford. This led her back toward the village by a longer, more level way where a cart might ford the streams, in the direction of Dove House.

"Black henna, sir!" Barton whispered. "Not a bad job, eh? Started as soon as I had any light. For a while I didn't know if it would come up to cover the white, but he's turning pretty sleek now." He ran his hand down the bull's hind leg. "I see I missed a spot there on his left hock."

"Christ, where'd you get that much dye?" Trev demanded in a low voice. He saw now that there was blue-stained hay concealed under the fresh layer at the bull's hooves.

"Tanner, sir," Barton said solemnly. "Got thick with him over a pint of bitters."

"Naturally." Trev watched the dog, Toby, sniff at the bull's knee. "Now what the devil do you expect me to do with this animal?"

Barton looked anxious. "I dunno, sir. You didn't tell me I'd need to think o' what to do with 'im. I reckoned you knew your own mind on that, sir."

"I did," Trev said dryly.

"You was gonna give 'im to that lady, sir?"

"That was the plan. But she would be expecting a red pied bull, you see, with a bill of sale. This seems to be a black bull of uncertain origin."

"Hmm," Barton said, pursing his wide mouth. "So it does, sir."

"Quite."

"I didn't steal 'im, sir! I found him."

"We aren't going to argue the point with a constable, Barton. We're getting myself and my fellow fugitive here out of sight before anyone searches the premises."

"Yes, sir." Barton grabbed the lead attached to the bull's nose ring. "I know a way round the lane to the millpond. We can walk him down the stream and tie him up. Come along, old fellow." He clucked to the bull. "Toby, get him!"

At Barton's voice, the dog barked and nipped at the animal's heels. The bull turned its head and gave a half hearted kick, but appeared to find the dog no more persuasive than a large f ly. It blew a gust of air and lowered its nose, taking up another mouthful of hay.

"Quiet!" Trev snapped, as Toby began to bark and growl. "Do you want to advertise us to the whole county? Move along, you beast!" He picked up a pitchfork and waved the handle at the enormous bull. He'd seen drovers in the army hustling their animals along with staffs.

The bull blinked at him, all four feet planted solidly amid the hay, its jaw working in unhurried rhythm.

"Come along," Trev said in exasperation, bran dishing the fork. "What's your name? Hubert. Hyah, Hubert!"

The animal turned fully at the sound of its name. With slow majesty, it lifted one hoof and then another, ignoring the pitchfork and ambling toward Trev. It lifted its massive nose to snuff le at his clothes, as if searching for something in his neck cloth. It was purported to be a shorthorn bull, but Trev could have sworn that the tips of its horns were as wide as his arm-span.

Trev backed away. The bull followed. "Hubert," he said, walking backward toward the gate. Hubert moved faster after him, deliberate now, his great hooves thumping in the dirt. He made a low sound, a sort of groaning, smothered bellow that made the hair rise on Trev's neck. He hoped to the devil that the thing didn't decide to charge.

"Hubert!" Callie pulled her horse to a halt in the middle of the lane. Major Sturgeon came up behind her. She waved at him to stop, straining her ears to hear over the sound of the horses and her own breath. She could have sworn that she'd caught Hubert's distinctive bellow, a deep rumbling sound almost below hearing.

They had just passed Dove House. The garden gate was ajar, and the front door stood open. She had not forgot Trev, but the strange encounter in the night seemed so far from reality that today she was hardly certain it had even taken place.

A dog was barking furiously somewhere in the back of the property. She dismounted, throwing her reins to Major Sturgeon. It wasn't impossible that Hubert had wandered off the road and found his way inside the small stable yard, where she knew there had been some fresh hay put out for Trev's team. She was about to hurry round to the rear when a figure came skulking out the front door, pulling his hat down over his eyes. Trev's big manservant walked out behind him, pulling the door closed with a firm hand.

"Constable Hubble!" Callie said, relieved to see that Colonel Davenport must have set the parish officer on the hunt for Hubert. "Is he here? Have you found him?"

The constable looked up, recognized her, and pulled off his hat. "No, my lady." He glanced back at Jock uneasily and lowered his voice to a lugubrious whisper. "I ain't going to disturb nothin' further now, ma'am. I'm told there's mortal sickness in the house."

"Mortal?" Callie stopped short, feeling a wave of alarm for Madame. She looked toward Jock. "No… the duchesse is not worse?"

The manservant shook his gleaming head slowly and bowed it down. "She's real poorly, my lady." He spoke English with strong traces of a drayman's accent. "Mortal poor. She ain't got long, Doc says."

Callie had known this was coming, but not so soon. And Trev… where was Trev? She stared in dismay at Jock. "Is her son here?"

"On his way, my lady," Jock said gruff ly.

"No one is with her?" Callie moved toward the door. She couldn't leave the duchesse alone if she was failing. She turned to the constable. "I must go in. But I think I may have heard him in the back, behind the stable," she said. Major Sturgeon came up and stood by her shoulder, but she only glanced at him. "Please do look, Constable, and send word up to me immedi ately if he's here. Then you can secure him and wait for Colonel Davenport."

"You're mistaken, beggin' your pardon, my lady!" Jock said strongly. "He's not in the stable, I assure you! I've had a message sent to him to come as soon as he can."

"A message?" Callie drew in her chin in confusion.