Callie began to be sorry she had mentioned Major Sturgeon, even to tease. It was hardly the moment to bring up the most persistent admirer of her fortune. She bit her lip.

"Has he?" Trev sat up. He began to tuck in his shirt and rebutton his waistcoat.

When Callie didn't reply, he stood, leaving her amid the disarray of her skirts and chemise. She pulled the fabric over herself and sat up also.

"Of course he has," Trev said. His mouth formed a hard line. "Did you fob him off?"

Callie held the dress to her breast. "I suppose I should have," she said faintly.

"You didn't?" His voice held a slight crack. "You're engaged to him?"

"No," Callie said. "Of course not."

He blew out a harsh breath. Callie watched him uncertainly. A notion occurred to her, one that she wished for so much that she didn't even dare entertain it for more than an instant. He took a few paces across the room. She thought he might speak. He stopped before the window and stood with his hand gripped on the drape, staring out.

"So you refused him?" he asked without turning.

She would have liked to say that she had. It seemed worse than a disgrace now, it seemed a betrayal to be here with Trev, to want him beyond anything else, and yet be entertaining a proposal from another man. But it was not as if Trev had asked for her hand. Indeed, he said he was going away back to France. And he had said nothing to suggest that he desired to wed her and take her home to his estates. She might indulge in a great number of fantastical daydreams, but that was one fantasy that she ruthlessly denied to herself.

She straightened and lifted her chin, pushing back a lock of her hair that had fallen loose. "I told him that I would consider it."

He gave a brief, cold nod, as if he had expected it.

"I don't think I'll be happy living with Hermey." She felt compelled to explain. "And so…" Her voice trailed off. "Well, I said to him I would think it over."

He tilted his head back and gave a short laugh. "Sturgeon!" he said bitterly. He turned to her. "I don't trust him, Callie. It's your money he wants."

"Yes," she said stiff ly. "Of course."

He frowned at her, his jaw working.

She kept her chin lifted. "It would be foolish to expect at this juncture that I would marry out of affec tion or anything of that nature. If I married at all."

He stood looking at her, and then he shook his head. He put his hands up and ran them through his hair, as if he were quarreling with some recalcitrant and impossible child. He laughed again, a little wildly. "Accept him, then!" he exclaimed. "Why not? What's love to do with it, after all?"

She rose to her feet, gathering the white shawl from the f loor. "I only told him I would think about it. But Hermey's fiancé doesn't want me. And I can't remain at Shelford. I won't. Trev, I don't know what I'm to do! If you-if I thought for a moment, if I thought that you-" She stopped, unable to complete the sentence, angry that she had said so much. She turned her back, clutching the dress and shawl against herself.

A heavy silence filled the chamber. Callie could hear her own breathing, rough with gathering tears. She stared at the mahogany leg of a chair, waiting for what she knew would not come, feeling her heart break with foolish hopes, fruitless wishes. The words that he didn't say hung between them.

"Of course I have no right to question you," he said in a low voice. "I beg your pardon."

She could think of no reply. She squeezed her eyes shut as she heard him come behind her. He put his hands on her bare shoulders, a light, warm touch that was like a sweet ache all down through her body.

"I want you to be happy," he whispered. "I don't want him to hurt you again."

She shook her head wordlessly. All she could think was that he would go away, and not take her, and it hardly mattered what she did then. He put his face down in the curve of her neck.

"I know," he said softly, as if she had spoken her misery aloud. "I know." He sighed, his breath a warmth against her skin. "We have a few days."

"Three," she said in a small voice.

He ran his hands down her arms and back up again, then held her against him, his lips at her throat. "Callie, I do love you. You know that."

She shook her head again, very quickly. "Don't," she implored. "Do not suppose you have to say that. I know you're my friend, my very best friend, and-that is quite enough."

"Friend," he said with a slight, derisive laugh. "Your friend." With a fierce move he clasped her hard and kissed her, burying his face in her shoulder. "Give me these three days, Callie."

She made a whimper of assent, nodding.

"It'll be our finest adventure," he whispered. "I promise you." He lifted his head and drew a deep breath against her hair. Then he slipped the chemise up over her shoulders and pulled the dress into place. With a few authoritative tugs, he buttoned the fabric over the tight corset while Callie held in her breath and smoothed down the front.

For a moment he stood behind her, resting his cheek on her head and holding her gently. Then he reached down and retrieved her hat.

"Now we must set you to rights and embark upon our first mission," he said briskly. "Procuring a steady source of Bath buns."

HAVING TAKEN DOWN AN ORDER, IN SPITE OF THE heavy accent of his customer, for twelve dozen Bath buns to be delivered daily to the exhibition pen of Monsieur Malempré, an elated baker escorted Monsieur and Madame into the street. He took leave of them with a surfeit of bowing and repeated pledges that his buns would most assuredly contain a generous measure of white currants. Having bespoke the buns, at a price so outrageous that it would have embarrassed His Majesty's pastry chef, Trev took Callie's arm and turned her toward the High Town.

He kept his hat brim low and gave the veiled lady on his arm the benefit of his full attention and gallantry. He was not overly concerned that Hubert would be recognized in the city of Hereford, but he was not so sanguine about himself. Here in the marches of the West Country, close by to Bristol-that first-rate source of burly butchers' boys anxious to enter the prize ring-the very soil seemed to produce prime pugilists. Trev had always limited his own scouting to the south and east, deliberately avoiding Hereford and Shelford and Callie, but he would be a fool to count himself perfectly safe here. He was too well-known among the Fancy.

Jock and Barton had been busy chasing up old acquaintance for the past several days, calling in all favors on Trev's behalf. And he had a wealth of credit to call upon, he found, for the thing he'd done for Jem Fowler's wife and baby boy. The hefty green-coated footman who now walked behind the Malemprés had only recently been pummeling a challenger in some set-to in a Bristol training yard. Across the way lounged a pair of regular brutes in the science, who owed their success and early opportunities largely to Trev's patronage. The men assigned to handle Hubert were experienced both in cattle yards and prizefights. There was a marvelous inf lux of boxing men to Hereford at the moment.

For his own part, Trev had discarded his Belcher necktie and adopted a sword cane and several other sartorial details to camouf lage himself as a continental beau rather than a sporting buck. Walking beside Callie now, he regretted having chosen the name Malempré for their masquerade-he'd been in a hurry, arranging for the van and commanding the painting of the canvas to swathe Hubert's pen, and the first name he'd summoned to mind was a town in Belgium where he'd spent a few weeks of his imprisonment just after Napoleon's first abdication.

It had been an easy enough situation there. On his gentleman's honor to attempt no escape, he'd had the freedom of the pretty village and even waltzed at the assemblée. The sole inconvenience had been the wife of the local chevalier, who had conceived a most ardent fondness for Lieutenant LeBlanc on the basis of a single trif ling kiss, which no amount of diplomacy-or indeed, discourtesy-had seemed to cool. She had been so relentless in her pursuit that he'd become the butt of the captive officers' mess until he was moved to Brussels to await a prisoner exchange that had never materialized-the defeated French apparently having no pressing need for one more LeBlanc littering their countryside.