She stood with her face turned up to his, biting her lower lip.

"And you're beautiful," he said. "Believe that too. Not like some damned society diamond, no. You're beautiful like the leaves in autumn, like a spring colt kicking its heels, you're beautiful the way your animals are beautiful, even that fool pig. Do you believe me?"

She didn't answer. He pushed back a lock of her hair and kissed her gently, so sweetly that she was near to weeping.

"I want to make love to you in a field," he whis pered. "In the green grass or in the fresh hay. I want you beyond reason."

"I don't believe you," she said woodenly. "Tell me the truth."

His breath touched her skin. "I am."

Slowly she shook her head.

"The truth about me, you mean," he said, lifting his head and looking down at her under his dark lashes.

"Tell me in truth why you're leaving. If you want me to believe-whatever else you say."

He stood back, his hands sliding to her shoulders. "I suppose I owe you that much, don't I?" He looked aside and suddenly let go of her, pushing away. In a voice that went to icy derision, he said, "The truth is I've been convicted of forgery and sentenced to hang."

Callie blinked. Then she pushed back her falling hair from her face. "Oh come now. I'm sure I might have swallowed the rest, even about the pig, but I'm not a complete f lat, you know!"

He had been standing before her with a hard, sullen expression; at that, his lip quirked upward. "Yes, you are," he informed her. "You're a pea-goose. It's one of the most charming things about you."

She gave a little huff. "Perhaps so, but I'm sure I'm not going to believe that you're laboring under a sentence of death."

He tilted his head. "Why not?"

"Well… because," she said, not quite certain of the look in his eyes. "For forgery, you say? I can perfectly suppose that you gave Major Sturgeon a black eye, and so the constable is after you, but I can't imagine that you did any such thing as commit a forgery. Why would you do so? You're already excessively wealthy. And besides, I don't think anyone would be hung for it. It's not a case of murder or something on that order. It's just a piece of paper."

He leaned back against the chest of drawers, a wry smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Very sensible, I admit. I wish the bench might have taken your point of view."

"And here you are, quite alive," she pointed out with some satisfaction in discovering another large hole in his claim.

"Just so," he said. "I was given a conditional pardon the day before they finished building the gallows. I must leave the country and never return."

Callie had been about to poke further punctures in his ridiculous tale, but she paused at that. "Never return?"

"It is a hanging offense, Callie," he said gently. "It's a crime against commerce, and that's near-worse than murder in the eyes of the magistrates."

"I… don't see how that can be so," she said. But she remembered suddenly that all the newspapers and even the ladies' magazines had been full of some great trial not long ago; she hadn't paid any mind to the details herself, but Dolly had followed the course of the events avidly and read them aloud at breakfast every morning at interminable length. Callie thought it had involved a lady with a very young child, and a gentleman of the sporting crowd, and a great number of sordid insinua tions and accusations. And yes-it had been a trial for forgery-she remembered that now, and the lady's life had been in peril if she were found guilty, but it had turned out to be the gentleman instead.

She wet her lips. "Trev-" she said uncertainly. She looked up at him with a sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach.

His faint smile vanished, and his jaw hardened. He gave a bitter laugh. "Please. Go on refusing to believe me. It's not something a man cares to admit, I assure you."

The words seemed to go past her, then spin in strange echoes round her head. "A hanging offense," she repeated slowly, hearing it as if from a great distance. She stared at him, every limb in her body going to water. If she had not been holding on to the bedpost, she would have slid to the f loor.

"It was not a pleasant experience," he said. "And so you see, I must depart." He gave a slight mechanical bow, a move full of suppressed violence.

"What happens if they discover you here?" she asked, hardly able to command her voice.

"They hang me," he said simply.

"Oh good God," she breathed. Her legs were failing her. "Oh dear God."

He stepped forward, supporting her. "Don't faint- Callie, my sweet life-oh no, please don't weep. Come here now. They haven't caught me yet."

She realized that tears had sprung to her eyes, but they were not of sorrow. She gave a sob of pure terror, clinging tightly to him as he pulled her into his arms. "You must go!" She gasped into his shoulder. "Why are you still here?"

He held her close, kissing her temple. "You can't guess?"

"Your mother!" She pulled back sharply. "Does your mother know?"

His mouth f lattened. "No. God grant she never will."

"Of course not." Callie turned from him, hugging herself. "No, she mustn't know." She turned back. "But you must f lee directly-they're all hunting you now as Malempré." Her head was a painful whirlwind. "Oh lord, the duchesse-what shall I say to her? I can't go back to Shelford and-"

"Hush, mon ange." He caught her again, more gently. "I've thought of all these things."

"You have?"

He nuzzled her temple, his breath soft on her skin. "Most of them."

"Where will you go? To Monceaux?"

He pulled her close. "It doesn't matter, if you aren't there."

Callie turned her face up. He gazed down at her for a moment and then kissed her roughly.

"Don't forget me," he whispered. He put her away from him. Callie held out her hands numbly. He caught them up and kissed them, and then without another word, he left her-not by the window, by the door, but she hurried to the window and stood there, looking out through the wavy glass with her heart beating hard until he appeared in the street below.

He crossed swiftly to the far side, his face muff led up again, only another drover among the working people cleaning up smashed preserves and setting pens and crates and tables to rights. At the corner he turned, looking back up at her. She put her palm to the glass.

He nodded once and vanished from her view.

MAJOR STURGEON STRODE VIGOROUSLY TOWARD THE Black Lion in the long shadows of evening, his collar turned up against the cold. Clearly he meant to keep his appointment with Colonel Davenport this time. As the cathedral bells rang out, echoing deeply across the roofs and down in the back lanes and alleys, the streets emptied, deserted by the fair crowds for the warmth of taverns and inns.

Trev straightened from the wall where he'd been loitering, hunched down in his ragged jacket, and stepped into the major's path, shouldering him hard. The officer grunted and recoiled, exclaiming at a damned stupid oaf, but before he could get far with this rebuke, Trev grabbed him by his gilded braids and shoved him into the alley.

Sturgeon caught on instantly-he turned, trying to reach his sword and shout, but Trev kneed him hard, doubling him over before he could draw steel. Trev had his own knife at the ready, and he let Sturgeon feel it, but the man was no fading f lower even with a knife at his ribs. He seized Trev's wrist and shoved the weapon away, throwing a short, hard punch at his face. Trev ducked, to take the hit on the top of his skull-a cheap boxer's trick that hurt like the devil but could break the officer's hand if Trev got lucky. He didn't stop to discover if it worked: he clubbed Sturgeon in the side of the head with an elbow, jammed his forearm against the officer's throat, and wrenched his knife hand free. With Sturgeon blocked up against the wall, Trev shook his head to loosen the scarf from his face.