The Black Duke's Prize E-Book

Suzanne Enoch

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 269

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1995

Beschreibung

A Classic Regency Romance from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Suzanne Enoch… Sent to London by her untrustworthy uncle, the beautiful and feisty Katherine Ralston arrives for the Season in utter despair. Not only is she caught up in the mad whirl of ballgowns and galas, she must also make certain that her disreputable uncle doesn't sell her family estate in her absence. Katherine Ralston, a country girl at heart, sees the Season in London as something she must endure. Nicholas Varnon, known as the Black Duke for his rakish and irresistible charms, sees the season as a chance to repair his rakish reputation. Yet, he seems to be taking quite an interest in the spirited Katherine. Suspicious of trickery, Katherine is determined to ignore the sinfully sexy charms of…the Black Duke. Little does she know, she may have just met her white knight in shining armor…

Leseprobe

The Black Duke’s Prize

Suzanne Enoch

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Discover More by Suzanne Enoch

About the Author

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Black Duke’s Prize

Copyright © 1995 by Suzanne Enoch

Ebook ISBN: 9781617508585

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10001

http://www.nyliterary.com

To my sisters, Nancy and Cheryl, for endless reading and for laughing at all the right places — I owe you each a quarter.

Chapter 1

It was one thing to dream about being a lady in distress, Katherine Ralston had recently realized, and quite another entirely to be one. Particularly troubling was that a white knight, who never failed to make a timely appearance in fictional realms, was in this instance nowhere to be found. She would have to make do on her own, and though she was becoming accustomed to that idea, it did not make the circumstance any more pleasant or comforting.

"... so, you see, it's already done, m'dear. The passage was purchased a week ago." Simon Ralston looked up briefly from the papers he was shuffling across his late brother's dark-mahogany business desk and then lowered his head again when Kate made no reply. "All taken care of," he went on after a moment.

"I'm not leaving," Kate grumbled, her eyes focused on the rose-patterned carpet that she had played on as a child and her fists clenched so that she wouldn't be tempted to do any of the unladylike things she was contemplating. "This is my home."

"Well, m'dear, me being your guardian, as named by your dear father, it's mine for the next two years, and I'll run it as I see fit, thank you very much. And you won't have any say anyway, young miss, because you are going to London, at the kind invitation of your godparents."

Kind and convenient, more like, Katherine thought bitterly. As soon as she was out the door Uncle Simon would likely sell off Crestley Hall piecemeal and pocket the profits. She had never liked her father's younger brother, and in the months since her mother's death her aversion had deepened to hatred. What had possessed her father to name Simon her guardian until her twenty-second birthday she couldn't imagine, though at the time the will had been drawn up the idea that Sir Richard Ralston would be killed in a carriage accident and his wife, Anne, would die of pneumonia two years later had seemed absurd. Now, however, Katherine found her home and her life in the hands of a man who would sell either for a good gambling stake.

He didn't even look like a Ralston, she decided as she stared at the wiry brown hair on top of his head, the only part of his face she could see now that his shuffling of papers had resumed. Both Kate and her father had the same fair complexion and wavy black hair as all the other Ralstons she had ever heard of. Her own tresses cascaded down to her waist when she brushed them out.

The one feature that her father and Simon did share was their brown eyes, so gentle and good-humored in her father and so stony in his brother. She herself, she thought thankfully, took after her mother's blue-eyed Irish ancestors, and the lack of resemblance between her and Uncle Simon had lately become something of a comfort. The less she had in common with him the better she liked it.

"You'd best take your sulks upstairs and finish packing, because I won't have another outburst of that damned temper of yours. Coach leaves first thing in the morning." Simon Ralston didn't even glance up this time.

After a moment of deliberate disobedience she stood and left the room. They had argued over her leaving several times during the past week, and she had known that nothing she said was going to change his mind. She had therefore completed what little of her packing there was to do. She was being sent away with what she could carry, and she more than doubted her uncle's word that the rest of her "necessities" would follow her to London.

Most of the servants had been let go during the course of the nine months since her uncle's arrival, a forced exodus that had begun as soon as her mother had become too ill to notice and Katherine too concerned over the Lady Anne's failing health to inform her of the doings. That night the house seemed even quieter than had become usual, and she wondered if its dead emptiness pressed on her uncle as it did on her. She dearly hoped so, but after a moment's reflection she doubted he would notice such a thing.

She had been to London only once before, when she had begun her Season two years earlier. The death of her father had ended the festivities after only a fortnight, and she didn't care if she ever went back again. Her current reason for going, as her uncle had made clear, was to get her away from Crestley. She wondered fleetingly if he had somehow arranged the invitation that had arrived a month ago from the Baron and Baroness of Clarey, her mother's dearest friends and her godparents, but swiftly brushed the thought away. The idea that Lord or Lady Clarey could be manipulated for even one moment by the likes of Uncle Simon was unthinkable, even to someone of her rather fanciful imagination.

It was Timms, one of the few remaining members of the staff, who scratched at her door the next morning to carry her baggage downstairs. The old butler lifted the two valises and turned toward the doorway, then stopped and cleared his throat. "Miss Kate?"

"Yes, Timms?" she responded, looking away reluctantly from what might be her last view out of her window at the failing gardens and the meadow and woods beyond.

"Take care, milady."

"Thank you, Timms," she responded, forcing a smile.

Downstairs she found her uncle waiting by the front door, and her spirits sank even further. She had hoped that he wouldn't bother to rise. She did not want her last sight of Crestley Hall to include him. There seemed to be no avoiding it, however, for though she passed by him without a word, he turned and followed her outside and down the front steps to the waiting hack.

She stopped and turned to face him, wishing she had inherited some of her father's height. "If one piece of furniture, one candlestick, one teacup is removed from Crestley Hall in my absence, I will carve the value of it out of your hide with my father's sword."

"You mind the Baron and Baroness like a good girl, Kate, and I might even inquire as to their working on trying to find you a husband, if anyone'd have a shrew like you." He pointed a finger at her. "Crestley Hall's a long way from London, and London's a bad place to be all on your own. You watch yourself."

Katherine stared at him for a moment, sudden uneasiness vying with her indignation and anger at his insult. If he meant his concluding words as a threat, it was the first time he had handed her one openly. He was up to something.

Timms handed her into the carriage. The hack would take her to the Red Boar Inn, where she would meet the mail stage to London. As they left the long drive she looked back at Crestley, already showing signs of the neglect her uncle had forced on it. And standing at the foot of the front steps, watching her out of sight, was Simon Ralston. Whatever he was planning, she would be back, and she would claim what was hers.

Chapter 2

"Another hand, Sommesby," Francis DuPres demanded, leaning forward and digging the pads of his fingers into the wood table.

Unmoved by the plea, Nicholas Varon, Duke of Sommesby, continued his push away from the gaming table and stood. "Sorry, gentlemen, but despite rumors to the contrary, occasionally even I need sleep."

"Sleep has nothing to do with your taking your winnings and leaving."

"No, I don't believe it does." His gray eyes holding DuPres's close-set brown ones, he plucked a chip out of the pile and flipped it at the other man without bothering to check its value. "My compliments."

Beside him Thomas Elder, the Viscount of Sheresford, chuckled. "Quit complaining, DuPres. That chip's worth more than you won all evening." He scooped what remained of his evening's losses into his own hand. "Any of those for me?" he asked, gesturing at the substantial pile before Nicholas.

Stifling a yawn that wasn't entirely feigned, Nicholas summoned one of the clerks to cash him in. "Not a chance, Thomas," he retorted with a smile. "And I'm hoping this will serve to dissuade you from wasting your blunt on that brown nag you've been eyeing." He straightened his cravat with its black onyx pin, then flicked an imaginary speck of dust off the sleeve of his black jacket.

"I think 'not a chance' is a rather accurate description of the evening," DuPres commented.

Nicholas stiffened. "Care to explain that remark?" he said quietly, wondering if he was on his way to setting a record for trouble this Season. Two days before, he had rather spectacularly parted ways with the exquisitely devious Josette Bettreaux, and now this. The Season was new, the nights at White's still slow and lazy. DuPres had been an unwelcome participant in what had been a friendly game of faro, and now for some reason it appeared that he wished to test the rumors about the Varon black temper. Nicholas was more than willing to oblige.

"You know what I'm talking about." Francis DuPres got to his feet, apparently overconfident, or drunk, enough to press the issue.

"Don't be a fool." Captain Reg Hillary, second of four sons in the prolific Hillary family, placed a hand on DuPres's shoulder and tried to push him back into his seat.

When DuPres remained standing, Nicholas set his gloves down again and leaned his knuckles into the table. "Make the accusation, then," he murmured. Those who knew him would have recognized the danger signs of the quiet voice and the gray eyes that now flashed with emerald highlights. Thomas did, for he stepped back from the table. Reg likewise removed himself from Francis's side. The sound in the crowded gaming hall died as the other patrons turned to view the excitement. DuPres paled, but held his ground.

"You've lost barely a hand all evening, Sommesby," the small man whined. He glanced about, to find everyone staring at him. "I don't see why anyone should be surprised." He looked back at Nicholas. "Everyone knows your repu—"

The rest of his sentence was lost as Nicholas planted a fist full into his face. DuPres went backward over his chair, crashed into the table behind that, and ended up sprawled on the floor with the contents of several drinks doing various degrees of damage to his jacket and garish gold waistcoat. He likely wasn't aware of the results of his fall, for he was plainly unconscious, blood welling from his lip and making his already pasty features look even more pale.

"Damn me," Thomas muttered with something like awe in his voice as he looked down at DuPres's crumpled form. "One punch."

Nicholas looked around the room, his eyes narrowed. No one else came forward to confront him. As he watched his fellow patrons eyeing him warily, a dark, cynical smile touched his lips. Unless he misjudged badly, which he rarely did, no one would be accusing him of anything for a while.

He flipped a chip of excessive value at the club's nervous manager, watching the man's expression ease, and then another onto DuPres's chest. "Should cover the cost of replacing that rag," he murmured. When he turned to leave, Thomas followed.

The other patrons of White's stepped aside, and then he and Thomas were out in the cold predawn air. His residence was only a short walk away and so he waved his coach on, preferring to walk off his mood and the considerable amount of liquor he had consumed. The viscount hesitated a moment before he followed.

"You shouldn't have done that," Sheresford commented, tucking his hands into the armpits of his dark brown jacket.

"Shouldn't I have?" Nicholas responded.

"DuPres might act like a fool, Nick, but he's a cunning sort. Now you've insulted him twice over."

"Didn't look so cunning lying there on the floor." Nicholas looked over at the younger man. "And I was not going to let him get away with saying that about me."

"He fancies himself a nonesuch. Now everyone'll be laughing at him."

"He's a fop with about as much fashion sense as I have skill with a needle."

Grinning, Thomas placed a hand on Nicholas's shoulder. "I've heard you've mended a tear or two in an emergency." He glanced down at Nicholas's splendid superfine jacket. "We can't all be you," he said ruefully.

This time Nicholas laughed aloud, though he deliberately chose to misread the viscount's remark. "Thank Lucifer for that."

"Bah," Thomas spat out, scowling. "I don't know why I bother."

"Neither do I," Nicholas returned, and resumed his long-strided walk. "I don't recall ever encouraging you."

"Why don't you listen to me once in a while?" Thomas continued, though he made no move to follow.

"I'm not hiring for a conscience at the moment, Thomas, but I'll let you know if I do," he said over his shoulder, not bothering to slow his pace.

"You've made an enemy of DuPres, Nick. Be careful."

This time Nicholas ignored him completely.

"Damn you, Sommesby," Thomas called out, and turned back to his own coach.

'Too late," Nicholas retorted under his breath, and continued on alone in the dark.

Nicholas arose earlier than he would have liked the next morning, driven from sleep both by the pounding of his skull and by the loud squabbling of a pair of carriage drivers who had apparently collided in the street below. He summoned his valet and dressed, then made his way downstairs for a cup of tea.

The sound of the front door opening came to his ears as he settled into the chair in his study to go through the previous day's mail and write his regrets to most of the invitations he had received. Briefly he wondered how many hostesses would wish they had not sent them out after hearing of the second scandal he had caused. It seemed, though, that the worse the spectacle the more invitations he received. With a sigh he glanced up at the clock on the mantel. Nine o'clock in the morning on the fifth day of the Season, and he was again a disgrace to the family name.

"Nicky, you're a disgrace."

Nicholas turned to look at the petite, dark-haired woman standing in the doorway. Julia Varon was, as always, beautifully attired, this morning in a light green muslin that served to bring out the emerald highlights in her dark-gray eyes. "You look fetching, Mama," he responded, rising.

She waved a hand at him. "Fetching is for those pretty young things you cause so much misery. I believe I have matured to the point of being what is called 'elegant.' "

"You look elegant, Mama," Nicholas amended, grinning in the way that had become famous for setting fetching hearts fluttering.

"Mon dieu, Nicky, will you never outgrow this desire to cause trouble?" She poured herself a cup of tea from the tray that had magically appeared almost simultaneously with her arrival, and sat in one of the chairs before the fire.

"I didn't cause the trouble this time," he retorted, leaning over the back of the chair to kiss her on the cheek. "I was merely defending the family name."

"And Josette Bettreaux?"

Nicholas straightened, and turned toward the window. "That wasn't my fault either."

"No?"

"No. I didn't send her out to find some schoolboy and encourage him to shoot me. That was all her idea." In fact, if he had known what kind of plot that devious female would cook up to try to arouse his jealousy that night, he would have stayed at home.

His mother frowned at him and added a small teaspoon of sugar to her tea. "A little early to be drinking, yes?"

He glanced down to see that he was fiddling with the decanter of brandy at his elbow. Misreading him was unusual for her, but she was likely furious at him to begin with. "Anything else?" he asked quietly, annoyed, and deliberately lifted the decanter to pour himself a drink. He took a swallow, gazing at her over the snifter's rim and daring her to comment further.

"That DuPres, now that you've humiliated him, you aren't going to call him out and kill him, are you?" Though Julia Varon spoke English flawlessly, she still tended to arrange her sentences in the manner of her native France. That did not mean that she couldn't be as direct and to the point as anyone Nicholas had ever cared to meet.

"I remember when you would have been concerned over my well-being," he answered.

"That was when you were concerned," she responded with deceptive mildness, sipping at her tea.

"I think DuPres's learned his lesson. And since I've encouraged Josette to take a holiday in France, I believe she will become enlightened as well."

"Mon dieu, however could you have chosen such a one as that, anyway? She has no honor at all."

"I do not believe this to be a subject one discusses with one's mother." He drained the snifter and refilled it, knowing that would annoy her even further.

"Someone has to discuss it with you. You've frightened away everyone else whose advice you could trust."

At that he turned, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. "I haven't frightened anyone into anything."

"You forget, I lived with that temper for thirty years, in your father. I know how it is. You have a way when you are angry that frightens people. And you are afraid to trust those you could."

He sat in the chair opposite her and held the brandy up. Instead of drinking, he swirled the amber liquid, examining it against the firelight. He knew he had a temper, and he knew that, like his father, he tended to use it as a weapon to keep the people around him at a distance.

"Nicky, you could do so much better than the likes of Josette Bettreaux," his mother said quietly. "Don't you realize that?"

"Is that why you came here, to show me my sins and attempt to marry me off?" Nicholas took another swallow, enjoying the light, burning sensation as the liquid traveled down his throat. "Who is it this time? I saw you talking with the Marchioness of Belning the other night, before all hell broke loose. Is it her simpering daughter—what's her name, Azalea?"

"Althaea," his mother retorted. "Have you ever even spoken to her?"

"I tried to, last year. Chit looked as though she wanted to faint."

Julia became occupied with her tea for a moment. "You can be a bit—how shall I say—intimidating," she finally responded, unable to stifle her smile.

"Well, I can't very well have a wife who becomes unconscious every time I set eyes on her. Besides, in the bare minute we conversed I believe we covered everything we had in common."

This time his mother's chuckle was audible. Abruptly she sobered. "You're almost thirty, Nicky. When?" Julia put her cup aside and sat forward in her chair, catching his dark-gray eyes with her own.

"Maybe never," he replied, and abruptly stood and strode toward the window again, more uncomfortable than was usual with the familiar line of questions. He had thought about marriage from time to time, but it and his temperament and style of living simply did not seem to be in any way compatible. "Don't you ever consider that letting the Varon black temper dwindle out of existence might be doing society a favor?"

The Dowager Duchess stood as well, facing his six-foot height squarely, as though she weren't a full foot shorter than he. "Never say that, Nicholas. You insult yourself, you insult your father, and you insult me."

He immediately regretted the words. He hadn't meant to offend her, but had only been trying to express what he had been feeling more and more strongly of late. "You don't have the black blood, Mama," he responded evenly.

"I fell in love with it," she answered softly.

He knew she still deeply mourned John Varon, though her husband had been gone for nearly eight years now. Silently he closed the distance between them and leaned over her hand to kiss her knuckle. "I do suppose London would be sadly flat without us," he conceded. He and his father had been too much alike to get along well, but there were times when he sorely missed the old duke.

She nodded, smiling, and tightened her grip on his fingers. "Please try to avoid Josette and DuPres for a time, will you?"

"No," he answered, freeing his hand. "I'll not hide from that woman or that fool." Her look darkened, and he went on without pause. "If they wish to avoid me, however, I shall not seek them out."

She nodded again. "Thank you, Nicky."

He bowed elegantly, then seated himself again. "You know as well as I, though, if it's not one of them, it will be someone else. It always is. It's one of my main talents, angering people."

"You shouldn't practice it so much," she replied.

Chapter 3

Katherine stood looking up at Hampton House. It was as large as Crestley, and her godparents also owned the grand Clarey estate, several days to the west. She had no idea why they would want her to stay with them, goddaughter or no. It abruptly occurred to her that they might not even be in Town. She wasn't aware of whether her uncle had sent them a firm date for her arrival or not, and as she had been hoping somehow to avoid coming to London, she hadn't notified them either. They might very well have given up on her and left on another of their exotic travels.

Well, she wouldn't find out by waiting in the street. She picked up her heavy valises, squared her shoulders, and walked up to the front door. Setting one of the bags down, she reached out and firmly swung the intricately tooled brass knocker against the door. With the sound still echoing, the door swung open. She found herself looking up into the sternest, thinnest face she had ever seen.

"Yes?" the butler prompted after a moment.

"I am Katherine Ralston," she said, dismayed that her voice broke in the face of the man's stare. "I am here to see Neville and Alison."

"The baron and baroness are not in this evening," the butler replied. He looked down at her valises and then back at her face. "I suggest you call again in the morning." He began to close the door.

At least they were in Town. "Wait," Katherine protested, fighting abrupt panic at the thought of being left on her own in London at night. "My mother was Anne, Lady Ralston, an old friend of the Hamptons. They invited me to come here... and I have nowhere else to stay this evening."

He nodded, acknowledging that he had heard of her mother, but still did not move aside. She knew that she must look ridiculous, standing outside with her bags and arguing with this impossibly tall person, and she began to grow angry.

"Are you going to let me in?" she asked, stamping her foot.

"I am inclined not to," he replied.

"Tell me this, then," she countered. "Are the baron and baroness more likely to hand you your papers for letting a stranger in to wait for them in their hall or for putting the daughter of one of their dearest friends out into the street?"

The butler blinked. "I see your point," he finally said, and she thought she heard amusement in his voice. "This way, Miss Ralston."

He stepped aside and, chin up, she walked past him into the elegant hall. The open door off to the left must have been the library, for she caught a glimpse of a shelf lined with books. In front of her the main staircase turned once and led to a balcony, behind which she could see more doors. The hall widened out to the right past the door to the sitting room, and it was to this shallow alcove that the butler gestured her. She sat on the narrow bench, her valises on the floor beside her.

"I will have someone bring you a cup of tea," the butler said, and then turned away. Before he passed out of sight he looked back over his shoulder. "My name is Rawlins, if you should require anything further."

"Thank you, Rawlins," she answered, and with a small nod he disappeared into the depths of the house.

She had arrived, though not nearly in the manner she had anticipated. At least the hallway was warmer than the night air outside, and after a maid had brought her a cup of hot, strong tea she began to feel more composed. Even with the master and mistress gone from the house it seemed more alive than Crestley had for years. In the background she could hear occasional quiet conversation, and pots and pans rattled in the kitchen as servants cleaned up for the night.

She had hardly realized she was sleepy, before she was awakened by the sound of the front door opening. Rawlins stood there accepting the outer garments of the couple entering the house. Katherine shot to her feet as Rawlins gestured in her direction.

"My lord, this young lady arrived earlier this evening, claiming to be one Katherine Ralston. I thought it best she wait here for your return."

Katherine ignored his somewhat prejudiced version of events as Alison spun around, her blue silk skirts rustling. Light-blue eyes widened as they took her in, and Katherine self-consciously smoothed but the simple material of her own dull, well-traveled dress.

"Kate?"

"Yes, my lady. I'm sorry not to have written that I was coming." Before she could say anything else the plump blond woman swept forward to embrace her.

Katherine's uncertainty over whether she would be welcomed vanished as Neville stepped up and put a hand on his wife's shoulder. "My turn, Alice." In a moment he was embracing her as well. "You are the image of your mother, Kate."

“We were so sorry to learn of Anne's death," Lady Clarey said quietly, taking her hand. "I wish we had been there for you. We should never have gone to Spain."

Kate nodded, half in tears at their unexpected kindness. "You couldn't have known."

Lord Clarey seemed to realize her distress, for he cleared his throat and motioned at Rawlins, standing inconspicuously in the background. "Rawlins, have Miss Ralston's bags taken upstairs to the green room and the bed made ready."

"Yes, m'lord." The butler bent his long frame and lifted the valises himself, then headed up the stairs and vanished into one of the rooms.

"Come into the drawing room." Alison, still holding Katherine's hand tightly, led her through one of the doors off the main hall.

The room was large and comfortable, with two long couches placed at right angles to each other on a huge Persian carpet. Ornaments and knickknacks from several different countries and cultures decorated the walls, mantel, and tables. The baroness brought her to the nearest couch and sat her down, taking a place beside her. The baroness followed a few moments later and took one of the chairs by the fire, which crackled in the intricately carved fireplace.

"How was your trip here?" Alison asked.

"I'm a little tired," Kate confessed, bringing her eyes back to the baroness from her perusal of an African wood carving. "The stage was delayed by a dairy herd this afternoon, and the walls of the inn last night were so thin, I had to listen to the squire next door snoring all night."

"The stage?" the baron exclaimed. "Why didn't your uncle send you in your own coach, or hire a private one for you? The mail stage is no place for a lady."

Katherine flinched at the indignation in his voice. She had no wish to pour out all of her troubles immediately upon her arrival. "Uncle Simon thought it best," she muttered, angry again at this latest insult her uncle had handed her. "And I didn't come here to burden you with my problems." Even with her gaze set on the floor, she sensed the look that passed between the baron and his wife.

"Kate, would it make any difference if I said that, while I always had and always shall bear great affection for your father, I never could countenance that wretched brother of his?"

"Neville!" Alison Hampton reprimanded.

"Neither could I," Katherine responded feelingly. She grimaced. "I mean to handle this on my own," she stated as a preface, looking down at her toes, "but now that I am here I suppose you should be made aware of the circumstances."

And so she told them, beginning with her mother's illness and her uncle's timely—or so it had seemed—arrival, and proceeding to the provisions of her father's will, which were disclosed upon her mother's death. After a hesitation she told them of her suspicions concerning Uncle Simon's plans for Crestley and her present inability to do anything about it.

"The scoundrel," Lady Clarey breathed when Katherine had finished the tale. "What are we to do?"

"I mean to handle it myself," Katherine repeated firmly. "I only told you because you have been so kind."

"'Kind' has nothing to do with it, child. Your mother was my closest friend, and I loved her dearly. You are her daughter, and I love you as well. Whatever happens to Crestley Hall, our home is yours. You are our daughter now."

Again tears came to Kate's eyes. "Thank you both," she managed to say brokenly.

Lady Clarey patted her hand. "You must be exhausted, child. I'll show you to your bedchamber." The baroness stood, pulling Katherine up after her, and led her from the room.

Katherine felt completely spent, and could barely keep her eyes open as they climbed the stairs. The room Alison showed her was decorated in greens and whites and lit by a small, cheerful fire. As she looked around the chamber Katherine realized that tears had begun flowing down her face.

"Are you all right?" the baroness asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Katherine nodded. "I only just realized how good it is to be with friends again," she said with a sigh.

"We let you stay away far too long," Alison murmured, hugging her again. "Shall I send my maid to you?"

"No, I can do for myself," Katherine answered, nearly crossing her eyes in an effort to keep them open.

Alison nodded. "Sleep well, Kate." She smiled, and leaned over to kiss Katherine on the cheek. "And have no worries. You may stay with Neville and me for as long as you wish."