"Mrs Roberts," Elizabeth provided with a kind of dumb inspiration. Now that nothing mattered anymore, it was easy to lie and dissemble.

The amount he offered her for the emeralds sent the first stab of feeling through her, but it was only a sense of mild dismay. "They must be worth twenty times that much."

"Thirty, more like, but I don't have the clientele that can pay those lofty prices. I have to sell them for what my clients are willing to pay." Elizabeth nodded numbly, her soul too dead to bargain, to point out to him that he could sell them to a Bond Street jeweler for ten times more than he was paying her. "I don't keep this kind of money around. You'll have to go to my bank."

Two hours later Elizabeth emerged from the designated bank with a fortune in notes filling the large sack and her reticule.

Before leaving for London she'd sent word to Ian that she intended to spend the night at the house on Promenade Street. using as an excuse a desire to do some shopping and look in on the servants. It was a lame excuse, but Elizabeth had passed the point of rational thought. She followed Robert's instructions automatically; she did not deviate or improvise; she did not feel. She felt like a person who had already died but whose body was still ghoulishly propelling itself around

Sitting alone in her bed chamber on Promenade Street, she stared blankly out the window into the impenetrable night. her fingers idly twisting in her lap. She ought to send Alex a note to tell her good-bye, she thought. It was her first thought of the future in almost two days. Once the thinking began, however, she wished it hadn't. No sooner had she decided she couldn't risk writing to Alexandra than her mind began tormenting her with the single remaining ordeal before her. She still had to see Ian; she could not avoid him

for two more days without awakening his suspicion. Or could she? she wondered helplessly. He had agreed to let her live her own life, and she'd stayed at Havenhurst occasionally since they'd been married. Of course; the reason had owed to foul weather, not whim.

Dawn was already lightening the sky when she fell asleep in her chair.

When Elizabeth's carriage drew up at Havenhurst the next day she half expected to see Ian's in the drive, but everything looked normal and peaceful. With Ian's money available, Havenhurst was filled with new servants; the grooms were walking a horse by the stable; the gardeners were laying mulch on the dormant flower beds. Normal and peaceful, she thought a little hysterically as Bentner opened the door. "Where have you been, missy?" he asked, anxiously searching her pale face. "The marquess sent word he wants you to come home."

Elizabeth should have expected that, but she actually hadn't. "I can't see why I must, Bentner," she said in a strained voice that was supposed to pass for annoyance. "My husband seems to forget we had a bargain when we wed. "

Bentner, who still resented Ian for his past treatment of his mistress-not to mention for the assault on Bentner's person the day he forced his way into the house on Promenade Street-could not find any reason to defend the marquess now. Instead he trotted down the hall on Elizabeth's heels, stealing anxious glances at her face. "You don't look well, Miss Elizabeth," he said. "Shall I have Winston make you a nice hot pot of tea with some of his delicious scones?"

Elizabeth shook her head and went into the library, where she sat down at her writing desk and composed what she hoped was a politely evasive note to her husband stating her intention to remain at Havenhurst tonight to finish working on the account books. A footman left with the note shortly afterward, with instructions to make the carriage trip in no more than seven hours. Under no circumstances did Elizabeth want Ian leaving their house-his house-and barging in here in the morning-or worse, tonight.

After the footman left, the nerves that had seemed numb in Elizabeth came to vibrant life with a vengeance. The pendulum on the old grandfather clock in the hall began to swing ominously faster, and she began to imagine all sorts of vague, disastrous things happening. Sleep, she told herself; she needed sleep. Her imagination was running rampant because she'd had so little sleep.

Tomorrow she would have to face him, but only for a few hours. . . .

Elizabeth snapped awake in a terrified instant as the door to her bed chamber was flung open near dawn, and Ian stalked into the darkened room. "Do you want to go first, or shall I?" he said tightly, coming to stand at the side of her bed.

"What do you mean?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"I mean," he said, "that either you go first and tell me why in hell you suddenly find my company repugnant, or I'll go first and tell you how I feel when I don't know where you are or why you want to be there!"

"I've sent word to you both nights."

"You sent a damned note that arrived long after nightfall both times, informing me that you intended to sleep somewhere else. I want to know why?"

He has men beaten like animals. she reminded herself. "Stop shouting at me," Elizabeth said shakily, getting out

of bed and dragging the covers with her to hide herself from him.

His brows snapped together in an ominous frown. "Elizabeth?" he asked, reaching for her.

"Don't touch me!" she cried.

Bentner's voice came from the doorway. "Is aught amiss, my lady?" he asked, glaring bravely at Ian.

"Get out of here and close that damned door behind you!" Ian snapped furiously.

"Leave it open," Elizabeth said nervously, and the brave butler did exactly as she said.

In six long strides Ian was at the door, shoving it closed with a force that sent it crashing into its frame, and Elizabeth began to vibrate with terror. When he turned around and started toward her Elizabeth tried to back away, but she tripped on the coverlet and had to stay where she was.

Ian saw the fear in her eyes and stopped short only inches in front of her. His hand lifted, and she winced, but it came to rest on her cheek. "Darling, what is it?" he asked. It was his voice that made her want to weep at his feet, that beautiful baritone voice; and his face-that harsh, handsome face she'd adored. She wanted to beg him to tell her what Robert and Wordsworth had said were lies-all lies. "My life depends on this. Elizabeth. So does yours. Don't fail us," Robert had pleaded. Yet, in that moment of weakness $he actually considered telling Ian everything she knew and letting him kill her if he wanted to; she would have preferred death to the torment of living with the memory of the lie that had been their lives-to the torment of living without him.

"Are you ill?" he asked, frowning and minutely studying her face.