Victoria didn’t see any of that, because she was already running through the woods, parallel with the main road, smiling to herself because the bandit had fallen for the best trick Rushing River had ever taught her. To mislead one’s pursuer, one merely sent one’s horse in one direction and took off on foot in another. Tossing her cloak over the saddle had been an ingenious improvisation of Victoria’s own.

O’Malley jerked his horse to a jolting stop beside Victoria’s riderless gelding. Frantically, he twisted his head around to scan the steep bank behind and above him, searching for some sign of her up there, thinking her horse must have thrown her at some point between there and here. “Lady Victoria?” he shouted, his gaze sweeping in a wide arc over the bank behind him, the woods on his left, and finally the river on his right. . . where a white cloak floated eerily atop the water, hooked on a partially submerged fallen tree. “Lady Victoria!” he screamed in terror, vaulting from his horse. “The damned horse!” he panted, frantically stripping off his jacket and pulling off his boots. “The damned horse threw her off the ridge into the river ...” He raced into the murky, rushing water, swimming toward the cloak. “Lady Victoria!” he cried and dove under. He came up, shouting her name and gasping for breath, then he dove under again.

Chapter Thirty-two

The house was ablaze with lights when Jason’s coach pulled to a stop in the drive. Eager to see Victoria, he bounded up the shallow terraced front steps. “Good evening, Northrup!” he grinned, slapping the stalwart butler on the back and handing over his cape. “Where is my wife? Has everyone already eaten? I was delayed by a damnable broken wheel.”

Northrup’s face was a frozen mask, his voice a raw whisper. “Captain Farrell is waiting for you in the salon, my lord.”

“What’s wrong with your voice?” Jason asked good-naturedly. “If your throat’s bothering you, mention it to Lady Victoria. She’s wonderful with things like that.”

Northrup swallowed convulsively and said nothing.

Tossing him a mildly curious look, Jason turned and strode briskly down the hall toward the salon. He threw open the doors, an eager smile on his face. “Hello, Mike, where is my wife?” He glanced around at the cheerful room with the little fire burning in the grate to ward off the chill, expecting her to materialize from a shadowy corner, but all he saw was Victoria’s cloak lying limply across the back of a chair, water dripping from its hem. “Forgive my poor manners, my friend,” he said to Mike Farrell, “but I haven’t seen Victoria in days. Let me go and find her, then we’ll all sit down and have a nice talk. She must be up—”

“Jason,” Mike Farrell said tightly. “There’s been an accident—”

The memory of. another night like this one ripped agonizingly across Jason’s brain—a night when he had come home expecting to find his son, and Northrup had acted oddly; a night when Mike Farrell had been waiting for him in this very room. As if to banish the terror and pain already screaming through his body, he shook his head, backing away. “No!” he whispered, and then his voice rose to a tormented shout. “No, damn you! Don’t tell me that—!”

“Jason—”

“Don’t you dare tell me that!” he shouted in agony.

Mike Farrell spoke, but he turned his head away from the unbearable torment on the other man’s ravaged face. “Her horse threw her off the ridge into the river, about four miles from here. O’Malley went in after her, but he couldn’t find her. He—”

“Get out,” Jason whispered.

“I’m sorry, Jason. Sorrier than I can say.”

“Get out!”

When Mike Farrell left, Jason stretched his hand toward Victoria’s cloak, his fingers slowly closing on the wet wool, pulling it toward him. The muscles at the base of his throat worked convulsively as he brought the sodden cloak to his chest, stroking it lovingly with his hand, and then he buried his face in it, rubbing it against his cheek. Waves of agonizing pain exploded through his entire being, and the tears he had thought he was incapable of shedding fell from his eyes. “No,” he sobbed in demented anguish. And then he screamed it.

Chapter Thirty-three

“Here, now, my dear,” the Duchess of Claremont said, patting her great-granddaughter’s shoulder. “It breaks my heart to see you looking so wretched.”

Victoria bit her lip, staring out of the window at the manicured lawns stretching out before her, and said nothing.

“I can scarcely believe your husband hasn’t come here yet to apologize for the outrageous deceit he and Atherton practiced on you,” the duchess declared irritably. “Perhaps he didn’t arrive home the night before last, after all.” Restlessly, she walked about the room, leaning on her cane, her lively eyes darting toward the windows as if she, too, expected to see Jason Fielding arriving at any moment. “When he does put in an appearance, it will afford me great satisfaction if you force him to get down on his knees!”

A wry, mirthless smile touched Victoria’s soft lips. “Then you are bound to be disappointed, Grandmama, for I can assure you beyond any doubt that Jason will not do that. He’s more likely to walk in here and try to kiss me and, and—”

“—and seduce you into coming home?” the duchess finished bluntly.

“Exactly.”

“And could he accomplish that?” she asked, tipping her white head to the side, her eyes momentarily amused despite her frown.

Victoria sighed and turned around, leaning her head against the windowframe and folding her arms across her midriff. “Probably.”

“Well, he’s certainly taking his time about it. Do you truly believe he knew about Mr. Bainbridge’s letters? I mean, if he did know about them, it was utterly unprincipled of him not to tell you.”

“Jason has no principles,” Victoria said with weary anger. “He doesn’t believe in them.”

The duchess resumed her thoughtful pacing but she stopped short when she came to Wolf, who was lying in front of the fireplace. She shuddered and changed direction. “What sin I’ve committed to deserve having this ferocious beast as a houseguest, I don’t know.”

A sad giggle emitted from Victoria. “Shall I chain him outside?”

“Good God, no! He tore the seat of Michaelson’s breeches when he tried to feed him this morning.”