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servants, instead of lowering myself to do someone else’s bidding. Do I look as if I am so much better off than the world that I fled?”
    He didn’t say anything.
    “Ask in Up Aubry when you have a chance. Ask them what they think of Mary Chartley. Full of herself, they’ll say—attends church and leaves immediately without talking to anyone. Too good to join the other women for a chat. I’m working for a man who doesn’t let me leave the property unless I’m guarded. If I had a choice, I would be anywhere but here.” She kicked furiously at the nettles.
    “Maybe,” he said slowly, with a great deal of skepticism. “If your father could cheat his partners, no doubt he could cheat you, too. But even if things have turned out badly for you, I deserve—no, I
demand
—a full accounting. There are thousands of pounds at stake. Do you know what happened to them?”
    God. She’d been dreading this moment. She woke up nights in a cold sweat, thinking of what she’d have to do to account for them.
    “I know,” she whispered. “But—I can’t. John. Please don’t make me.”
    It couldn’t be compassion she saw flicker in his eyes. They were long past that. His lips narrowed. “You’ll tell me everything. And if there’s anything I can recover…”
    She tried to look away, but he took hold of her chin, tilting her head up.
    He’d touched her almost like this back in Southampton. But then, it had been a prelude to a kiss. His grip was firmer now, and there was no warmth in his eyes, no tenderness—only hard calculation.
    “If there’s anything I can recover,” he repeated, “I will.” He let her go.
    “I have to get back,” she said. “Sir Walter times my walks. He’ll come after me in a few minutes. Please don’t let him find us together.”
    But she was only putting off the inevitable. The truth of who she was had caught up with her, and payment was required.
    Mr. Lawson had told her she was not a lady, all those months ago. It had taken her months to understand what that meant.
    It meant that she saw the darker side of every gentleman. There was no need for politeness, no need to worry about formalities. She could be imprisoned and isolated at whim. Her wages might be stolen; all hope of friendship could be yanked from her. And as bad as all that sounded, Mary knew that she had been lucky thus far.
    Her luck had officially run out.
    John let go of her. “Go back, then,” he said. “But, Mary… We’re not through.”
    Her limbs felt heavy. She was nothing but ice, through and through.
    “Yes,” she whispered. “I know.”
    It was better this way. She would be ice, and she would survive.

Chapter Four

    T HE LITTLE COTTAGE WHERE J OHN was staying sat halfway up the hill; the window in the front room overlooked the farm. It had been built years ago for a one-time widowed sister, long since passed away. Beauregard had offered it up as a potential residence during his stay. He’d not meant it seriously—the farm, he said, would have so many more comforts—but John had leaped at the chance. No need to disturb Beauregard in the morning, he’d explained, and besides, this way, he could contemplate the shape of the land from on high.
    All good enough excuses, but the real reason he’d opted for the makeshift few rooms up the hill was the solitude he had in the evening.
    Tonight, he was too exhausted to talk to anyone. From the morning work supervising the drainage to the whirlwind tour of the best families within riding distance, he’d been busy for every hour of the day.
    And then there had been that afternoon meeting with Mary. That had sucked the life right out of him.
    With another early morning ahead of him, he’d prepared for bed. But night had come and sleep had eluded him. After an hour spent staring at the darkened ceiling—tired, but not sleepy—he’d donned loose trousers and gone for a glass of brandy. But the spirits hadn’t driven away his cluttered thoughts. They’d only