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was a woman who was ruled by her head, not her heart; she had proved that much years ago when she married Roderick. Perhaps she was fond of Roddy in her fashion, but Stephen didn’t believe that she had ever been passionately in love with his brother, certainly not enough to be overwhelmed by the torrent of grief that had inundated his mother. He knew that Pamela’s heart had been more scored by the knowledge that she inherited nothing but a widow’s share at her husband’s death than by the death itself. He knew firsthand that hers was a cold and calculating heart, and he found it hard to believe that she wished so much to communicate with Roddy.
    Lady St. Leger patted Stephen’s hand. “I know. You are such a dear son, just like Roddy. I knew you would not mind, and, anyway, you are always lockedup in your office or out riding the estate or something. You’ll scarcely notice that we have guests.”
    Stephen sincerely hoped so, but he said only, in a neutral voice, “How long are they staying?”
    “Oh, I didn’t ask them for any specific time. I don’t know what will happen, you see, or how long it will take. And three guests will scarcely tax the resources of Blackhope.”
    “No. Of course not.” He paused. He could think of nothing to say about the matter that would not upset his mother. Life had been easier, he thought, when all he had to worry about was locating silver ore and bringing it out of the ground.
    He cleared his throat. “Well, then…I suppose we will be able to leave soon.”
    “Yes, of course. The sooner the better, really. I must make sure that the house is ready for guests.”
    Stephen left his mother happily making plans for her guests and started up to his room. He had reached the stairs when he heard the sound of light footsteps behind him.
    “Stephen!” Pamela’s voice sounded behind him, and he turned reluctantly.
    “What?” His voice was formally polite, his gaze devoid of warmth.
    Age had changed Pamela little. Golden haired and blue eyed, she was still beautiful, her pale features a model of perfection. She walked toward him in her habitual slow way, as though certain that any man would willingly wait for her. It was the way she wentthrough life, confident and cool, sure of getting her way. And, indeed, she had every reason to think so: she had rarely been thwarted.
    “Must you run away so quickly?” she asked, her voice lowering huskily. “I only wanted to talk to you.”
    “About what? This nonsense that you are encouraging in my mother?”
    “Nonsense?” Pamela raised an eyebrow. “I am sure Lady Eleanor would be shocked to hear you call it such.”
    “You are not, I see,” he retorted. “Why the devil do you go to these séances?”
    “I am not shocked to hear what you think about them,” Pamela explained. “It is clear to anyone, even your mother, though she tries not to admit it. That does not mean that I agree with you.”
    Stephen’s mouth twisted into a grimace, and he started to turned away.
    “Why do you run from me?” Pamela asked again. She smiled, her eyes alight with knowledge. “Once you were quite happy to be near me.”
    “That was a long time ago,” he replied shortly.
    Pamela came closer, moving up onto the step below him. Leaning toward him, she placed a hand on his chest. Her cornflower-blue eyes gazed earnestly up into his. “I hate that things are so awkward between us now.”
    “I see no other way for them to be.” Stephen wrapped his fingers around her wrist and removed herhand from his shirtfront. “You chose this. You are my brother’s wife.”
    “I am your brother’s widow,” Pamela corrected huskily.
    “It is the same thing.”
    Stephen turned and went up the stairs, not looking back.
     
    Sleep did not come easily that night, even though he drank a snifter of brandy as he paced the floor of his bedroom. His head was too full of thoughts of mediums and heartless chicanery—and a small woman with a compactly curved