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be here before the afternoon is over. Will you recognize him?"
    "I will recognize him," Peregrine said softly. Even in the darkest circle of hell, he would know Weldon. There was a slight chance that the recognition would be mutual, though Peregrine had been only a boy of ten at their last meeting. The possibility added a savory dash of uncertainty to the upcoming encounter.
    Revenge would be less satisfying if Weldon were an unknowing victim. But that would not happen, for eventually the Englishman would realize that he was prey and would strike back. The final battle would be fierce, for Weldon was on his own turf, with vast resources at his command.
    If by some freak chance Weldon managed to destroy his stalker, he would still die himself at the hands of an assassin activated by Peregrine's death. Not a sportsmanlike action, but Peregrine had little use for the English concept of sportsmanship, which was a luxury for men who were not in danger of losing anything of real importance. No matter what happened, Weldon would die, after what he valued most had been taken from him. The only major variable was whether Peregrine himself would survive, and that was not a vital question.
    Ross's voice interrupted his musings. "Are you ready to be introduced to some of your fellow guests?''
    Peregrine gave him a lazy smile. "You cannot imagine how much irony there is in the fact that I am here in London , about to be plunged into the heart of respectable English society."
    "You make yourself sound like a dagger," Ross said dryly. "Perhaps I can't fully appreciate the nuances, but I see that you find the situation vastly amusing."
    "Indeed," Peregrine murmured. Glancing across the crowd, he asked, "Which of the lovely ladies is my hostess?"
    "Look for the most beautiful blonde." Ross scanned the crowd, then nodded in the right direction when he found her. "There's Sara, under the tree on the far side of the garden, the one talking to the little girl."
    Just as Peregrine's gaze located the woman, a plump man bustled up to Lord Ross. As his friend turned to the newcomer, Peregrine studied Lady Sara St. James. At first glance she was a disappointment, for he would have guessed that Weldon would choose a wife of stunning beauty as well as noble birth. Perhaps there were no eligible duke's daughters who were also beautiful.
    Ross's cousin was rather small, slim, and simply dressed in a cream-colored gown. Her hair was pulled back over her ears into a demure knot on her neck, and was of a shade Peregrine considered too dark to be called blond. In spite of her cousin's description, she was definitely not a woman to bring a roomful of men to awed attention.
    Lady Sara had her arm around the shoulders of a pretty flaxen-haired girl of ten or eleven years. The child glowed with the pleasure of attending an adult party. Turning her face up, she said something that caused the older woman to laugh and give the girl a gentle push toward the refreshment table.
    As the child danced off, Lady Sara stepped from under the tree into the sunshine, her face still lit with laughter. And when she did, Peregrine caught his breath, suddenly transfixed.
    Sara St. James was not stunning, or even vividly pretty, for prettiness was just another fashion that changed as quickly as the English weather. But in the bones of Lady Sara's face, the serenity of her expression, there was a wise, timeless beauty that would be honored in any age, by any race of earth's children. A sibyl of the ancient Greeks would have had such a countenance. Haloed by the sun, her hair was thick dark honey shot with amber and old gold, as luxurious as antique silk. Now he understood why Ross had called Lady Sara beautiful and blond, for there was no single, simple word that would describe her coloring. Or her.
    Peregrine smiled and silently saluted his enemy's taste, for Weldon had, indeed, chosen a wife of rare beauty and breeding. Separating Ross's cousin from her betrothed was going to be a