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May, and the ocean churned and foamed in time to the roaring wind that beat against the house, reminding him constantly of the bitterness outside and the turmoil within.
    It was as if he’d never left. Many days during his childhood he’d stood in this spot, staring out to sea, wondering at the world beyond the horizon, dreaming of the time he could leave to explore it. Now, however, his heart was torn between two places, England and Africa, and, where family was concerned, possibly beyond repair.
    He shoved his hands in the pockets of his frock coat and closed his eyes to the crashing tides.
    His first sight of his family home yesterday had brought back so many memories, many of them good ones he’d forgotten during the years he’d been away. But the minute he’d stepped inside Baybridge House—with its unique smells and sounds and the feeling of disillusionment contained within its walls—the memories took on a freshness that filled him with a new despair, one that would certainly never fade.
    Christine was dead. His healthy, cheerful, charming albeit sometimes annoying, baby sister was dead without explanation. He had loved her as the father she had never known, and he would do his duty as earl and brother to discover the truth behind that death, whatever the cost. For Marcus knew, as others seemingly did not, that the events leading up to her final weeks of life were not simply perplexing, but haunting.
    God help him. If he had only left Egypt sooner—
    A knock at the door jerked him from his disturbing thoughts, and Marcus quickly opened his eyes.
    “Come,” he bellowed a little too harshly.
    The latch clicked; the tall oak door opened, and in rushed one of his mother’s frilly parlor maids, followed by his long-staying houseguest.

    “Miss Mary Marsh to see you, Lord Renn.”
    He nodded curtly at the servant, who immediately took her leave, but his eyes boldly locked with his invited guest’s as she moved forward with a swish of purple skirts that accented the paleness of her skin.
    Those eyes, sharply attuned to detail, were crystal clear and bluish gray, he noted, fringed with thick, pale lashes, staring into his with only the slightest trace of curiosity.
    “Miss Marsh,” he said in greeting.
    “My lord. You wished to see me?” She halted a foot or so away from his writing desk and stood with shoulders rigid, head angled to the side, hands behind her back.
    She had the most intriguing face. Not one that might be called beautiful, but attractive nonetheless, and extremely feminine—fine curves, a touch of pink to the cheeks, full lips, high, blond brows, a small, perfectly straight nose. For a moment he studied her, then he forced himself to look away.
    “Yes. Be seated.” He turned back to the window and crossed his arms over his chest, listening to her skirts rustling as she did so.
    The silence droned for a moment until Marcus gathered his thoughts and proceeded.
    “You’ve been employed by my mother for how long?” he began.
    She cleared her throat. “I was hired last summer, but only arrived in early January.” She paused, then added, “That’s when I began my duties.”
    That was obvious, and he almost smiled at her nervousness, or at least, at what he thought might be nervousness.
    He continued to gaze out the window. “And your duties were?”
    He heard a rustle of skirts again but fought the urge to watch her move in her chair.
    “I more or less help the lady of a household prepare her daughter’s personal items for a fashionable wedding trousseau,” she stated.
    To Marcus it sounded like a typical glib answer she reserved for those who had to ask but didn’t care one way or another what she did, especially given the fact that it didn’t explain what her duties at Baybridge House had been exactly.
    Slowly he turned and looked at her again. The color had risen in her cheeks, and she clutched her interlocked fingers in her lap, though she remained otherwise still, watching