The duke was not taking the news well. He was pacing constantly, whether in the privacy of his own bedchamber or in full view in the drawing rooms. He wandered the corridors, loitered in the gallery, and even skulked about in the servants' wing. Occasionally he would look up at a portrait of an ancestor and apologize in a vague, disturbing way, which the family took note of with concern.

"Do you think we should summon the doctor again?" Blake asked, late one afternoon, while he and Devon were alone in the study, working on estate matters.

Devon was seated at the desk inspecting the ledgers, which he had been spending a lot of time on lately, for it kept his mind off the two things that were a constant concern to him: his father's madness, and the antagonism he still felt regarding his wife's former engagement.

He wished he could let it go, but for some reason he could not. It still incensed him on a daily basis. Every time he looked at her, he thought of that other man who had believed she would be his, and found himself wondering what conversations they'd had in the past, what this man knew of her, and how he had reacted to the news that she was now another man's wife.

"Devon?"

He blinked a few times, then laid down his pen and looked at his brother. "I'm sorry…. Yes?"

"Should we summon the doctor again?" Blake asked, repeating his earlier question.

Devon labored to bring his mind back to the subject at hand. "Dr. Lambert has not been helpful in the past. He would no doubt continue to tell us this behavior is normal, which I suppose it is, if it is simply old age."

"But perhaps he could give Father a tonic or something to ease his mind or help him sleep."

Devon leaned back in his chair. "I am of the opinion that it is time to call on someone new, someone who has some experience with this kind of thing. Someone who does not expect to be named in the will."

"Someone from London?"

"That is what I am thinking." He leaned forward and picked up his pen again. "Didn't Mother work on a hospital benefit last Christmas? Perhaps she would know someone."

"It is worth a try," Blake said.

Just then, the door swung open and hit the wall, and the estate steward, Mr. Jacobs, entered with their father, who strode across the room in a wild frenzy.

"Devon," he said. "Devon…"

Startled by the abrupt interruption and the panic in his father's voice, Devon rose from his chair. "What is it? What has happened?"

Mr. Jacobs inclined his head and spoke in a calm voice. "Good afternoon, Lord Hawthorne. There is some news about the fields to the east."

"News!" the duke shouted. "It is not news, it is the end!"

The steward's gaze darted uneasily to the duke. "I thought you should know, my lord," he said to Devon, "that some of the fields require attention. The drainage ditches are not performing as they should."

Devon glanced at his father, who was having difficulty breathing and was now tugging at his cravat.

"You are here to tell me," Devon said, "that the fields are flooding?"

"Yes, my lord."

Wonderful.

"Do you hear that?" his father said, pointing at the steward. He gazed incredulously at Blake. "What the blazes are you doing here? Why aren't you in London with Vincent looking for a bride? And where is Garrett? Have you reached him yet? Does he know? Why has he not returned?"

"I have posted a letter," Devon assured him, "but it will take some time to reach him, and it will be longer still, before we hear a reply."

"But what are we going to do in the meantime?"

Devon moved out from behind the desk and went to pour a glass of brandy. He handed it to his father. "There is no need to worry. Blake and I will accompany Mr. Jacobs to the east fields now and assess the damage, then find a solution. We will dig new drainage ditches ourselves if we have to. Everything will be fine, Father."

"But that will only buy us time," he replied, sucking back a deep swig of brandy.

Devon placed a comforting hand on his father's shoulder. "Maybe time is all we need."

The duke looked into his eyes and stared blankly, then his breathing calmed. He strode to a chair. "Yes, I'm sure you're right."

Mr. Jacobs watched the duke with further uneasiness, then cleared his throat and spoke to Devon. "My lord? Do you wish to see the fields now?"

"Yes. Blake and I will accompany you. Have a groom ready the horses."

Blake followed him out of the library, but glanced over his shoulder at their father, who was finishing off the brandy in record time.

"Maybe we should skip the horses, Devon, and take a rowboat instead."

Devon gave him a warning look. "Blake, I swear, if you tell me you're starting to believe in this ridiculous curse, I will respectfully suggest that you go stick your finger in a dyke."

"Point taken," his brother replied. "Horses will do."

Darkness had already descended upon the estate when Devon and Blake returned from the fields. They were both soaked through to the bone, their feet numb from the chill, their hands shaking with fatigue, blistered after working with the tenant farmers to dig extra drainage ditches where they were needed.

The butler met them at the door and took their wet coats and hats, then they each ordered hot baths and brandy in their rooms. They took a glass together in the study while they waited for the baths to be drawn, then scaled the steps wearily and headed toward their private lodgings, each of them intent upon collapsing with all due haste as soon as they cleaned the grime from their skin.

Devon said goodnight to his brother and started down the long corridor. A wall sconce flickered wildly as he passed by, then blew out.

He stopped in his tracks, then started again. Reaching the next sconce, he kept his gaze fixed upon it. Thankfully it remained lit, illuminating one of the many palace portraits of his ancestor, the first Duke of Pembroke.

Devon stopped in the corridor and looked up at it. It was disturbingly lifelike, as were all the paintings of that man. No wonder their father was obsessed with them and talked to them in the night.

At last Devon reached his door and turned the knob to discover a fire roaring in the grate and a tub full of hot water waiting for him. He closed and locked the door, then stripped off his wet clothing and stepped into the steaming bath. When his hands touched the water, however, his blisters burned like hot pokers, so he rested his arms along the brass rim of the tub, palms up.

His entire body was aching, his mind in a fog of exhaustion. The fields had indeed been flooded, and if his father had seen them for himself, he would have collapsed in a hysterical fit. Something had to be done, but for the life of him, he didn't know what.

Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. It wasn't a moment before he felt that pleasant feeling of floating as sleep approached, but a dripping sound pulled him from that place and compelled him to open his eyes.

"I must be dreaming," he said, recognizing his wife sitting beside him, leaning over the tub, dipping a cloth into the water and squeezing it out over his knees. "Because I see an angel."

Indeed, an angel she was, dressed in her flowing white nightgown, her red hair spilling in graceful waves down her back.

Over the past week, they had made love every night, reading from Lydie's diary when it suited them, but more often than not, leaving it in a drawer and exploring their own particular tastes and desires with enthusiasm and curiosity. Their lusty appetites were always in harmony, and the sex was, without question, superb.

Rebecca was adventurous in every sense of the word, and he was thankful for that. It gave their relationship a clear dynamic, for they were both open about what they wanted in bed and had no reservations when it came to the use of titillating words and lusty language. They were each determined to satisfy and be satisfied, and it was the one thing they had in common-the daily anticipation of sex, and the question of when and where they would have it next.

Devon knew their lovemaking was distracting them both from the secrets they had kept from each other before their marriage, as well as his unwillingness to surrender to the kind of love she wanted him to feel.

Every night she said the words to him-I love you-and every night, he answered with a kiss. He simply could not return the sentiment. He was not capable of letting his emotions go free in that way, nor could he lie to her and say it just to please her.

All of it was acceptable to him. He was quite happy to continue on in that way, enjoying sex but never speaking of more intimate matters of the heart. He suspected, however, it would just be a matter of time before Rebecca would want something more.

"How did you get in here?" he asked, determined to enjoy things the way they were, for as long as he could.

"You're not the only one who knows about the secret passages in this house," she said. "Charlotte has been taking me around."

He glanced at the tall wardrobe by the bed with its double doors ajar. "Alas, my secret is no longer a secret. Where else did she take you? Have you seen the mice in the old south passage yet?"

"The abbey underground? No, she refused to take me there. She said it gave her nightmares as a child, because she thought it was haunted by the monks."

He puckered his lips. "I think the nightmares came from her unscrupulous brothers, who told her terrible ghost stories about those monks." His brow furrowed as he recalled certain, specific details from his boyhood. "Maybe there was a spider or two involved," he added.