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today?” she asked.
    Meaghan sighed. It was useless to try to lie to her mother.
Somehow she always knew.   She would have
made a wonderful magistrate, no one could fool her.   “Monty’s mother did not give him permission
to go to the Gypsy camp,” she admitted. “She sent him over so Father could show
him the estate books and teach him how to run things. She feels it’s Father’s
duty to prepare Monty for Father’s eventual demise.”
    Lady Evaleen’s left eyebrow lifted, and she cocked her head
to the side. “His eventual demise?” she asked coolly, though Meaghan could see
the anger in her eyes. “She actually said that?”
    Nodding, Meaghan allowed her anger toward Lady Strathmore to
show. “I told Monty I thought it rude of Lady Strathmore to joyfully anticipate
Father’s death and I decided that if I asked Father to merely show Monty the
books, we were keeping within the letter of the request, if not the spirit.”
    Lady Evaleen bit back a smile and nodded serenely. “I see,”
she replied. “And after your father shows Monty the books?”
    “We go to the Gypsy camp and enjoy the day,” Meaghan said
with a wicked smile.
    “And if Lady Strathmore hears about Monty’s visit to the
camp?”
    Meaghan paused for just a moment. She hadn’t really
considered that problem.   When an idea
came to her mind, she grinned and looked up at her mother. “Well, of course
Monty has to go to the camp,” she said, her innocent air returning again. “As
the future lord, he must welcome all visitors to the area. Mother, it is
protocol.”
    This time, Lady Evaleen did nothing to hide her smile.
“Meaghan, my dear, you are the veriest of rapscallions,” she laughed, coming
forward to embrace her daughter. “And I pray you never change.”

Chapter Seven
    Lady Honora Strathmore was not pleased. This generally meant
most of her servants were huddled in the cellars, kitchens or other far reaches
of the estate, preferring to deal with cold, damp and rodent-infested
surroundings than face one of their lady’s temper tantrums. So while priceless
objets d’art were smashed against walls and fireplaces, most of the household
was too far away to hear what was being screamed in the lady’s chamber.
    “I told you I wanted him dead,” the lady spat at the large
man sitting calmly in a chair in the corner of her private chamber.
    “And so he will be,” he replied, with a deferential nod of
his head. “But in order not to raise suspicion, we need to be careful and not
rush things.”
    “I don’t give a damn about suspicion,” she replied, whipping
a small porcelain shepherdess across the room into the fireplace only a few
feet from his head. “Let the fools be suspicious. It will do them no good.”
    He folded his arms across his chest and watched her storm
across the room. She was magnificent. Her dark beauty was like dangerous storm
clouds racing across the plains, destroying anything that stood in its path and
stirring up the sky in majestic shades of purple, blue, grey and black.   Her flashing eyes held the cold fury of a
lightning strike, and her alabaster skin reflected the deathly beauty of a
snowstorm. And although he would never let her discern it, his own heart warred
within his chest, equally enticed and terrified by the woman before him.
    “Aye, we need not worry about townsfolk,” he agreed. “For
they are naught but sheep and will do what’s best for their own safety.   But, we mustn’t arise Lord John’s suspicions,
for ‘tis never a good idea to scare the quarry from the trap.”
    She paused at his words, slowly lowering a small ornamental
snuffbox and replacing it on her table. “You speak wisdom,” she finally agreed,
nodding slowly as she continued to dwell on his words. “But I will not be put
off much longer. My son is at the age where he is still malleable. Too many
more years and too much time with Lord John’s family and I fear he will develop
an affection for