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lurched, stopped. Almost before the wheels had fixed, the door was swinging open and the duke leapt out as if from a spring.
    “That’s Pater for you,” Freddie said resignedly. “Not at all fond of closed spaces. You first, Grimsby. Hero of the hour and all that.”
    The moon shone round and full behind a raft of skidding clouds. It illuminated the Duke of Ashland’s hair to whiteness as he turned and stared down at Emilie. She met his gaze squarely beneath the brim of his hat, afraid of letting her eyes trail downward to his ruined jaw. The single eye enveloped her whole. In the moonlight, it might have been any shade from pale gray to vivid blue. “Simpson, this is Mr. Grimsby, Silverton’s new tutor. Have your staff see to his comfort tonight.”
    Emilie was aware of an enormous dark mass to her right, immense with gravity, obscuring the night sky. A single figure resolved itself from the pitch, white collar gleaming with its own luminescence from the corner of Emilie’s vision. “Yes, Your Grace,” said a low voice, crackling with age. “You may come with me, Mr. Grimsby.”
    “I shall send for you in the morning, directly after breakfast, to discuss the terms of your employment here.” A sudden gust of wind nearly tore his words away, but Ashland didn’t move, didn’t raise his voice by so much as a single decibel. “In the meantime, I urge you to make yourself comfortable in my home.”
    “Thank you, sir.” Despite the numbing shock of the wind, Emilie’s cheeks glowed with warmth.
    “In other words,” Freddie put in, “you’ve been dismissed for the night, Grimsby. I’d dash while I could, if I were you. In fact, being a hospitable sort of chap, I believe I’ll take you up myself.” His hand closed around Emilie’s upper arm.
    “Frederick.”
The single word snapped out of the duke’s throat.
    The boy paused, one shoe poised above the gravel. “Yes, Pater?”
    “In my study, if you please. We have a certain matter to discuss.”
    Freddie’s hand dropped away from Emilie’s arm. “What matter, sir?”
    “Frederick, my dear boy. We have all been to a great deal of trouble tonight. I believe some sort of reckoning is in order. Don’t you?” Ashland’s silky voice nudged upward at the very tip of the last word, implying a question where one didn’t really exist. Emilie heard a little slap, as of gloves hitting an impatient palm.
    Emilie didn’t dare look at Freddie. She couldn’t have seen him well anyway, as the moon had just retired behind one of the thicker clouds. But she heard him gulp, even above the thrum of the wind about the chimneys. Her heart sank in sympathy.
    “Yes, sir,” Freddie said humbly.
    “That will be all, Mr. Grimsby,” said the Duke of Ashland.
    The butler stepped aside in a meaningful crunch of gravel, and Emilie turned and walked up the steps, guided by the dim golden light from the entrance hall, and into Ashland Abbey.
    *   *   *
    T he Duke of Ashland waited until his son’s footsteps had receded entirely up the stairs before he allowed the smile to break out at the corner of his mouth.
    Well, it
had
been an entertaining evening, after all, and he couldn’t deny he stood in need of a little excitement from time to time. A chuckle rumbled in his throat at the image of poor Mr. Grimsby, eyes wide, whiskers a-flutter, one slender, scholarly fist closed at his side and the other brandishing a chicken drumstick. But he had shown spirit, after all. The young chap had put himself in imminent danger to rescue Freddie. That was all Ashland needed to know.
    He rose from his desk. On the cabinet near the window, a tray beckoned alluringly with a single empty glass and three crystal decanters: one of sherry, one of brandy, and one of port. Ashland’s right hand—the one that no longer existed—throbbed with eagerness at the sight.
    He walked with steady steps to the cabinet, picked up the sherry with his left hand, and filled the empty glass nearly to