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the despair.
    Images of her sisters appeared in her mind's eye: Gabby and Beth— the one slender, chestnut-haired, pregnant with her first child; the other a plumply pretty redhead, eagerly looking forward to her first Season. They would be grief-stricken if she died. Beth's debut would have to be postponed; with Gabby indisposed, Claire had undertaken to bring her younger sister out this very spring. Plans to have Beth join her in London in March were already well under way. Now Beth would have to wait another year. And Twindle would grieve. So would Aunt Augusta, in her own gruff fashion. Nick, Gabby's husband, would grieve too, although the bulk of his concern would rightly focus on Gabby, already in such distress from her pregnancy. David, her own husband, would not grieve. Oh, he would put on a great show of sadness, he and his mother, but in their secret heart of hearts they would not mourn.
    The bitter truth of that startled Claire into awareness once more. Rebelling against it, she gave a mighty kick for the surface; her numbed arms flailed….
    Her hand brushed something— something solid— something covered in cloth. Abruptly her hair was snagged. The sudden, sharp pain in her scalp almost made her gasp, which would certainly have ended the struggle right then and there. Her head whipped around, but this watery hell in which she was trapped was too dark: She could see nothing of what had caught her. It yanked her in the direction she thought was upward. Because of that she did not struggle as it towed her in its wake. She went with it, using her hands and feet to push against the black water. Her lungs were now aching, burning instruments of torture in her chest. Her heart beat against her ribs like the wings of a caged wild bird. Blood pounded feverishly in her temples. Suddenly she realized that she had the answer to her question: Yes, it hurts to drown.
    With that thought, miraculously, her head popped through the surface. Her staring, stinging eyes recorded blurry images of surging waves topped with white foam swelling against a starless sky. Her mouth opened instinctively, like a hungry baby bird's. She sucked in air, blessed air, in a greedy gasp. But the crashing sea broke over her even as she filled her lungs, forcing her under once again.
    This time, though, as she choked on salt water and fought against the freezing depths, she was not alone. She felt a solid presence behind her, kicking and fighting with her. Something wrapped around her waist— an arm, she thought. From the size and iron strength of it, a man's arm. Whoever had dragged her from the abyss by her hair was with her still. One of her would-be murderers, bent on saving her from the depths so that he could drown her in a fashion more to his liking? The absurdity of it boggled her mind.
    Not that, at the moment, she even cared about his reasons, she realized as her lungs began to burn again. All she cared about at the moment was having air to breathe….
    As unexpectedly as she'd gone under, she surfaced again. Or, rather, they surfaced. Her rescuer was right behind her. She heard his harsh gasps for air underlining her own. His arm was wrapped around her rib cage now just beneath her breasts. As unyielding as a manacle, it locked her, with her back to his front, against a large, strong body in constant motion as it fought to keep them afloat. Even with his best efforts, and her own, her chin just barely cleared the surging water.
    Still, she could breathe.
    "Master Hugh!"
    Claire instinctively glanced in the direction of the shout. So intent on drawing in air had she been that she only just now noticed the longboat riding the waves some little distance away. The lantern had been lit; held high, its yellow glow illuminated the boat itself and the roiling black water. She and her rescuer, however, were well beyond its range.
    "Here!"
    The answering shout boomed nearly in her ear, its timbre hoarse but its volume startlingly loud. Claire