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glitter in his eyes was more mocking than dangerous. "Your morals intrigue me, Mrs. Dupré. You disapprove of making love, but have no qualms about lying or, evidently, murder. Would you care to explain yourself?"
    Hands shaking, Eavin set aside the shirt she had been mending. It took what remained of her courage to face him, and she did so only once she had risen from her chair and was prepared to flee. "I didn't lie. I merely withheld the full extent of the truth. And if murder has been done, that is on your conscience; I know nothing of it. I merely did what was necessary to protect Jeannette. Should they arrest you, she would have nothing. You, at least, are better than nothing."
    A dark smile turned Nicholas's lips. "At least I will have no trouble knowing where I stand in your eyes, Irish. You will keep me informed when you decide I am no longer worth even that much?"
    "I think you will know, sir. May I be excused now? I find this day has become most tiring."
    She did, indeed, look suddenly very tired. Nicholas regretted his facetiousness. She knew nothing of him, yet she had done him a favor that he suspected even his best friend would not have done. Even if her reasons were purely selfish, they had saved him from an unpleasant night or two. Standing there in that shapeless black gown, she looked young and alone. He could afford to be generous.
    "How can I show my gratitude? Were it not for your quick thinking, I might have had the misfortune to spend the next few nights in an extremely unpleasant jail. You deserve some reward. Perhaps a new gown or two?"
    Remembering Francine's ghostly presence, Eavin glared at him. "You might show your gratitude by giving your daughter a little attention. A child needs a father, and as far as she is concerned, you are hers."
    Nicholas struggled with his rage. The chit wasn't so slow as not to have guessed that he was not Jeannette's father. His fingers clenched around the brandy glass until it cracked, but there was no denying her request. For whatever reason, he had allowed Francine's child to remain here. She would bear his name. He had thought that would be enough, but the Irish widow was making it plain that it wasn't. He despised interfering women, but her interference had saved him a great deal of unpleasantness.
    Sensing some of his struggle, Eavin waited. She owed Francine this much. Dominic's sister had taken her in unquestioningly, welcomed her with the open arms that Madame Dupré and the rest of society would deny her. Because of Francine, Eavin had a roof over her head and food in her stomach and her pride relatively intact. Francine's daughter would lack for nothing as long as Eavin was in a position to look after her.
    "She is too young yet to know that I exist," was all the response she received from Nicholas.
    With a look of derision Eavin lifted her skirts and prepared to leave. "A child is never too young for love. But then, perhaps you were never a child. Good night." She walked out before she could see the bleak expression on his face.
    He had only one really strong childhood memory. He had been very young, so it must have been in Santa Domingue. He could remember the blistering sunshine above and the parade of colorful dancers in the street below the balcony where he had hidden. They had seemed so full of joy and life as they danced and swung about in their brilliant costumes, the drums beating an exciting rhythm around them. They wore masks and feathers, and many of them had bare feet. He had wanted badly to join them, but before he could figure out the best method of escape, he had been dragged back into the cool shade of the salon and the door had shut on the swirling colors of joy.
    Nicholas couldn't remember what lesson it was he had been avoiding that day, but the beating he had received had taught him not to shirk another. And he hadn't. He'd gone on to excel in everything he did. It was some consolation to know that he had the ability to conquer every