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you, as well.”
    Rafe staggered to his feet, lurching against the table. “Good.”
    The retort ideally would have been full of sly innuendo about what part of him in particular she would be eyeing, but all he could manage was a pained grunt. With a final glare in her general direction, he wobbled toward the kitchen door.
    “Do you require assistance, Mr. Bancroft?” Miss Harrington asked, resuming her position as hostess and rightful owner, damn it all.
    “No.”
    “Shall I bring your horse?” May offered.
    He hesitated, considering the distance he would have to walk between the kitchen, Aristotle, and the stable. He could whistle the gelding to him, of course, but that would split his head wide open. “Yes, that would be fine. Thank you.”
    This time Felicity didn’t even bother covering her amusement. “I’ll bring some blankets.”
    Rafe waved a hand in response and staggered out the back door. Once out of earshot, he let loose with a string of the most descriptive, venomous curses he knew—which was quite a few, considering the seven years he’d spent in the military.
    In the stable doorway he paused, leaning against the warped, peeling wood frame. It abruptly occurred to him that he’d missed his chance to rid himself of the entire mess: if he hadn’t been so dizzy and ill, he might simply have told the lovely Miss Harrington that she was right—the deed was a forgery, and she was welcome to the wreck of Forton Hall.
    On the other hand, this way he’d be able to get his hands around Nigel Harrington’s scrawny neck and choke the life out of the coward. And it would keep him around long enough to see whether Felicity Harrington’s dark eyes still fascinated him tomorrow. He had the distinct feeling that they would. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he muttered, and fell face forward into a pile of straw.
     
    Felicity looked up from her book as May entered the morning room. “I left some toasted bread for you in the kitchen.” She took a sip of her morning tea, grateful for the few minutes of peace she’d had. Reading was well on its way to becoming an unimagined luxury.
    May wrinkled her nose. “It was burned,” she said distastefully. “I had some marmalade.”
    “Just marmalade?”
    “Yes. It was very good.”
    Felicity studied the high color of her sister’s cheeks with some suspicion. “What’ve you been up to this morning, dear?”
    May plunked herself down on the couch and smoothed at her flowered yellow skirt. “I thought Rafe might be dead, so I went to see. He was snoring, though, so he must be all right.”
    Alarmed, Felicity set the book aside. “Do not go near that man. Do you understand, May?”
    “Well, why not? You said he could stay here.”
    Felicity stood and picked her way through the clutter of recovered knickknacks to sit beside her sister. “Mr. Bancroft is a poor unfortunate whom someone duped into thinking he could become an important, wealthy man. Judging from his scar, it is entirely possible someone has hit him on the head at least once in the past, and our actions certainly didn’t help his…mental condition. It is our duty as good Christians to see him well again. After that—”
    “But—”
    “After that, and when Nigel returns, we will lethim explain the matter to our guest. And then Mr. Bancroft will leave.”
    “But—”
    “Hello?” The deep male voice echoed up from the kitchen.
    Felicity jumped. Although she tried to blame her speeded heartbeat on trepidation, an odd tingling excitement fluttered along her nerves. “We’re in the morning room, Mr. Bancroft,” she called.
    A moment later he leaned into the room. Seeing him upright and not wobbling about from dizziness, she was struck by the way he filled the doorway—from his mud-dimmed Hessian boots to his dark gray breeches and light gray patterned waistcoat; black, well-fitting coat; hopelessly wilted cravat; and overly long, wavy golden hair. Slowly and deliciously she took him in,