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worn it bound at the nape with a leather tie, and he’d donned the dhoti kurta, the long garments Indian gentlemen wore. During the course of the evening, he’d partaken of the hookah pipe the prince had offered him, and sometime after that—the details were a bit hazy—he’d taken the tattoo that was offered.
    “That serpent curls around the ancient Hindu symbol for peace and prosperity,” he said, looking at the tattoo on his wrist. He lifted his gaze to Henry. “It is a form of art.”
    “It is a form of the devil,” Henry said cheerfully. “Or at least Mrs. MacDonald, the vicar’s wife, would have my mother believe.”
    “The devil?”
    “The devil. But you may trust that I stood in defense of you.” Henry winked and took another swill of his ale.
    “What do you mean, stood in defense of me?” Will asked, frowning.
    “When the ladies started speaking ill of you,” Henry said blithely. “My mother’s friends. They were in her drawing room discussing some sort of ecclesiastical event—I’m not entirely certain what event, really, as I find such topics tiresome and tend not to listen—but when the subject of your wrist was raised, and the ladies began to toss words like heathen about, I simply had to step in.”
    “And what did you say?”
    Henry brought his tankard down with a clap. “What do you think I said, my good friend? I told them that you are indeed a heathen!” he said, and laughed.
    Will smiled.
    “What was I to say, then? All that talk of your spiritual journey you’ve subjected me to—you had me fearing for my very soul!”
    “My talk of a spiritual journey is the last thing your soul should fear,” Will said with a wry smile. “I should think your soul has far more to fear in your illicit affair with Mrs. Montaine.”
    “Have a care!” Henry whispered hotly, and glanced around the crowded, noisy public room to see if anyone had overheard. When he was satisfied they had not, he grinned at Will. “Come now, Summerfield. You really must allow me to introduce you to her sister—”
    “I think not,” Will said, and tossed back the rest of his ale. “I’ve enough to keep me occupied with my brothers and sisters. Speaking of which, I’d best be home. The good Lord only knows what havoc they have wrought this afternoon.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, have another pint. If they haven’t harmed anyone, you might afford it.”
    Will stayed, but he felt rather uncomfortable. He supposed he really didn’t know how to fit in with the country life any longer. He’d been gone too long, experienced too much of the world to simply pick up where he’d left off.
    Ever since he’d stepped into Wentworth Hall after his six-year absence, he’d felt much like a duck out of water. He was, inescapably, a changed man. He just wasn’t certain what, exactly, he’d changed into.

Four
    A fter introducing Phoebe to the kitchen and a hot meal, Mr. Addison informed her that Ladies Alice and Jane were presently visiting their elderly cousin in Leicestershire and would not return until two days hence, so Phoebe should feel free to use the opportunity to clean and organize her workroom.
    “Isn’t there anyone to help me?” she’d asked bleakly.
    Addison had seemed taken aback by her question. “To scrub the floor?” he asked, as if he couldn’t conceive of her needing help for such a dreadful task.
    “Oh, very well,” Phoebe had said, a little petulantly. “I suppose there is a first time for everything.”
    She scrubbed the floors, swept the cobwebs from the corners of the ceiling, and washed the windows. She found a footman, Billy, who was more than happy to move the broken furniture from the room. And from Farley, the butler, Phoebe managed to extract a long worktable and three chairs.
    The work was physically taxing—she’d no idea how hard servants worked until now. She was so exhausted that she rarely left the pair of rooms she had been given except to dine and to walk in the early