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Dana again, his tone apologetic. "Still, 111 have to deliver you to the cellar," he said softly. Then, as though to halt the gloom, he added, "But we both know it won't be forever, now, don't we, lad? Your friend, that young woman, will send your papers right enough. Then I personally will assist you back up to your father's chambers where you belong."
    At last John turned, grateful for the reassurance. He was on the verge of expressing his gratitude when, just beyond the door, he thought he saw something white.
    Apparently Dana saw it as well and moved past him. "Wait here," Dana whispered.
    John watched as the old man made his way stealthily to the door, stopping short of the threshold. "Miss?" John heard him whisper, his tone of voice gentle.
    Obviously he'd found someone, a timid someone who required special consideration. John listened carefully as the old man asked, "May I be of assistance, miss? The corridors are dark. And shouldn't you be at dinner now? It must be approaching nine. Her ladyship will be . . ."
    Then the man disappeared, leaving John staring at the empty doorway. He tried to overhear. What now? he wondered. Another objection to his presence? Another challenge to his identity? He turned away from the invisible confrontation, resigning himself to another delay.
    "Lad?" It was Dana again from the doorway. "You . . . have a visitor," he stammered.
    "A visitor?" John repeated, his head reeling from the variety of manners to which he'd been treated since his arrival here only a few hours ago.

    "Aye, lad." At that, Dana stepped back, and in the next minute an apparition in white appeared, a woman with dark hair streaked with gray which hung loose down her back, a soft fringe of curls about her face.
    "Edward," she whispered, and was in his arms before he could protest or seek explanation.
    "Oh, Edward, I knew it was you," she murmured close to his ear.
    In his confusion he looked up and caught Dana's eye. The man was speaking volumes without saying a word. The message was clear. Apparently Dana felt it important that John return her embrace. Tentatively his hands lifted to her waist, then, finding that area too intimate, moved up to the safety of her shoulders.
    Just when he thought he was doing very well, she drew back and he saw tears on her face. "Edward"—she smiled in spite of the tears —"I was so worried. Everyone told me that you were dead." There was a childlike quality in her voice. "But you aren't dead at all, are you?" she asked softly. "Though they have treated you shamefully, haven't they? Oh, I saw them right enough, those wicked men carrying you down here. Just like the time they carried you out of the banqueting hall on Mother's command." Her voice drifted, as though for an instant she'd lost touch with who she was and what she was saying.
    In the interim, John again looked beseechingly at Dana. The man stepped forward, and in passing whispered, "It's Miss Jennifer, your aunt, your father's sister. She thinks . . ."
    It was clear what she thought, and John remembered her now. How often and how lovingly his father had spoken her name. In fact, John could not remember the name ever standing by itself. Always it had been preceded by "dearest," or "sweet."
    Acutely aware of the role he must play where this woman was concerned, he opened his arms wide and summoned her back to him, anything to call a halt to her demented circling. "Dearest Jennifer. . ."Hesmiled.
    Immediately the circling stopped. And once again John experienced the curious delight of holding a woman close, though the sensations were very different this time, no arousal, merely a feeling of pity, the feeling that at the very instant when everyone was denying his relationship to his father, he had become his father, at least as far as this woman was concerned.
    For several moments she clung to him. Once or twice he heard her

    sigh. Then a smile broke on those pale features and she whispered, "We must hurry. Daniel is waiting for