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For whatever reason, Tristan smelled blood now. He
wouldn’t get his friend out of his room until Tristan had
heard the whole story. “She claims to be the only legitimate child from my parents’ marriage.” Giles gestured
towards the documents spread on the table.
    “I see. Exactly, what does that make you?”
    “The poor cottager’s son”
    “Of course.” There was no missing the sardonic tone
in Tristan’s voice. “I’ll wake Alain. It’s going to be a
long night, and it’s no fun watching the sun rise alone.”

Giles paced the length of the elegant cherry-paneled
study, his agitation evident in the furrow he’d worn in
the thick-piled Axminster carpet, walking between the
heavy cherry wood desk and the gracious bank of floorto-ceiling windows that looked out over the south lawn.
Leaning on the desk top, he planted his hands and
pressed his weight against them, drawing deep breaths
in the hopes of gathering his shaken composure.
    Somewhere in his rational brain, he knew there was
no real need to worry. She was a gypsy. What could she
know of him and his family? Of his parents? Most
likely, her claims were nothing more than a stab in the
dark. She probably pulled this scam the length of the
country. Still, he silently cursed the dysfunctional nature of his parents’ marriage, his mother’s mental instability, and his father’s inability to recognize affection when it was offered to him. All of which combined to
create enough doubt that he had to take the lovely gypsy’s
claims with a certain degree of seriousness.

    It was some consolation to know that despite her
claims to the contrary, he would be able to foist her off
with a large sum of money and in a week this farce
would be over. But in the meantime, he felt as if he was
on the brink of being physically ill. He’d been Trojan
horsed.
    Irina had come to Spelthorne, all earthy beauty and
lovely seduction. The peaceful image she’d made sitting at his bedroom window was still freshly etched in
his mind’s eye. That moment existed in a suspended reality, an alternate reality, one in which she did not open
her mouth and ruin the illusion. But she had and it became clear to Giles that she had come to his home deliberately to lay her claims.
    It didn’t matter that her claims would come to
naught. He was still angry-something he seldom was.
There was little cause to be angry or even to be upset in
his well-ordered world, but Giles recognized the foreign emotion immediately. Warrior lords of old must
have felt this way upon seeing an attacking army advancing on their holds, their homes. The comparison
was apt. The gypsy’s ploy was akin to a declaration of
war. She’d put Spelthorne under siege.
    He heard the door open but didn’t turn around. He
gathered another deep breath before he had to face
Alain and Tristan. He was glad for Tristan’s suggestion
that they weather the night together, but it was deuced awkward to try and explain the situation. Glasses clinked
on the side board.

    “Brandy or whiskey, Giles?” Alain asked.
    “Neither. I don’t want to risk a muddled head,” Giles
said, turning to face Tristan and Alain.
    Alain put down the glass he’d been preparing. “Good
idea. I’ll ring for coffee. We’ll need that much at least
to get through the night.”
    Giles nodded and motioned to the two men to take
the chairs set in front of the desk. He took up his place
behind the desk, needing the security it offered. The
three of them might be more comfortable in the overstuffed chairs set before the marble fireplace, but Giles
needed the authority that went with sitting in the worn
chair behind the desk from which he conducted so
much of Spelthorne’s business.
    Tristan and Alain came and settled themselves.
“Tristan told me the basics on the way down. What exactly does she base her claim on?” Alain began.
    Giles spread the documents before them on the desk.
    “A birth certificate and