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in some surprise to the young man in smart blue livery who questioned her as she descended from the stage in Wollaston. “Yes,” she said.
    “Ned Driscoll, ma’am,” he said, “come to fetch you to the Hall. Which are your trunks, ma’am?”
    “Just that one,” Fleur said, pointing.
    The young man was dressed very smartly indeed. And he hoisted her trunk to his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a feather and strode across the cobbled yard of the inn where the stage had stopped toward a closed carriage with a coat of arms painted on the side panel.
    A cozy manor? A small family group?
    “You are Mr. Kent’s servant?” she asked the groom, following him. “This is his carriage?”
    He turned to grin at her in some amusement. “Mr. Kent?” he said. “He had better not hear you call him that, ma’am. He’s ‘his grace’ to the likes of you and me.”
    “His grace?” Fleur felt rather as if her knees were turning to jelly beneath her.
    “His grace, the Duke of Ridgeway,” the groom said, looking at her curiously. “Didn’t you know?” He strapped her trunk securely to the back of the carriage.
    “The Duke of Ridgeway? There must be some mistake. I was hired as governess to the daughter of a Mr. and Mrs. Kent,” Fleur said.
    “Lady Pamela Kent, ma’am,” the groom said, extending a hand to help her into the carriage. “Mr. Houghton was it who hired you? His grace’s personal secretary. He must have been having a joke with you.”
    A joke. Fleur sat in the carriage while the groom climbed to the box, and closed her eyes briefly. Her employer was the Duke of Ridgeway? She had heard of him. He was reputed to be one of the wealthiest peers of the land. Matthew had known his half-brother, Lord Thomas Kent. Kent! She had not even noticed that it was the same name.
    She should have done. She should have been very much more on her guard. Matthew knew her employer’s brother! But she had never met the man herself. And he would not recognize her or know her name now that she had changed it. She must not start jumping at shadows.
    Willoughby Hall. Mr. Houghton had given that name as the home of her employer. But the mind is a strange thing. She had conceived such a strong and early mental impression of the Kent family that she had instantly visualized a modest manor. But she knew of Willoughby. It was one of the largest estates in England and was reputed to have one of the most magnificent mansions and parks in the country, besides.
    And then, long before her mind had adjusted itself to the new facts of her existence, the carriage was traveling past a high park wall dotted with mosses and lichens and overhung with ivy, and turning to pass between massive stone gateposts onto a winding avenue lined with lime trees.
    She could see rolling lawns dotted with oak and chestnut trees to either side. She even had a momentary glimpse of agroup of grazing deer. Then the carriage rumbled over a bridge and she spotted rushing cascades passing below it. But even as she turned her head to get a better look, her attention was distracted.
    The lime trees did not stretch beyond the bridge. Open and rolling lawns did nothing to obstruct the view of a mansion whose magnificence made the breath catch in Fleur’s throat.
    The house had a long front, its low wings extending to either side of a high pedimented central section, its columns of exquisite fluted Corinthian design. A great central lantern and dome rose behind the pediment. The parapets were lined with stone statues, busts, vases, and urns.
    A great marble fountain before the house played among clipped hedges and terraces of flowers and greenery.
    She had thought Heron House, her own home—Matthew’s home—quite splendid. It would seem little more than a rustic cottage if set against this.
    So much for her cozy manor and small, close-knit family group, Fleur thought, resting her head briefly against the cushions behind her as the carriage drew up before the