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“Someone said that in London they were called the Fallen Angels. Nicholas, as dark and handsome as the devil. Lucien, blond and beautiful like Lucifer. Rafael, who’s a duke now, and that Lord Michael, before he became the bane of Penreith. Maybe they were a little wild, but they were also the best-looking lads I’ve ever seen.” She grinned. “Except for Owen, of course. A good thing he was courting me, or I might have been tempted to become a fallen woman.”
     
    “Surely you exaggerate.”
     
    “Only a little.” Marged drained the last of her tea. “So now Nicholas is an earl, and home again after years of traveling in heathen places. Is he as handsome as he used to be?”
     
    “Yes,” Clare said repressively.
     
    Marged waited hopefully for more details. When none were forthcoming, she said, “Were there any odd beasts running around the estate? They say that he sent some strange creatures back from his travels. It’s been all I could do to keep the children from going up to investigate.”
     
    “I didn’t see anything more exotic than the peacocks, and they’ve always been there.” Clare squared the stack of papers and handed them to her friend.
     
    Taking the hint that it was time to go, Marged got to her feet. “You’ll come to class meetings, won’t you?”
     
    “Of course.” Clare hesitated. “At least, I will when I can. Lord Aberdare said something about taking me to London.”
     
    Her friend’s brows shot up. “Really? He wouldn’t take a housekeeper there.”
     
    “But he might if I were acting as his secretary,” Clare said, uncomfortably aware
     
    that her answer was less than honest. “It remains to be seen what I’ll be doing.”
     
    Becoming serious, Marged said, “You be careful of Old Nick, Clare. He could be dangerous.”
     
    “I doubt it. Lord Aberdare has too much arrogance to force a woman who isn’t willing.”
     
    “That’s not what worries me,” Marged said darkly. “The danger is that you’ll be willing.” On that ominous note, she left, to Clare’s relief.
     
    It didn’t take long for Clare to pack the few possessions she would take to Aberdare, and there were no other chores to be done. Too restless to sleep, she drifted through the four rooms of the cottage, occasionally touching familiar objects. She had been born under this roof, had never lived anywhere else. The smallest chamber at Aberdare was grander, but she would miss her whitewashed walls and plain, sturdy furniture.
     
    Lightly she skimmed her fingertips over the age-blackened lid of the carved oak chest. Clare thought it was a pity she would probably have no daughter to pass the chest to, for it had been handed down through the women of her family for generations. Inside the lid, “Angharad 1579” was chiseled. Sometimes Clare wondered about the life of that distant ancestress of hers. Probably Angharad had been the daughter and wife of smallholders who wrested a living from the land, but what had her husband been like? How many children had she borne? Had she been happy?
     
    The overflowing bookcase at one end of the sitting room was the only note of luxury in the cottage. Thomas Morgan had been a son of the Welsh gentry who had been educated at Oxford and ordained as an Anglican vicar. After experiencing a profound spiritual conversion when hearing John Wesley preach, he had become a Methodist preacher himself. Though his rigidly traditional family had disowned him, he had never regretted his choice. Instead he had married the pious daughter of a smallholder and settled in Penreith, preaching and teaching the truth that had illuminated his own life.
     
    Thomas had never lost his love of learning, and he had passed it on to his only daughter. Whenever he went on a preaching circuit, he had tried to find an inexpensive used book, and there had been many such circuits. Clare had   read every volume in the cottage, many of them more than once.
     
    Clare’s mother had died