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twelve indoor servants, he thought, more or less, and they would all answer to her. He wasn't fanatically neat, he wasn't interested in military order; he just wanted things to run smoothly, preferably invisibly, with the least amount of effort from him. "I expect I'll be away a good deal. There's a bailiff who manages the estate in my absence, a man named William Holyoake. You'll meet him tomorrow.
    "As for your wages, I'll have to check to see what Mrs. Fruit earned. I'm sure it was adequate, but in any case I'll pay you what you're worth." She listened with grave attention, nodding in the right places. "Have you anything else to wear besides that dress?"
    "No, my lord." She smoothed her hands over the wrinkled folds of her skirt self-consciously. "This is what they gave me on my release."
    "Well, it won't do."
    "No," she agreed. "I'm good at stitchery, I could make something else as soon as I've earned—"
    "Go to the village tomorrow. There's a shop that sells a few things ready-made. The gowns aren't much, but they're better than that. Get one."
    "Yes, my lord."
    He smiled dryly. He could have said, "Get your skin flayed while you're there," and in all likelihood she'd have dipped her head and said, "Yes, my lord." She was in his power, a virtual slave. The situation was unquestionably provocative, but it ought to have been more so, more stimulating. He hadn't really gotten to her yet. She simply didn't care enough.
    "You're tired," he said solicitously. "We'll speak again, but now I'll take you back to your room." Mild words, innocent of implication. But she colored, rising slowly, as if summoned to a punishment, and the glance she sent him was a study in resigned unsur-prise. He hadn't planned to do anything with her tonight, but her blasted fatalism was insulting. She seemed to have come to an extremely cynical understanding of his intentions. Come to it, in fact, even before he had. Fine; he would try not to disappoint her.
    He'd never been in the housekeeper's rooms. Mrs. Wade lit the candle on the mantelpiece, and by its light he was glad to see that, although they were small, the rooms were clean and comfortable. The sitting room had a desk in front of a window overlooking the courtyard, a table with two chairs, and an armchair in front of the cold stone hearth. The bedroom beyond was even smaller, and unremarkable from what he" could see through the low doorway. Mrs. Wade had no visible possessions; whatever had been in her tapestry bag had been put away, out of sight.
    She was standing by the mantel, watching him. He tried to imagine her in a prison cell. Locked up in it day after day, night after night. Ten years of her young life in a cell as small as this room. No, smaller. Not allowed to look at anyone. Not allowed to look at anyone.
    When he went toward her, she didn't drop her eyes, even when he drew close. But her nostrils flared when he lifted his hand and brought it to the side of her head. Her dark brown hair was silky, much softer than it looked. He sleeked his fingers into it, above her ear, watching the candlelight play over the silver strands. "I don't like your hair in this style," he murmured. "Don't cut it again." She gave a slight nod, but he thought he saw bitterness in her eyes, or humor, maybe both. "What?" he demanded softly. "Tell me what you're thinking."
    "Just that—my hair is longer now than it's been in ten years. This is ... luxuriant.'' Her lips twisted with irony; she was making fun of herself.
    "Have you always had the gray?"
    "Not always."
    "Only since prison," he guessed.
    She nodded again. "There's less now than before. It... seems to be fading."
    "Good. You're too young for gray hair."
    Because of her reserve, touching her seemed a daring encroachment, almost like the breaking of a taboo. But wasn't that what made her irresistible? The top of her ear peeked through the hair, pale pink and delicate, nearly transparent. He followed the dainty curve with his fingertip pressing