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leaned to whisper something in the ear of the older man who accompanied her. Surely he must be Baron Watkin, but he looked nothing like his daughter, outside his translucent skin. Jareth was highly tempted to push past the dowager ahead of him in the pew so that he might reach Eloise, but he forced himself to shuffle slowly toward the aisle. By the time he was free, Eloise had disappeared.
    He dashed out of the church, raising no few brows in the process. He didn’t have to hear the gossip this time to know its content. By galloping out of the house of heaven he was once more proving he belonged to the house of hell. He did not let the sentiment deter him from scanning the steps and pavement around the chapel. She was nowhere to be seen among the crush of carriages.
    But he was undaunted. It was Sunday after all. Surely this would be a day to grant forgiveness, if it were asked. Leaving Justinian and Eleanor to thank the minister for the service (and apologize for Jareth’s behavior if needed), he hailed a hack and went straight to the Watkin townhouse.
    “Miss Watkin is expecting me,” he told the butler when the solemn fellow answered his knock.
    “I regret to say that Miss Watkin has not informed me of that fact,” the butler replied. “Shall I take your card, sir?”
    “As you already have a sizable collection, I think not. However, I should be happy to wait while you request additional guidance from the lady. Just promise her that I come as a penitent.”
    “One moment, then.”
    The butler’s idea of a moment clearly differed from Jareth’s. He counted off one hundred and fifty moments before the door opened again. By that time, he’d tipped his hat to six ladies, nodded to four gentlemen, and smiled appreciatively at five pieces of prime horseflesh.
    “As I expected,” the butler said, “Miss Watkin is not at home.”
    “Then I will wait until she is at home,” Jareth informed him.
    The butler merely looked at him. “I regret that we seem to have no space available for you to wait, sir.”
    Jareth flipped back his tails and settled himself on the front step. “Then I shall wait right here,” he called back over his shoulder.
    The butler didn’t even sigh, though Jareth suspected he was hard pressed not to. “The under footman generally sweeps the front step at half past one, sir,” he said solemnly, “and it is nearly that now. I am certain you would not want to dirty your trousers.”
    “I certainly would not,” Jareth retorted, glancing down at his dove gray trousers, one of the few of his belongings that didn’t need refurbishing. “In fact, if such were to happen, I would likely cry out. Loudly. Repeatedly. I should think your neighbors on the terrace might remark upon it, unless of course they are also not at home.”
    The door snapped shut.
    Jareth waited. He’d never liked having to wait. If he had, there might be fewer ladies on Justinian’s list. Certainly Eloise wouldn’t have been on it. From the first, he could not get enough of her.
    He had never doubted she’d appear at the oak. He’d felt her interest in the chapel. She would come, if only to be sure of him. Having ridden all his life in the Darby woods, which they shared with the school, he knew exactly how close he could get to Barnsley without getting caught. He’d tied his horse at the oak just before midnight and lit a hooded lantern. But he didn’t need its feeble light; he could hear the footsteps hurrying toward him.
    She burst into the small clearing, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, her slender form enveloped by a rich burgundy cloak fit for royalty. Now he realized the expense of the cloak should have been a clue that she was no impoverished teacher. Then it had seemed fitting raiment for her beauty and their secret meeting. A few leaves clung to her ringlets as if Oberon himself had crowned her. Seeing him, she stopped and sucked in a breath. He was suddenly afraid she’d run back the way she’d come.
    He