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of nuthatches and whitethroats. A huge, ungainly buzzard flapped its way toward the nearby bogs in search of breakfast.
    Suddenly Lottie caught sight of a dark shape ahead. It was a man, roaming through the forest, his outline partially obscured in the mist. A poacher, perhaps. Although Lottie stopped at some distance,he had unusually sharp hearing. His head turned as a twig snapped beneath her boot.
    Lottie held her ground as he approached. She recognized him at once, the fluid, almost catlike grace of his movements. He was casually dressed in shirt-sleeves and a black waistcoat, with boots and decidedly ancient breeches. Lord Sydney…looking disreputable and indecently handsome. She was surprised to see him there, when all the other guests at Westcliff Manor were still abed. Even more surprising was her own reaction to him, a surge of excitement and gladness.
    “Good morning,” Lord Sydney said, a faint smile playing on his lips. His dark hair was disheveled, and his cravat had been carelessly tied.
    “I wouldn’t have expected you to be out at this hour,” she said cheerfully.
    “I never sleep past sunrise.”
    Lottie nodded toward the path he had been contemplating. “Were you planning to go that way? I wouldn’t advise it.”
    “Why not?”
    “That path leads to marshy ponds and very deep bogs. One unfortunate step, and you could find yourself drowning in mud—that is, if you haven’t been done in by raft spiders or snakes.” She shook her head in feigned regret. “We’ve lost some very nice guests that way.”
    He smiled lazily. “I don’t suppose you would care to recommend an alternate route?”
    “If you go the other way, you’ll come to a bridlepath that leads to a sunken lane. Follow it to the gatehouse garden, go through the opening in the hedge, and you’ll find a path that takes you to the top of a hill. From there you can see lakes, villages, forests, all spread before you…the view is breathtaking.”
    “Is that where you’re headed?”
    She shook her head and replied impudently, “No, I am going in the opposite direction.”
    “But who will save me from the bogs?”
    She laughed. “You can’t accompany me, my lord. It would neither be seemly nor wise.”
    If they were seen together, it would cause gossip. And it would most certainly displease Lady Westcliff, who had warned her never to take a “follower,” as it was politely called.
    “Do you wish to be alone?” Lord Sydney asked. A new expression crossed his face, so quick and subtle that hardly anyone would have noticed it. “Forgive me. Once again I have trespassed on your solitude.”
    Lottie wondered at what she had seen in his eyes for that fragment of a second…a desolation so vast and impenetrable that it shocked her. What could have caused it? He had everything a person required to be content…freedom, wealth, looks, social position. There was no reason for him to be anything other than ecstatic over his lot in life. But he was unhappy, and everything in her nature compelled her to offer him comfort. “I am rather too accustomed to solitude,” she said softly. “Perhaps some company would be a pleasant change.”
    “If you’re certain—”
    “Yes, come along.” She gave his athletic form a deliberately challenging glance. “I only hope that you’ll be able to keep pace with me.”
    “I’ll try,” he assured her wryly, falling into step beside her as she continued her walk.
    They approached the trunk of a huge oak that had fallen across the path. Insects buzzed lazily through the rays of strengthening sunlight that streamed in from above. “Look,” Lottie said, gesturing to a dragonfly as it flew and dipped before them. “There are more than a dozen varieties of dragonfly in this forest, and at least a hundred different moths. If you come at dusk, you can see purple hairstreak butterflies—they gather right there at the tops of the tr—”
    “Miss Miller,” he interrupted, “I’m a Londoner. We