"No. At least I hope it doesn't end there. Men are at work here, not children." West's voice dropped fractionally. "Not yet."

  South nodded once. "What do you require of me?"

  West returned to the settee. He sat in one corner, slightly slouched, his long legs stretched out before him. "I would like to ask Miss Parr about the paintings. Will you permit it?"

  "If she does, but it may not be necessary. I know something about them."

  "She told you?"

  "Yes." South saw that if West was surprised, he was careful not to show it." She had some concerns the paintings would be shown publicly."

  Now one of West's brows lifted. "She would be ruined."

  "Yes."

  "Forgive me if I overstep, but are you..." West paused, searching for an inoffensive word that might describe South's relationship to India Parr. "...involved with her?"

  "I intend that she will be my wife." Once again South gave his friend full marks for his neutral expression. "It remains uncertain if she will have me."

  A dimple appeared at the corner of West's mouth as his lips quirked. "Then she is a woman possessed of her own strong opinions."

  "She says they're convictions."

  West's dimple deepened momentarily, then he sobered. "Have you shared your intentions with anyone else?"

  "No one aside from Miss Parr. You are the first. I would ask you not to say anything to East or Northam. The colonel, also."

  West did not inquire as to South's reasons. He merely said, "They would not believe me. I am unsure if I believe it myself." When South offered no reply, West went on. "Did Miss Parr tell you who the artist was? The paintings were unsigned, but I believe they were done by the same person."

  "They were. His name is Margrave."

  "I do not know him."

  "He is the Earl of Margrave now. It is another connection to the Bishops, West. You will want to know that. He was at Hambrick Hall for some of the same time we were, and he was a member of the Society. He was Viscount Newland then."

  West's brows creased as he tried to call up a countenance to accompany the name. "Younger? Older?"

  "Five years younger."

  "One of the altar boys, then." West's face cleared and green eyes glinted with satisfaction. "Allen Parrish," he said. "The one they called Lingam. Do you not recall? The Bishops would have had everyone believe he wore an ebony phallus on a chain around his neck and that it lent him mystical powers."

  Since a lingam was a stylized phallic symbol of Indian origin, the name was entirely appropriate. South had a fleeting picture of a rather frail-looking boy with pointed features and dark eyes. "Parrish," he said, more to himself than to West. "Yes, it fits."

  "What's that again?"

  South came out of his reverie. "Parrish. Parr. I had not made that connection before. India did not stray far from her origins."

  West's confusion did not lessen. "I'm not sure I understand. What are you saying about their names?"

  South made an airy, dismissive gesture. "Merely exercising my gray matter," he said. "It really has no bearing on the paintings."

  It occurred to West that he might challenge South's last assertion, but he could not believe anything would be accomplished by it. "What else can you tell me about the paintings?"

  "India tells me there is almost nothing real about them."

  "She did not pose for Margrave?"

  "She posed. Not always willingly." South ran his fingers through his hair and considered his words carefully. Providing little in the way of elaboration, he retold the aspects of India's story that pertained to West's inquiry. For his part, West confined his questions to those things he absolutely needed to know to continue his own assignment.

  At some point during South's dispassionate, factual recitation, West had leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. He stopped regarding his friend's coldly cast features and stared at the floor instead, forcing himself to listen with his head and not his heart. When South finished, West went to the drinks cabinet and poured a whiskey. "You?"

  South nodded.

  West poured a second glass and then carried it and the decanter to South. "Does Miss Parr know how many paintings Margrave has done?" he asked when he had returned to his seat.

  "She never mentioned a particular number, only that the collection was not large." He pointed to the paintings. "However, it is most assuredly more than two. There were no others where you found those?"

  "No. None with Miss Parr. I would have taken them as well."

  "What do you intend to do with them?"

  West had been anticipating the question but was not looking forward to the answer he must give. "I have to keep them, South. It is not possible to do anything else until my assignment is finished."

  "I understand." He did. India, he knew, would not. "And then?" he asked. "What will you do with them?"

  "Destroy them, if that's your wish."

  It wasn't. "Return them to India."

  "Of course."

  "She should decide what happens to them."

  West nodded. "You will assure Miss Parr that I will keep them safe? No one will see them."

  South knew he could take West at his word. "I will tell her."

  Leaning back, West took a swallow of whiskey. "I've seen the marble room, South. The pillars. The altar. They exist."

  A muscle jumped in South's lean cheek.

  "There is perhaps more reality than Miss Parr has allowed."

  "No," South said. "I don't believe—"

  A noise at the top of the stairs interrupted him. He turned. West's eyes lifted in the same direction. Neither of them spoke. Their first glimpse of India was when her slippered foot touched the edge of uppermost step. A slim ankle encased in white silk stockings appeared next, then the scalloped edge of her mint green day dress. She rested one hand on the banister to steady herself and completed her descent with the splendidly regal air of someone to the manner born. South and West both came to their feet, and India acknowledged each of them in turn with a coolly tempered smile.

  South extended a hand toward her, his fingers slightly curled to beckon her closer. "Miss Parr," he said by way of greeting her. "Come. I would have you meet my good friend."

  India crossed the room to South's side; her chin lifted a mere fraction, her dark eyes reflective and remote. She did not take his hand, but neither did she step away when he placed it casually at the small of her back.

  South wondered how much of his conversation with West India had missed while she was changing clothes. He understood her desire to present herself without the vulnerability of bare feet, nightdress, and robe. At what point had she left her place at the top of the stairs to return to her room? When she realized West was in possession of Margrave's paintings? Or during his recitation of her treatment at Margrave's hands?

  She looked lovely, he thought. It was hard to reconcile this vision of her beside him, perfectly composed in her rather sweet and virginal calico dress, with the woman in the paintings, whose naked passion had been detailed as something hovering between pleasure and pain.

  "His Grace, the Duke of Westphal," South said, ignoring West's flash of annoyance at this reference to his title. "Your Grace, may I present Miss Parr, an actress of extraordinary talent?"

  West recovered himself enough to put aside his drink and take India's hand. He raised it to his lips. "Miss Parr." His gallantry was meant to jab a little at South, but there was nothing unpleasant about India's soft and fragrant skin against his mouth.

  "Your Grace." India made a demure inclination of her head.

  With some reluctance, West released India's hand. "It will be intolerable if you insist upon that formality. I am West."

  India gave him the butter-wouldn't-melt smile that South knew so well, and said, "As you wish, Your Grace."

  South chuckled, appreciating West's frustration. "It's no good, West. She will have her way."

  West sighed. To no one in particular, he said, "The old duke should rot for this trick he's played me. Damn me if this inheritance doesn't sit on my shoulders like a lodestone, attracting trouble like iron filings."

  A measure of India's composure slipped. Her wide, owlish blink in West's direction deepened South's smile.

  "You will have to be patient," South told India. "He has no appreciation for his acquired station. It will take considerable work on your part to put him in his place and keep him there."

  India's mouth flattened at South's thinly veiled barb. She was aware that West's interest had been engaged and that his intelligent green eyes were shifting from South to her and back to South again. In other circumstances she would have sparred with South, but with West looking on, she refrained.

  West chuckled softly. "Thought for a moment she might land you a facer, South. I should have liked to see that again." He pointed to the settee. "Won't you sit, Miss Parr? May I get you a drink? Sherry, perhaps?"

  India sat, but she declined the offer of a drink. It was not yet three o'clock in the morning, and while she did not begrudge them their whiskey, she could not imagine joining them. As soon as South and West returned to their seats, India came to the matter that had brought her downstairs.

  "I was listening, you know," she said without apology. "You have some paintings, I believe."

  "Yes," West said. "Two." He pointed to them.

  "May I?" She saw immediately that neither man was comfortable with her request. "Now you are being ridiculous," she said, including both of them in her admonishment. "You have looked at them, have you not?" She started to rise, but South stayed her and retrieved the paintings himself.

  "You do not have to do this," he said, holding them out to her.

  "I do. His Grace has questions, I believe." India chose one of the paintings, slipped off the twine, and unrolled it. She looked at it only long enough to assure herself it was one of Margrave's before doing the same with the second. What had been unimaginable minutes ago seemed perfectly reasonable now. Returning them both to South, she said, "I will have that drink, if you please."

  "Of course." He headed for the drinks cabinet.

  "Brandy," she said. "Not sherry."

  South set down the sherry decanter and chose the brandy. His smile was still a trifle grimly set when he gave India her drink. "You have seen those paintings before?"

  She nodded. "Not for some time. The one with the chaise was done in Paris. That would make it at least three years old. The temple painting was completed in the last eighteen months." India turned to West and spoke frankly. "I overheard you say that you have seen that place. I can only tell you that I have not. Nor the room with the chaise and the velvet drapes. I had always supposed those backgrounds to be a fantasy of Margrave's, not so different from a stage."

  West frowned slightly and rubbed his unshaven chin with his knuckles. "You may be more correct that you realize, Miss Parr, though this theatre is decidedly different than the one you know." He shook his head slightly, regretting that he could not say more even as he regretted having said so much. "Forgive me, Miss Parr, but I must know if you are acquainted with the men in the paintings."

  Out of the corner of her eye, India saw South's fingers tighten on his glass. She thought he might protest the question, but he held himself in check. "No, Your Grace. I am not. You will understand when I tell you that I have thought of them as no more than props. Margrave has never said that they exist in flesh-and-blood form."

  "How many paintings are there?"

  "I can estimate only. They could number forty." India heard South's sharp intake of breath but remained attentive to Westphal. "Will you allow me to destroy the paintings, Your Grace? I wish to bum them."

  "I cannot."

  The answer was not unexpected. The pressure India felt against her chest was enormous. She looked to South now, applying to him for help.

  It pained South that he could not do this thing for her. "West assures me he will keep them safe, India. No one will see them, and when his assignment is concluded he will return them to you."

  "I thought they were safe," she said on a thread of sound. "And now His Grace has two. It is as I feared: Margrave is making them public."

  West shook his head. "No, Miss Parr. I found these in a very private collection. I took them because you were the subject of both, and I recognized you from the theatre, but there are others. Many others. And they do not feature you."

  India covered her mouth with her hand, and for a moment she thought she would be sick. South encouraged her to drink, and she raised her glass with fingers that trembled slightly. "Are they also Margrave's work?" she asked.

  "I cannot say," West said. "I think not. There are many dissimilarities in the styles."

  India wished she had not crept into the hallway after South had gone below stairs. She wished she had returned to his bed or her own instead of dressing as if for afternoon tea. She wished...

  Her head came up sharply and her nostrils flared. "Do you smell..." She stood. Nerveless fingers could no longer hold the glass, and it fell to the floor, splashing brandy on her gown and at the edge of the braided rug.

  South leaped to his feet beside her and he spun toward the stairs, alert now to the same danger as India. He closed the distance to the steps in a few strides, West on his heels.

  "Get your pelisse, India," South told her as he started up the stairs. "And wait for us outside."

  She wanted to argue, to insist that she could offer a pair of helping hands, but South was taking the stairs two at a time and West was rounding the newell post to follow in the same direction. They had no time to reason with her or she with them, so she let them go and went to retrieve her pelisse.

  Stepping out into the crisp night air, India considered it a fitting irony that Margrave's paintings might be destroyed by fire after all.

  Chapter 14

  It was a trap.

  South realized it only after he and West were firmly caught. Flames crawled up the drapes and across the bed's counterpane, licked at the ceiling and scorched the bedposts. West used his jacket to beat at the fire. South found a blanket that had not yet been touched and did the same. For a while it seemed as if their efforts only fanned the conflagration. Fingers of fire leaped to the mantel, and smoke rolled out from under the armoire. The occasional unpredictable gust of wind found its way through the open bedroom window and made the flames dance and spin toward South, retreat, then do the same in West's direction.

  At one point, both men were pushed back by the heat and smoke to the door. They came at the fire again, this time with fresh blankets from the adjoining bedroom and buckets of snow that West hauled from outside. On this round, it was the fire that retreated.

  Standing in the doorway, West surveyed the damage. Most of what the fire had done was superficial, scorching but not incinerating what was in its path. The curtains and bedcovers were a minor loss. The mattress still smoldered.

  Wisps of smoke curled along the length of the mantel and between cracks in the floorboards. "Are you all right?" West asked, glancing sideways at his friend.

  South nodded. "You?"

  West idly ground out the glowing embers on the blanket at his feet. "Fine," he said. "What do you make of it?"

  It was then that South knew precisely what to make of it. West's simple question forced him to examine all the separate elements and find the whole. The window had been closed when he left the bedchamber, and India would have had no reason to open it. South crossed the charred floor to the mantel and ran his hand along the edge. His fingers came away blackened, but there were hints of an oily residue. The gusting wind was not the only reason the fire had leaped with such abandon. If he took the time to investigate, he was certain he would find traces of lamp oil all along the path the flames took.

  "India," he said softly, more to himself than to West. "He's come for India."

  "What?"

  But South understood he had no time to make explanations. He sprinted from the room and managed the steps in a few jumps. Not breaking stride, he went for the cottage's back door and flung it open. Heedless that he was barefoot and without a coat, South ran outside. "India!" He knew he was calling in vain, that even if she were close enough to answer she would be restrained from doing so. South cupped his hands around his mouth and tried again. His voice rose hoarsely into the cold night air. "India!"

  West came up beside him and took his arm. South shook him off. Far from being discouraged, West stepped directly in front of his friend and eyed him levelly. "Tell me, South. What is it you think you know?"

  South reluctantly lowered his hands. "It's Margrave. He's taken India. I'm sure of it. The fire was deliberately set to get her out of the cottage. If we had followed..." He left the rest unsaid. His gaze went past West's shoulder and to the wood beyond. "I have to find her."

  West had heard enough. "Not dressed like that," he said. South might be oblivious to the cold at the moment, but it couldn't last long. He pointed back to the cottage. "Inside." His terse command did what the bitter cold had been unable to. West watched South gather the threads of his senses and acknowledge how hopelessly unprepared he was to track India's trail. He waited for South to turn and head for the door before he followed in his friend's footsteps.

  West needed only to get his coat. He left South to find suitably warmer clothes and boots for himself and went to ready their mounts. He didn't know why he was surprised to find the animals gone, but he was. "Bloody, bloody hell," he swore under his breath. For good measure he kicked the stall door.

  He was halfway back to the cottage when he saw South step out, carrying a lantern. West immediately shook his head and called to him, "It's no good. He's made off with our horses. Even the grays are gone."

  South felt as if he'd taken a blow to his midsection. He actually rocked back on his heels under the imaginary force of it. His recovery, though, was swift. "Griffin will return to me."

  West nodded. "As will mine. Margrave cannot possibly manage Miss Parr and the horses for long. Miss Parr alone will make the journey difficult for him."

  South was not so certain about India. "Margrave has drugged her before, West. Even if he has not done as much already, the threat of the same may be enough to encourage her cooperation." Raising the lantern, South surveyed the ground for some hint of the direction Margrave had taken. He began walking to where the horses had been stabled, West at this side. "India told me only tonight that she thinks my safety would be served if she returned to London and Margrave. I do not think we can assume she is making it hard for him to get her away."