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drove her daughter mad."

This was the discussion she'd wanted, but not now when they had so little time. She was pressingly aware that clocks had chimed the half hour as she came downstairs. Deliberate. She knew it was deliberate, so they could speak of this, but only briefly.

Damn him.

She was at war with an expert, ruthless strategist, and must not forget that.

"You were a young child when she died," she said, meeting his eyes. "Perhaps your grandmother is right and your father was not kind to her."

"My father was very like Brand. Can you imagine Brand distressing any woman into madness? And besides, what unkindness, what cruelty even, could drive a sane woman to strangle her own newborn child?"

Diana gasped. "Strangle."

"Would some other manner of murder be more to your liking?"

It was the Dark Marquess speaking, the one she had feared when they first met. She recognized, however, that this again was defense, frighteningly similar to his mother's angled head and fierce smile.

"That was a silly reaction," she agreed calmly. "And no, nothing external can explain her actions. But madness can come from many causes, some of which die with the sufferer." She looked back at the picture. "Was it done before or after the wedding?"

"Just before."

"Then her mother doubtless sought an explanation to her liking, for the seeds were already there."

"In the blood."

She winced, realizing her words had reinforced his thinking instead of fighting it. How to fight the evidence of this picture, however? His mother had not been entirely normal.

"It was in her at a young age," she argued. "There were warnings. It didn't appear like a shooting star." She looked at him again, looked him in the eye. "Have you ever detected a trace of it in yourself?"

"Perhaps not," he said calmly, "but her blood runs in me, and through me. A child of mine could look like that."

She felt frozen. How to fight that?

The clock chimed the quarter, and his eyes traveled over her. "Ah, I see the pallor is not a result of my sordid family affairs. You will do very well. You look suitably overturned by your experiences. We must leave."

With one last, frustrated glance at the portrait, she flicked open her fan and sank into a deep court curtsy. "As you will, my lord."

He held out his hand to raise her, but she rose smoothly by herself.

Instead of applause, he said, "Don't do that at court. Let me assist you."

"Devil take it." Then she grimaced. "I know. Don't do that, either."

"Precisely." He took her hand and kissed it, eyes dark on hers. "For both our sakes, Diana, make no mistakes."

He was telling her what she already knew - that a marriage of rescue would be worse than no marriage at all.

She cast one last look at the dreadful portrait, then allowed him to lead her out to the waiting coach. A light town vehicle, painted and gilded, with liveried footmen up behind.

A small crowd had gathered and some pressed forward.

Immediately she tensed, remembering that de Couriac was loose, and longing for her pistols.

She steadied herself. One did not show fear, or even concern, in public. These were the petitioners one would expect at a great man's door in London. Such people would know when he would emerge to attend a levee or Drawing Room.

All the same, it would be too easy for an assassin to lurk among them, and she searched the crowd for de Couriac. She didn't see him, but he could appear later, tomorrow, the next day, and she would not always be here to guard.

Oh yes, Bey had his armed servants around him, but she wanted to be there too, an extra pair of eyes, and an extra pair of pistols.

Damn the king. Damn the court.

He was accepting petitions, showing no sign of caution, so she threw him a warning. "I do hope these people are all well-intentioned, my lord. I am going to be extremely annoyed if I end up in the dirt in this outfit."

A smile tugged at his lips, but he said, "None of us can live under glass, my lady, like wax flowers."

He passed a handful of petitions to a servant behind, and moved on to a woman who fell to her knees before him, begging for help. Diana wanted to listen to her story now, and help her now. There was no time, however, and Bey only raised her to her feet, took her paper and passed it on, promising to read it as soon