Heart of Fire. Kat Martin

me.”

      The gray-haired butler, thin to the point of gaunt, led her and Allison into a drawing room that was furnished in quite a tasteful manner. It was done in a neoclassical style, with ornate white molded ceilings, a marble fireplace and graceful sofas and chairs upholstered in amber tones brightened with rich ruby accents.

      Allison sat down in one of the chairs, her gloved hands clasped nervously in front of her. Corrie silently prayed the girl wouldn’t completely dissolve into a fit of nerves before the first act of the drama had played out.

      Seating herself on the brocade sofa, Corrie kept her smile carefully in place and waited, then rose at the swish of heavy skirts and the sound of feminine footfalls approaching down the hall. Allison rose, as well. Corrie could see she was fighting not to tremble.

      A woman with golden-blond hair, parted and pulled into a cluster of glossy curls on each shoulder, swept into the drawing room. She had very blue eyes and a strikingly beautiful face. She surveyed the two women and, noticing Corrie’s gown was simple and slightly frayed, but of better quality than Allison’s, sharpened her gaze accordingly.

      “Mrs. Moss, I presume?”

      “Yes. Mrs. Cyrus Moss. My husband is Lord Tremaine’s cousin.”

      “And this is your maid?”

      “Yes… Miss Holbrook.” Allison dropped into a curtsy, which the woman ignored. “I am here to speak to the earl on a matter of some importance.”

      “Lord Tremaine is not returned from his morning ride. As my husband is presently occupied, perhaps I could be of some assistance. I’m Rebecca Forsythe. If your husband is the earl’s cousin, then he must be Charles’s cousin, as well.”

      “Why, yes. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Forsythe.” Corrie flicked a glance at Allison. “Perhaps my maid might wait in the kitchen so that we may speak in private.”

      “Of course.” Rebecca called for the butler. “If you would, Mr. Flitcroft, show Miss Holbrook down to the kitchen for some refreshment. And bring tea and cakes for us.”

      Corrie kept her smile in place. She had been hoping to speak to the earl. Ultimately, it would be Lord Tremaine who would decide whether or not she would be allowed to stay. But she could hardly ignore this woman, who was her supposed cousin Charles’s wife. Corrie would have to tell her story and hope to gain the woman’s sympathy.

      Allison cast her a worried look and followed the butler out of the drawing room. Corrie returned to her place on the sofa and Rebecca joined her there.

      The blond woman smiled. She was incredibly beautiful, no more than five or six years older than Corrie, with a full bosom and very small waist. She was wearing a gown of aqua dimity with a full skirt heavily embroidered with roses.

      “I’m afraid I’ve never met Cousin Cyrus,” Rebecca said. “But I believe Charles had a distant acquaintance with his father. Where did you say you lived?”

      “Cyrus and I make our home in York…though unfortunately, he has been away for more than two years. That is the reason I am here.”

      “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

      Corrie thought of Laurel, which helped her work up a tear. She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed it beneath her eyes. “This is all so dreadfully embarrassing.”

      “Just take your time,” Rebecca said encouragingly.

      “I met Cyrus through friends of my parents, and in the beginning of our marriage, we were happy. Being older by nearly twenty years, he doted on me. Perhaps he loved me too much and that was the problem. You see, Cyrus had very little money, only what he inherited from his father, and that seemed to dwindle quite rapidly once we were wed. But Cyrus was determined to give me the things he believed I deserved.”

      Rebecca’s blue gaze drifted over Corrie’s worn garments. “And where is Cyrus now?”

      “Well, you see, that is the crux of the matter. Cyrus wished to give me the best of everything—which is the reason, I suppose, that he left England and headed for America to make his fortune. Cyrus had plans, very big plans, and he had friends there he believed would help him.”

      “I do seem to recall Charles mentioning a distant cousin who left England for America in search of adventure.”

      Corrie nodded vigorously. “That was Cyrus. According to his letters, he arrived there safely. Then his letters stopped coming. I haven’t heard from my husband in nearly two years.”

      “I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Moss.”

      “Even worse than losing Cyrus, my funds have run out. Frankly, Mrs. Forsythe, I am quite destitute. I am here to humble myself and beg the earl to offer me shelter. If he refuses, I don’t know what I am going to do.” She dabbed the handkerchief again, ready to break into sobs if she thought it would help.

      Rebecca began to frown. It was not a good sign. “You are not asking to take up residence here, are you?”

      “Well, I—”

      Just then voices drifted in from the stone-floored entry. One Corrie recognized as belonging to the butler, but the other was deeper, more resonant.

      “I believe the earl has returned,” Rebecca said, rising gracefully from her place on the sofa. A faint knock sounded as she floated across the drawing room, and an instant later, the butler slid open the door.

      “His lordship is returned,” the gray-haired man said. “I have informed him of his visitor.”

      Corrie still sat on the sofa.

      It was a very good thing.

      The man who walked through the door was not at all what she had expected. This man, with his black hair tied back in a queue, was dressed not in a tailcoat and trousers, but mud-spattered black riding breeches, black knee-high boots and a full-sleeved white shirt. With his fathomless dark eyes, he looked more like an eighteenth-century highwayman than a wealthy English lord.

      “Gray! I was hoping you would return. We have a guest, just arrived—your cousin Cyrus’s wife, Letty Moss.”

      Those piercing eyes swung in her direction and seemed to hold her prisoner there on the sofa. “I didn’t know I had a cousin Cyrus.”

      “I’m sure Charles has mentioned him. He is the son of your deceased third cousin, Spencer Moss. Spencer lived near York, as did Cyrus, if I recall. Mrs. Moss has come quite a distance to see you.”

      Tremaine didn’t apologize for his rather disheveled appearance, simply turned and made a faint bow in her direction. “Mrs. Moss. Welcome to Castle Tremaine. Now, if you will excuse me, there are several pressing affairs I need to—”

      “I should like a word with you, my lord.” She rose from the sofa. “It is a matter of some importance and I have traveled quite far.”

      One of his black eyebrows arched up. It was clear he wasn’t used to a woman speaking out as she had just done. For a moment he simply stared, as if taking her measure in some way.

      The edge of his mouth faintly curved. “I suppose…since you have traveled, as you say, quite some distance, I can spare a moment.” There was something in that hard-edged smile that made her stomach lift alarmingly.

      Tremaine turned to his sister-in-law. “If you will excuse us, Becky…”

      Rebecca’s smile slipped. “Of course.” She retreated toward the sliding doors, but didn’t look happy about it. Corrie got the distinct impression the earl’s sister-in-law wasn’t pleased to think his impoverished distant cousin might move into the house, no matter how large it was.

      The earl waited until the butler closed the drawing room doors. “You wished to speak to me. What can I do for you, Mrs. Moss?”

      He didn’t invite her to sit. It was clear he didn’t expect the interview to take that long. Corrie