It was all fantasy, I told myself. Of course he could not marry me—the difference in our stations was too great. But it was a pleasant fantasy, and for a glorious, aching moment, my heart was full.

I curled my hand against his chest and he covered it with his own, smoothing the hair back from my forehead.

'Sleep,' he told me. 'There are a few more hours of daylight yet, that we may call our own.'

I was not tired at first, and for some minutes I simply lay there, listening to the tenor of his even breathing, feeling the strong heartbeat beneath my cheek, wanting to commit the whole sensation to memory lest I lose it altogether. But finally sleep came to claim me as well, settling over me with the comforting warmth of a blanket.

When I woke, the room was deep in shadow and the moon was full above the lawn. I was lying alone on the bed, on top of the dark-crimson coverlet, my hand outstretched toward an absent lover.

Alone on the bed, but not alone in the room. Someone was standing in the corner, a tall gray shadow with faintly gleaming eyes. As I lifted my head from the mattress the shadow stepped forward, and a sliver of moonlight touched the hard, elegant contours of the man's face. I couldn't see Geoffrey de Mornay's expression as he stood there with his back to the window, staring down at me, but I felt his tension.

'I think we need to talk,' he said.

Twenty-seven

In the end, it was left to me to do most of the talking. Geoff sat facing me in the richly decorated parlor where we'd first spoken on the day we met. His face looked tired in the lamplight, showing clearly the strain of his long drive from London, but his eyes were unwavering and attentive. He interrupted my rambling narrative now and then to ask a question, or clarify a point, but he didn't move from his chair except to refill our wineglasses from the bottle on the table between us. By the time I had finished telling my story the morning sun had risen, a lark trilled brightly in a tree outside the window, and the bottle of wine was empty.

Geoff didn't pass judgment immediately. He made a steeple with his fingers and looked down at his shoes, frowning.

'You think I'm mad,' I guessed.

'Of course I don't.'

'It's all right,' I said, rubbing my forehead with a weary hand. 'Sometimes I think I'm mad, myself.'

'It's not that I doubt what's been happening to you. Well'—he smiled—'maybe I doubt it just a little bit, but I don't doubt that you believe, honestly believe, the truth of what you've seen. I'm just not sure how to take this.' He leaned back in his chair and frowned again. 'Richard,' he mused aloud. 'If only we had some record of a Richard de Mornay ...'

'There's nothing in your father's files?'

'I'm sure there isn't. I can check again, if you like, but I'm certain I would have remembered....' He rose and fetched a sheaf of papers from a nearby writing desk. When he spread them on the table at our knees, I recognized them as the same papers he'd shown me that night at Vivien's. He flipped through them silently for a few minutes, then closed the file and repeated his verdict: 'Nothing. You're sure it was Richard?'

I nodded emphatically. 'Positive. William de Mornay was his father.'

'Well, that doesn't help much. My father didn't find anything on William's children, only some portraits that look to be the right age. There might be papers somewhere, but I'm afraid I don't have them.'

'Can't you check their father's will, or something?'

'He didn't leave one.' Geoff's mouth quirked. 'Most inconsiderate, from a genealogical point of view. I only know that after William's death the next recorded owner of Crofton Hall is his grandson, Arthur.'

'Arthur ..." I clutched at the name. 'Richard showed me Arthur's portrait, in the gallery. Unpleasant-looking child. He lived in Holland, I think, with his mother. Oh, what was his father's name?' I asked, pressing my fingers to my eyes. 'Richard mentioned it once ... it started with an R as well.... Robert? Robert,' I said, more firmly. 'Robert was Richard's younger brother.'

Geoff checked his notes again. 'Sorry. You may be right, you're probably right, but there's no way I can confirm it without some sort of record.'

'There must be something,' I said. 'What about the portrait in the library? Would there be any clues there?'

He shrugged. 'It's worth a try.'

I chattered nervously while we crossed the Great Hall, trying to make conversation. 'How did you know I was upstairs?'

'I found your raincoat in the kitchen. Knew you had to be around somewhere. Freda must have let you in, did she?'

'Yes.' I nodded. I hadn't mentioned Mrs. Hutherson earlier. For some reason, I wasn't ready to share the confidences that had passed between us. Instead I said simply: 'She and I had tea together, and then I went off to look around upstairs. She must have thought I'd gone home, if she locked up when she left.'

He made a vaguely noncommittal sound and nudged open the library door. 'After you,' he invited, following me across the wide carpet to stand beneath the towering portrait. 'What sort of clues were you hoping to find?' he asked me, looking up.

'I don't know. Anything that might help me prove to you that this is Richard.'

'Are these the same clothes he's wearing when you ... see him?'

'No.' I peered more closely. 'They're black, of course, but the style is different. Older, I suppose. After all, the portrait was painted nearly five years before I met him."