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warrant—"
    The captain cut her off, not giving her a chance to explain the part her father had played. "It is obvious that you are disturbed, mademoiselle. When you come to your senses, I am sure you will remember making the charges. Corporal, escort this man to his horse."
    "No!" she said desperately. "I won't let you take him!" She threw herself at the captain, clinging to his arms while his soldiers looked on in astonishment.
    The captain fell back several steps, swearing. When at last he gathered his scattered wits, he seized Suzanne by the arms and flung her to the ground.
    She lay there a moment, sobbing, then raised a tear-streaked face to the comte . "I had nothing to do with it," she whispered hoarsely. "Please, you must believe me."
    Philippe Serrault only stared down at her, his dark eyes void of expression. "It is of little consequence now, mademoiselle," he said tonelessly. Then his gaze swung to the captain. "Shall we go, monsieur?"
    Suzanne wanted to beg, to plead, but she realized her entreaties would be useless. She watched helplessly as the comte was escorted to a waiting horse.
    He went without protest. When he was mounted, however ,a child's anguished cry made the comte glance over his shoulder. At the top of the steps, a very young boy was struggling wildly in the arms of a servant.
    "Dominic," the comte murmured, giving a last, lingering look at his son. But he spared not a glance for the young woman who lay huddled and grieving on the ground as he was borne away by the soldiers.

Chapter One

    England, 1818

    Brie Carringdon clenched her teeth as she struggled with the stopper to the medicine bottle. When it wouldn't budge, she pushed a russet curl back from her forehead in exasperation. How, when she was capable of running the finest training stable in the country, had she managed to get herself in such a situation? It was nearly midnight, she was stranded three miles from home at a gentleman's hunting box, a snowstorm was raging outside, and the two elderly patients she had volunteered to care for were being more provoking than even invalids had a right to be.
    Brie tackled the bottle again, trying to see the humor in her situation. She most definitely did not belong in a sickroom. She had neither the necessary patience nor the skill. But she would not be defeated by a medicine bottle!
    Wrapping a fold of her brown kerseymere gown around the stopper for leverage, Brie tugged and twisted and at last succeeded. When the bottle was open, she wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant fumes. The medicine could have been poison for all she knew, but it had been prescribed by the doctor with orders to be administered regularly.
    Carefully, Brie measured out a spoonful of the foul-smelling potion, then sat beside the plump, gray-haired woman on the bed. "Please, Mattie," she urged, managing somehow to keep frustration out of her tone. "You must swallow a little of this."
    Mattie Dawson coughed fitfully as she huddled beneath a mound of blankets. "My chest hurts," she complained in a rasping voice.
    "I know, my dear, but this medicine is supposed to make you better."
    " ' 'Twill kill her, like as not," Mattie's husband muttered as he watched. Brie had arranged a cot for Homer beside the bed so that Mattie could rest more comfortably. He was lying on the cot with the covers pulled up to his chin, grumbling as he had been all evening. "Blamed doctors don't know anything. All charlatans, every last one of ' em ."
    Brie's blue-green eyes narrowed as she glanced down at Homer. He was the very opposite of his wife—tall, gaunt, and as cantankerous as a rusty hinge. He had always treated Brie with far more familiarity than was proper for a servant toward the daughter of a baronet, but since he had known her for the entire twenty-three years of her life, she was inclined to make allowances, especially now when he was suffering from such a severe head cold.
    He looked a little absurd at the moment, Brie thought, with his