SUMMER FROWNED. "THEY COULD HAVE HIRED someone—"

   "There's also the possibility of John Strolm," interrupted Lady Banfour. "He has an overdeveloped hatred of Byron. We can't rule him out either."

   Summer couldn't believe she was sitting here with Lady Banfour discussing possible suspects. Then she realized that they both had something else in common after all. They both cared for the duke. "But Byron told me the police had ruled him out as a suspect."

   "The police wouldn't think of questioning his family either. Not without direct evidence. It would be insulting… and you don't insult the aristocracy without good reason."

   Summer nodded at her wisdom. She'd learned that the aristocracy held more power in England than the richest man in America. Class seemed to be inbred in the English people.

   They had finally reached her home, and again she flew out the carriage door, the coachman not bothering to try to beat her to it this time, and ran up the stairs to her room, Lady Banfour on her heels.

   "Really, Summer. What are you doing?"

   She'd already stripped off her gown and fumbled with the ties of her corset. "Just help me, will you?"

   Summer dug to the bottom of her traveling trunk and, with a sense of coming home, pulled out Chatto's knife and strapped the sheath around her calf. Lady Banfour gave a gasp of outrage when Summer stripped naked and dragged out her buckskins. She ignored the lady and pulled the pins from her hair and started to braid it.

   Lady Banfour wrung her hands. "Even though I think you believe he's in danger—and that you're probably wrong—have you considered the presenta tion tomorrow? Even if you find him, the likelihood of you being able to attend… Well, I can guarantee that I would never be able to arrange another one for you."

   Summer gathered up her bow and arrows and looked in the mirror. She scooped some ashes from the fireplace and rubbed them over her face.

   Lady Banfour shivered. "A real lady could never do something like this. You look exactly like a savage."

   "No, she couldn't," muttered Summer. "I'll go back to being a lady again tomorrow. I think Byron's life is a little more important right now, don't you?"

   Lady Banfour's mouth opened slightly, then exhaled a resigned sigh.

   Summer ran down the stairs and gently shook Lionel awake from where he slept on the settee. The boy blinked and smiled at the familiar costume.

   "I need you to take me to your place," said Summer. "And to describe the duke's carriage to me and show me where it waited for you. Every detail you can remember, understand?"

   Summer towed Lionel behind her out the front door and leaped onto the horse that the coachman had just finished unharnessing from the carriage. As soon as Jeffries put a bit in the horse's mouth, she gave Lionel an arm up and kicked her heels into the animal's flanks.

   It seemed like years since she'd left the ball, although it had only been hours, but she felt the pressure of time running out as they galloped through the streets of London. Luckily, they missed any policemen who might be making their nightly rounds and reached Byron's rented home, on the very outskirts of the fashionable district, without incident.

   Lionel's face shone with excitement when she helped him off the horse. "Can I come with you?"

   Summer shook her head and pointed at the muddy tracks in the ground. Luckily, no cobblestones, but bare earth, making the impressions of horses' hooves and carriage wheels all the easier to distinguish. "Tell me what kind of carriage, how big were the wheels, where did it stand, exactly?"

   Lionel answered as best he could, remembering the way Summer had taught him to pay attention to details, never to look just straight ahead. "You might need my help."

   Summer frowned at the tracks, wishing she had Chatto's skill, hoping hers would be enough. "Are you sure this is the exact spot?"

"Yes."

   She hugged the boy. "Then we're in luck… One of the wheels had a crack in it, which makes a large enough print—see here? Enough for me to tell it from all these other tracks. We're just lucky there's a full moon tonight, but it's still going to be hard to follow with any speed."

   Summer gave the boy a gentle shove toward the door. She didn't have time to argue with him, and she understood that he wanted to help. But he'd only be in the way, and she couldn't say that to him. "You have to stay here, Lionel, in case your father returns. In case I'm wrong about this."

   Lionel nodded his head, but she could tell by the look on his face he didn't think she was wrong. That he felt the same horrible wrenching in his own gut. The same one that told Summer that the Duke of Monchester was in terrible danger, and she was the only one who could save him.

   Summer led the horse while she studied the tracks for that telltale mark. She lost it a few times, had to backtrack, cursed that she didn't have enough light, and in the next breath prayed for the sun not to come up, knowing that she'd wasted too much time and he might already be dead.

   The streets lay empty, and the few people she ran into took one look at her and hastily scrambled in the other direction. When she reached the outskirts of the city, it became much easier; far fewer tracks overlaid the one she'd chosen to follow.

   When only one road lay before her she leaped on her horse and galloped at a pace through the countryside that she hoped wouldn't kill her mount. Twice she had to dismount at a crossroads and check the trail; then she'd urge the horse on even faster.

   When she reached a rise in the road, she could clearly make out the outline of a small building and the orange and yellow flames of a fire that licked along its walls.

   Summer trusted her instincts and headed through the trees toward the fire. Halfway there she tethered her horse and silently crept through the underbrush, the thickness of it blocking her view of the flames. But the acrid smell of smoke made an even better guide.

   She balanced along a fallen log to avoid the crackle of leaves along the forest floor, stopped on the balls of her feet at the edge of a clearing, the light of the fire illuminating the two men who stood several feet away from the building. Over the crackle of burning wood, she could hear only snatches of their conversation.

   "… said to make sure the duke died this time…"

   "As if we didn't know what we was doin'…"

   "Told her… that carriage alive."

   They handed a bottle back and forth, taking swal lows between breaks in their conversation. Summer had pulled her bow and knocked an arrow after hearing their first words, then pulled back on the string to let fly. But she froze, unable to release it. She knew that Byron was in that building. That these were the men hired to kill him, and the only reason she'd found them was because she had trusted her instincts, the instincts that Chatto had honed to a fine edge.

   So, he couldn't be dead yet… or maybe he was, and they just stayed to make sure any evidence burned with his body. Summer shivered. The only way she'd find out was to get into that building, and they weren't going to just let her walk right in. Of that, she could be sure.

   She raised her bow and took aim. Then she remembered the man she'd killed, and the flat look in his eyes, and the way he'd haunted her life. She could hear Pa reading from the Bible, Thou shalt not kill. She felt that stain on her soul and knew she'd burn in hell.

   A portion of the burning roof caved in, and the two men laughed.

   Better her than Byron.

   A real lady would never be able to take another man's life. But she hadn't been raised like a flower, cared for and cosseted from the evils of life. She'd had to take care of herself, and because of that she'd never be a proper lady. And so she had the skill and ability to help Byron. She really had no decision to make.

   The arrow flew from her fingers and thudded into the wall in front of the men. Summer cursed and shot again, as low as she could, hoping not to kill them by shooting at their legs. Both of the men drew pistols and started to shoot blindly into the woods, one of the bullets kicking up bark from the log she stood on. She took a breath and aimed higher.

   They went down one at a time, like two dominoes falling on each other, and Summer sprinted across the clearing, kicked the fallen men, and felt a bitter relief when she saw that they still breathed. Another sprint and she stood in front of the burning building's door, pulled up the beam that locked it from the outside, and kicked it in.

   Heat hit her like a tangible wall, lashed across her cheeks, and made her gasp for air. The flames lit up the room, but the smoke obscured her view.

   "Byron!"

   Summer slung her bow over her shoulder and dropped to her stomach, crawling across the floor just the way Chatto had taught her when they scouted game. The smoke wasn't as thick; and she could see the leg bottoms of a couple of chairs, an old torn rug, scattered garbage across the floor, and what looked like a closed door across the room. Splinters dug into her palms, the sharp little pains almost distracting her from the heat that lashed at her face. She cried out when she reached the door and pushed. Darn splinters dug into her skin even deeper. Darn door must be locked, 'cause it wouldn't budge. She flipped around and spun onto her back, pushing at that barrier with her feet. It moved something behind it. Summer pushed harder, felt the blood rushing to her face from her exertion, even more heat flowing through the crack in the door.

   The door opened farther, and she could glimpse his blond hair. He must've managed to crawl to the door before passing out. Summer coughed and blinked stinging tears from her eyes. Tarnation, the man may not be tall, but he was pure muscle. How was she ever going to move him?

   "Byron!"

   Had she imagined it, or had his head really moved? Summer pushed at the door again, gently this time, and suddenly it gave way. He'd spun out of the way and lay there looking at her as if he didn't know who she might be, those vivid blue eyes blinking above the gag around his mouth.

   Summer pulled out her knife, and his eyes recog nized her, the skin crinkling at the corners as if he smiled beneath the gag. But of course she had to be wrong. What crazy man would smile at a time like this? She cut away the cloth from that handsome face. He coughed and rolled again, revealing the bindings around his wrists, his swollen hands near purple from where the circulation had been cut off too long. She sawed through those, the ones around his ankles as well, and when she could be sure he followed her, turned to crawl back out of the house.

   "Summer." His voice rasped. He'd half coughed her name. He'd crawled beside her, and she glanced at him, for just a second, just long enough to see… something in his eyes. Something that tugged at her insides and settled into her soul with a finality that she knew she'd never budge.

   Something crashed behind her, made a burst of heat flare that had her and Byron scrambling across the wooden floor, splinters only a minor nuisance. Summer could feel the blessedly cool air from the open door and staggered to her feet, ready to plunge out of this inferno.

   And stared into the barrel of a pistol. She'd forgotten about the men. Tarnation… but she still couldn't feel any regret for not killing them.

   "I knew you'd look for him."

   Summer blinked through the tears in her eyes, blinded by the smoke and the contrast of the dark night from the bright flames. That had been a woman's voice that had spoken. She tried to make out the identity of the woman who stood before her, but what little she could see kept centering on the pistol.

   "I never underestimate my enemies," the woman continued. "Although I never would have imagined such a ridiculous outfit."

   Summer inwardly groaned. It had to be a lady… with those cultured tones and a ridiculous concern about what she wore. If she didn't know better, she'd think it sounded just like Lady Banfour…

   The barrel of the pistol moved. "Get back in the shack."

   Summer felt the heat of the flames behind her like a wall of lava. She wasn't going back in there—this woman would have to shoot her first. Maybe if she kept her talking…

   His Grace had the same idea. "Lady Karlton, I suggest you consider your actions. Your mantle of nobility will not protect you from murder charges."

   "What nobility? I'm only a marchioness when I should have been a duchess, thanks to you. Even if I hang for this, the child I carry will become the next duke, and that will be enough for me."

   One of the wounded men groaned, and the lady glanced over at him for just a moment. "I knew these idiots would mess this up again," she started.

   Byron took advantage of her moment of distraction. With the same uncanny speed and agility Summer had seen when he'd fought before, his leg flew up, knocking the gun from Lady Karlton's hand. Byron spun and wrestled the woman to the ground, holding her still while she tried to bite and claw him. Summer sank to her knees, watching them tussle, trying to keep an eye on the two injured men in case they fully recovered. The fatigue of being up all night, the turmoil of her decisions tonight, and the smoke she'd inhaled all combined to make her head spin.

   Byron pocketed the pistol, tied up Lady Karlton with strips of her own petticoat, and did likewise with the men. He put his arm around Summer, supporting her as if she needed it. She felt surprised to realize that she did, that it felt good to have someone else to lean on, and that reaction in her soul shivered again.

   He had saved her life.

   They rode back to London in the chilly darkness, and their mount spooked at every little shadow. Byron rode behind Summer, and the heat of his body, and the feel of his arms around her waist, made her wish that their ride would last forever. She felt so unsure of her future and what she really wanted. Summer decided to fish. "Lady Banfour was quite concerned for you."

   "Was she?" His voice sounded tired and thick.

   "She went with me to your family's home, and to Scotland Yard." The horse's hooves clopped loudly in the silent night.

   "But she didn't come with you."

   "No, she couldn't. She's a real lady."

   His sigh stirred the hair against her ear. "That's still so important to you, isn't it?"

   Summer opened her mouth and shut it again. After tonight, well, she realized that she'd never be a real lady. But if she had one wish, yes, she'd still want it.

   His voice interrupted her thoughts. "It just occurred to me that you could have been killed tonight, and it would have been all my fault. Although I appreciate your assistance, it would be best if you let me handle my own problems from now on."

   Tears stung Summer's eyes. He made it very clear that he didn't want to have anything to do with her anymore. He was still angry because she'd left Cliffs Castle, and she'd thought that he'd understood. But she couldn't blame him.

   They rode the rest of the way into town in frigid silence.

Summer woke to late-afternoon sunshine streaming through her window and Lady Banfour scowling at her.

   "I tried to wake you four times," she said. "You have missed your presentation!"

   Summer groaned and clutched at her throat. Why did it burn so badly? The additional pain of the splinters that had gouged her hands made her remember the night before, and the fire, and how Byron had saved her life. He'd taken her home before fetching the police, telling her again that he'd take care of his own problems himself. She'd managed to do a quick wash, pull on a nightgown, and tumble into bed. But she couldn't sleep right away, remembering what he'd said. He could handle his own life, without her interference. It'd been a long time since Summer had cried herself to sleep, but last night she'd remembered how.

   "What… what time is it? Have you heard from Byron?"

   Lady Banfour's back went rigid, and she sighed with impatience. "I was right about that family, but I never would've guessed she'd go to such extreme measures." She tapped a finger against her pale cheek. "But Lady Karlton is an American too. So I shouldn't be surprised."

   Summer ignored the remark. "Is the duke all right? And Lionel?"

   "Of course they are. They came by earlier, and other than a few singe marks, Byron is fine. Lady Karlton has been quietly sent to an asylum for the insane to protect the family name from scandal. I thought it quite wise. You, however, have bigger things to worry about. Like your missed presentation. And this telegraph message."

   Summer bolted out of bed, snatching the paper from the other woman's hands. She read it twice, feeling her heart sink further with each passing second. "Pa's sick," she whispered. "Maybe even dying. How can that be? He only had a little cough… I have to return to New York."

   "But what about your presentation?"

   "I thought you said if I missed it, there wouldn't be a chance of another one."

   Lady Banfour fluttered her hands. "Well, under the circumstances, I might be able to arrange another."

   Summer started pulling out clothes and stuffing them into her trunks. "You really want Byron badly, don't you? Are you afraid that he won't marry you unless you fulfill your end of the bargain?"

   "Stop doing that—a lady has her maid pack her things. And yes, I really want to be a duchess, and don't tell me social position doesn't matter to you. You came all the way to England to get it."

   Summer froze, her hands fisting around the silk fabric of a rose-print shawl. Could she be right? But she had loved Monte, and that's why she'd wanted social standing, not the other way around. Well, it didn't matter anyway, because she had failed to become a lady, and after last night she knew she never would. Even if Lady Banfour managed to get her another presentation, it wouldn't change a thing. She could never be the lady Monte had wanted for a wife, and she realized that the thought didn't bother her very much.

   Because she was helplessly in love with Byron. But she could never be a proper wife to him either. Even though he said he loved her just the way she was, she knew that eventually he'd become ashamed of her, that even their children would have a difficult time becoming accepted among the aristocracy with her for a mother.

   A tap at the door and the maid entered, bearing a tray of buttered scones, hot tea, and pudding. Summer's belly growled, and she realized she felt famished. So when Lady Banfour told the maid to take everything out of the trunks and pack it back in properly, Summer shrugged and attacked her breakfast.

   She'd have to write Maria and tell her what happened of course, but she couldn't take the time to make the trip back to the Baron of Hanover's estate. It would be a lonesome voyage, but tarnation, that wasn't a new feeling for her, now was it?

The Duke of Monchester stared at the letter in his hand as if it were his worst enemy. She was gone. Just like that. And now Lady Banfour wanted to know if he intended to keep his promise, that it certainly wasn't her fault that Summer didn't attend her presentation.

   He strode over to the hearth and threw the letter in the flames, the glow and smoke reminding him of when he'd been in that burning building, sure that his life was over. And then she'd pushed open the door. He'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life. With her hair braided and her face smudged with black, and in buckskins, no less. The memory of her backside wiggling across the floor made his pants feel uncomfortably tight, and he shifted to relieve the pressure. He'd never had just the thought of a woman affect him this way.

   On their way back to London, he'd suddenly realized the danger that she'd put herself in, and he hoped he'd made it clear to her that he'd never allow her to do it again. He'd felt her small waist between his hands and realized how incredibly tiny she was, how infinitely precious to him she'd become. That he valued her existence over his own.

   Byron shifted again. He should never have let her leave Cliffs Castle, shouldn't have given a whit about what she wanted. Should've married her first, then helped her to realize the wonderful person she was. The quicker he went to America to fetch her back, the better.

   "Father?"

   Byron glanced up from the fire. The worried face of his son peeked around the corner of his room. He'd felt like that whenever he'd approached his own father, always unsure of his welcome. Byron erased the scowl from his face and smiled, a gesture he was trying to become accustomed to.

   "Come in. What is it?"

   "I was just wondering… When can we go see Summer? You said she was all right, but I'd like to see for myself."

   Byron smoothed the hair back from his face. "That's going to be a bit of a problem. She went back to New York."

   "Without saying good-bye?"

   "Her father is sick. Don't be hurt, now. She didn't have time to see you before she left."

   Hunter came rolling into the room, sniffed at the boy's leg, then started to prowl the corners of the walls, hunting for vermin. Lionel sat on the floor, in the injun style he said that Summer had taught him, and stared at Byron as if he seriously contemplated his father's intelligence level.

   "She was the only one who would listen to me. The only one who would go help you."

   Byron shrugged. "I know."

   "When someone looks out for you," said Lionel, speaking slowly, as if to an idiot, "then that means they love you, right?"

   He could feel the heat flare in his cheeks. "Usually."

   "Then how could you let her go?"

   "Yes, how could you?" boomed a voice from the open doorway. His son scrambled out of the way, and Byron bowed as Prince Albert Edward entered his dingy rented flat.

   "Your Highness," growled Byron, deeply embar rassed to be caught by his friend in such lowly surroundings. But, he decided, he might as well get used to it. Instead of asking how HRH knew where he lived, for he knew the prince had more confidants than he'd ever know, he said instead, "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

   Prince Albert puffed into the room and sat heavily on the largest chair. "I've been hearing rumors… What's that?"

   Hunter had wheeled over to sniff the visitor.

   "It's my cat, sir," said Lionel, scooping up his friend and cradling contraption and all in his arms. "He lost his legs, sir. And my father made this for him so he can get around. Sir."

   Albert's eyes bulged, and he stared from the boy, to the cat, to the duke. "I see," he managed. "Your Grace, call for refreshments, will you? I think I need some nourishment."

   Byron colored. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but I have no manservant. However, my son can fetch…"

   "Yes, yes." He waved a pudgy, beringed hand impatiently. "Your son. One of many surprises I've learned of recently."

   "The best surprise I could've received," replied Byron, lifting his chin a notch and giving his son a warm smile.

   Lionel grew a couple of inches right before his eyes. "I can put together a tray, Father. Crackers and such."

   Prince Albert coughed, and Byron ignored him. He knew what kind of "nourishment" HRH meant, and it wasn't crackers. "Take your time, son. His Royal Highness seems to have a great deal to discuss with me."

   Lionel's blue eyes lit up. "About getting Summer back? The prince can do anything, can't he, Father? Why, he can get her back for you!"

   Byron shook his head, and Lionel's face fell. But Albert leaned forward in his chair and nodded at the boy. "I'll see what I can do."

   "Thank you, sir!" cried Lionel as he ran from the room.

   The fire crackled in the silence.

   "Sit down, Byron; you're making me nervous."

   He sat down in the chair across from the prince, and they both stared into the fire for a time.

   Albert broke the silence first. "So, you've decided to acknowledge your son?"

   "I should have done it long ago."

   "Am I right in assuming that you wouldn't have, if it weren't for the American?"

   Byron avoided the other man's gaze, hearing the note of triumph in his prince's voice. The niggling "I told you so." "What makes you think that?"

   "Because the girl is good for you."

   "I know."

   A log popped on the fire. What was taking his son so long?

   Albert crossed one royal ankle over another and changed the subject. "The dowager duchess came to see me. With her assurances that she had nothing whatso ever to do with Lady Karlton's… actions. I believe her."

   Byron nodded. The woman had come to him as well, not that it mattered. Lady Banfour had told him that she and Summer had appealed to his family to search for him. And how they'd responded. Whatever feelings he might have retained for his father's wife and son had withered in that moment. He had always thought that they'd cared for him. If only a little.

   He looked at the prince, wondering why the other man looked so startled at whatever expression he wore on his face. In his eyes. "It doesn't matter."

   "I think that's why I like you, Monchester. We are so much alike, you and I. Always careful to hold others at a distance, never sure of someone's motivations. Because of what we are."

   Byron avoided his gaze again, afraid that he'd see the same barren look in his prince's eyes.

   "But you," grunted the prince. "Now, you have a chance for something special, yes? Am I right in assuming that this American girl brought about your reconciliation with your son?"

   "She brought it about, yes. She's changed my life in many ways… Is that what you wanted to hear?"

   "Yes," laughed Prince Albert. "While you're at it, you can also admit that I was right. You're in love with the girl."

   Byron sighed. "Yes. But I'm not sure if she'll have me."