An early October mist still lay heavy in the vales of Gloucestershire when the Honorable Mr. Camden Rutledge rose before dawn to partake of his customary morning repast, black coffee and two slices of bread, lightly buttered. Therefore, by the time the blood-chilling screams commenced, he had been miserably but diligently occupied in reviewing the estate finances for well over an hour, whilst ensconced in what was -- or only moments earlier had been -- his father's study.

As a matter of old-fashioned civility, the room had always been called "his father's study," despite the fact that the wicked old devil had never troubled himself to study anything save games of chance, and had certainly never gazed upon the inside of an account ledger. Indeed, Chalcote Court's elderly housekeeper had often sworn that the Earl of Treyhern had never poked so much as a toe inside the room during her tenure -- though he had reputedly poked a rather saucy parlormaid in the corridor just outside the door one raucous New Year's Eve.

His father's lack of scholarship aside, Cam's rather formidable concentration was abruptly severed when the aforesaid screaming began at precisely a quarter past seven. The shrieking was unmistakably feminine in origin, for Cam found it loud, shrill, and unremitting. The racket echoed down the ancient corridors of Chalcote, bounced off the tapestried walls, and sent a bevy of curious servants scurrying up from the pantries and kitchens and cellars, all of them eager to see just what mischief the old lord had wrought this time. And all of them -- or so it seemed to Cam -- bolted past the study door en route to the commotion, their boots and brogans pounding on the hard oak floor.

Hopelessly distracted from an already impossible task, Cam jerked from his chair with a hiss of frustration, and started toward the door just as the butler floated in, looking rather paler than usual. "I fear it's the new governess, Mr. Rutledge," Milford explained without preamble. He knew that the young master preferred to take bad news the same way he took his whisky; smooth, neat, and infrequently.

Cam threw his new pen onto the desk in disgust. "Good God--! What now?"

The ashen-faced butler hesitated. "She's in the corridor upstairs, sir."

Cam elevated one straight black brow. "As I plainly hear, Milford."

"And she -- well, she's in a rather revealing state of dishabille, sir."

Both Cam's brows shot up. "Indeed? Cannot someone fetch her a wrapper?"

The screams were lessening a bit. Milford cleared his throat decorously. "Yes, Mr. Rutledge. Mrs. Naffles is seeing to it, but the more pressing concern, sir, is... is his lordship. I greatly fear that... well, the governess was in... in his... your father's... bedchamber and--"

"Oh, devil take it, Milford!" Against his will, Cam's hands flew to his temples. "Please don't say it--!"

"Oh, sir," said the butler mournfully. "I fear so..."

Blood pounded in his head as Cam tried to dredge up a measure of apathy. Given his father's ribald predilections, this embarrassment had probably been inevitable. "Well, he's a damned ugly sight, seen bare-arsed," he remarked flatly. "I should scream, too, I daresay."

"Yes -- well, I mean no..." Milford shook his head as if to clear his vision. "Indeed, Mr. Rutledge is -- or I should say -- his lordship is perfectly bare-ars-- er, naked, sir. But in addition, I fear he's... he's--"

"Christ, man! Spit it out!"

"Dead."

"Dead--?" Cam looked at the servant incredulously. "Dead, as in...?" He made a vague motion with his hand.

"Ah... just dead, sir. In the regular way. 'Twas overexertion, I daresay, if you'll forgive the impertinence." Milford looked obviously relieved that the news was out. "Mrs. Naffles says 'twas apoplexy for sure, since his lordship's gone an even darker shade of red than usual, sir. Rather like bad burgundy. And the eyes are even more protruding than... well... never mind about that. Nonetheless, a man of his advanced years... and the governess, Miss Eggers... er, rather lively and all that--"

"Yes, and apparently possessed of exceptional lungs," interposed Cam dryly. The screams had subsided into heaving, hysterical sobs.

"Yes, sir. Quite good... lungs, sir."

Cam picked up his pen and balanced it in the palm of his hand. "Where is my daughter, Milford? Dare I hope that she has been spared this debacle?"

"Oh, yes, sir! Miss Ariane is still abed in the schoolroom wing."

"Good." Cam sat back down. "Well, I thank you, Milford. That will be all."

"Thank you, sir. I mean... my lord." The butler began to back out of the room, then paused. "By the way, my lord... what, precisely, ought we to do now? About the, er, young lady? Miss Eggers?"

Cam scraped his chair forward and snapped open the next ledger. Without looking up from his task, he began to etch neat, uniformly shaped numbers into a perfectly straight column down one side of the page. "Precisely how long, Milford," he finally replied, "had Miss Eggers been warming my father's bed? And was she willing?"

The butler did not bother to feign ignorance. Hands clasped behind his back, the thin, angular servant looked up at the ceiling, calculating. "Above two months, the housekeeper says. And by all accounts, she had every expectation of becoming the next Lady Treyhern."

"Well, that rather settles it then, doesn't it? I certainly shan't be marrying her, so best put her on the next mail coach to London."

"Yes, my lord. And the... the corpse?"

Elbows propped upon the desk, Cam heaved a weary sigh and dropped his head into his palms. "Just send for the priest, Milford. I can do no more for my father. He is in God's hands now, not mine. And I do not envy God the task."

Allowing a glint of a challenge to light her eyes, Helene de Severs lifted her chin and stared confidently across the burnished mahogany desk, studying the elderly gentleman who leaned back in his chair with such a condescending indolence. Outside the open window, the clatter of passing carriages and the rumble of drays in Threadneedle Street mingled with the strident cries of a morning costermonger as he made his way toward Bishopsgate and the old city walls.

By comparison, the bustling London traffic in the street below made the heavy, protracted silence inside the oak-paneled office seem all the more discordant. Finally, the elderly solicitor leaned forward, splaying his long, thin fingers upon his burnished desktop, as if perhaps he had decided to rise and escort his young visitor to the door.

Instead, the old man cleared his throat sonorously and began to tap one spindly finger as if to emphasize his warning. "Miss de Severs, you really must understand the full circumstance of this position," he explained, his thick white brows pulled gravely together. "I am afraid Lord Treyhern's child is, er, rather... how shall I put it? Peculiar."

Already remarkably rigid in her chair, Helene de Severs nonetheless managed to draw herself up another inch or two. She was a tall woman, not easily cowed, so the motion was usually effective. "I do beg your pardon," she said archly. "You say the child is what--?"

"Peculiar. As in abnormal," the solicitor returned coldly.

Helene suppressed her rising ire. "I am accustomed to challenging assignments, Mr. Brightsmith," she said with a tight, uncomfortable smile. "I collect that the difficult nature of this assignment is precisely why I am here today, is it not? But peculiar and abnormal seem rather harsh words for any child."

The solicitor shrugged. "In point of fact, I am given to understand that the girl may be hopelessly dim-witted. We simply do not know, and indeed, there may be little that you can do. But apparently, Lord Treyhern remains... hopeful. He wishes to engage someone with special experience to work with the child."

Helene held both her breath and her tongue for a long moment. Life in London had been abysmally dull since her return from abroad. Moreover, another three months of this indolence would severely press her meager savings. She needed this post rather desperately, and not just for the money. Given poor Nanny's age and health, Helene needed to remain in England just now. But most of all, Helene needed the challenge, for try as she might, she had found that she could not be happy without her work.

Nonetheless, she most assuredly would not obtain the position by angering Lord Treyhern's rather unenlightened solicitor. She was trained to educate children, Helene reminded herself, not pompous old men. So resolved, Helene tossed her neatly gloved hand dismissively, then bestowed upon old Mr. Brightsmith her most charming smile. It was a look, Helene knew, which could soften the most hardened of men, for she had seen her late mother use it often, and to merciless advantage.

"My dear Mr. Brightsmith, I have every confidence that I can be of help to his lordship," said Helene. "Pray give me the benefit of any insight you may have regarding the child. A man of your experience can but be of help in such a difficult situation."

The solicitor seemed mollified. He shuffled through a few papers on his desk, then drew out a long sheet of foolscap. "Well, Ariane is about six years old. She resides in Gloucestershire with her widowed father, Lord Treyhern, who has directed me to find a... a special teacher. Highly qualified, and experienced in these sorts of cases." He faltered a little. "I fear, Miss de Severs, that I know little more than that."

"And the child's disorder--?"

"Her disorder?" The solicitor shot Helene an indeterminate look. "Well, the child cannot speak! She is mute!"

Her ire flashed again, and Helene forgot to simper. "Mute?" she archly replied. "Do you mean, sir, that she cannot speak? Or that she will not speak?"

The old man bristled a bit. "Indeed, Miss de Severs, is there some difference which escapes me? It is simple enough; the child cannot talk."

There was often a great deal of difference, but Helene would not trouble herself to cast pearls before swine. Instead, she slumped back against her chair, unaware until that moment of how intently she had been leaning forward. "I see," she said softly. "But has the child never spoken? Not even when she was younger?"

At this, the white brows shot up. "Why, er... yes! Exactly so! The child did begin to jabber on a bit when she was a babe. But she no longer seems capable." "Ah!" murmured Helene knowingly. "I have studied a few such cases."

"Have you indeed?" The old solicitor looked fleetingly impressed, then no doubt recollecting that she was a mere female, quickly squashed it. "The child looks well enough. I've seen her myself. But she does appear a bit... wild about the eyes."

"And are you at liberty to tell me what happened to her, Mr. Brightsmith?" she asked rather sharply. Then, seeing his haughty glare, she dropped her eyes deferentially. "You see, sir, I cannot very well help the child without some understanding of her circumstance."

"Circumstance?" he answered vaguely.

"Indeed. You asked me here today because I have had some experience with children who have, as you say, difficulties. Moreover, I have read and studied many such cases. And in my opinion, such abrupt losses of speech, or similar aberrations in what have previously appeared to be normally developing children are often precipitated by some sort of accident or crisis."

Momentarily absorbed in thought, Helene furrowed her brows. "It could, of course, be a cranial tumor bearing pressure on something... or perhaps there was a blow to the head? And of course, an emotional trauma can disrupt normal childhood devel--"

"Thank you, Miss de Severs!" interjected Mr. Brightsmith, his thin hand extended, palm out, as if to forestall her extemporary lecture. "Rest assured, the child has sustained no injury. Moreover, I am already convinced of your qualifications for this post. As you must know, the letter from your German baroness in Passau is glowing, as were your earlier references."

Helene had been interviewed often enough to know when the dice had finished tumbling. "You are too kind, sir," she said graciously, then settled back to wait.

As if he had read her mind, the old solicitor pushed a sealed letter across the glossy desk. "I must say, Miss de Severs, you do come rather dear for... for a governess, or for whatever it is you are."

"Indeed, a governess," echoed Helene compliantly.

"Yes, well. Against my judgment, his lordship has agreed to your extraordinary salary demands of £90 per annum, half payable in advance. However, I shall require a signature here," he paused to thrust forward another document, "to signify your intent to remain in Treyhern's employ for the duration. He has had difficulty retaining staff, and he wishes for consistency in his daughter's life."

"That is both wise and fair." Helene scribbled her signature, and with a little prayer of thanks, picked up the envelope. This advance was enough to repair her ancient cottage, and keep Nanny supplied with coal for the coming winter.

"Moreover, if it eases your mind at all, sir," she added, tucking the envelope into her reticule, "I am perhaps just a little more than a governess. His lordship shall have no cause to regret this." She spoke with more confidence than she felt.

"A bold claim, Miss de Severs." Brightsmith took up his quill and began to scratch out an address.

Helene smiled again. "I have always thought Virgil said it best," she answered crisply. "Fortune favors the bold. I think I have the translation aright, do I not?"

"You do indeed," he answered dryly, folding, then sliding the paper toward her. "Your traveling directions, ma'am. You are expected in Cheston-on-the-Water, Tuesday a week."

Helene felt her throat constrict. "Ch-Cheston?"

The solicitor's keen eyes flicked up at her from his desk. "Is there a problem?"

"No." Helene swallowed hard, tightly gripping the paper. "Not at all."

"Excellent." Brightsmith stood. "And Miss de Severs?"

"Yes?" she answered, glancing up a little uncertainly.

"Do take your black fripperies. Ribbons and such. His lordship's household is in deep mourning."

Helene nodded dumbly, and as if in a trance, walked out of Mr. Brightsmith's office, through the reception room, and down the long flight of stairs which led to the street below. Weaving her way through the late morning pedestrians, she braced an unsteady hand against the door of her hired carriage, oblivious of the driver who leapt forward to assist.

Blindly, she stared down at the folded slip of paper Mr. Brightsmith had pressed into her palm. Surely not Cheston-on-the-Water? So very near to Chalcote... It could not possibly be so, could it? Over a decade had passed. Gloucestershire was a vast county; its wolds scattered with fine estates. Moreover, Helene had never heard of the Earl of Treyhern.

As she tried to reassure herself, an empty tumbrel spun past, crowding her carriage and spraying a filthy arc of water across her hems. "Hey, look lively, miss!" insisted the driver. "I ain't got all day."

Helene finally flipped the paper open to scan the crabbed, sideways scrawl. Camden Rutledge, Lord Treyhern. Chalcote Court, Cheston-on-the-Water, Gloucestershire. A deep buzzing began somewhere inside her head.

"Miss? What's all this? You ill?" The driver's voice, urgent now, came as if from a deep, black well, and Helene was only dimly aware that he had jerked open the carriage door and was pressing her into its shadowy depths. Camden Rutledge, Lord Treyhern... the words began to whirl through her mind.

"Best get you back up to Hampstead quick-like, aye?" added the driver uneasily, slamming shut the door.

"Y-yes," agreed Helene. But the driver was already climbing onto his seat.