He was tall, and dark, and controlled his dancing horse with ease. His face was largely hidden, but because she was looking up at him Eleanor found that she could see his eyes, which would otherwise have been concealed by the shadow of his hat. They were steely blue. And they were looking directly into her own. They traced the lines of her face, dropping from her hazel eyes to her fine cheekbones and full mouth, and unaccountably she shivered. At first she thought she must be afraid. But no, the shiver did not feel like fear. It was more like . . . she shook her head. She could not place it. Still, whatever it was, she was determined not to let it show. She lifted her chin a fraction. Just for a moment she thought she saw a glimmer of respect in the highwayman's eyes, but she must be mistaken. No highwayman would feel respect for one of his victims. A moment later the expression was gone, and she was left with the belief that she must have imagined it, for nothing now remained in his eyes but the cold ruthlessness she would have expected.

Breaking their locked gaze he danced his horse back a few paces and gestured for the passengers to disembark.

There was a commotion inside the coach. The stout matron pulled her shawl more firmly around her shoulders. She gripped the handle of her basket extra tightly before pushing open the door and climbing out, spilling an apple out of her basket in the process.

The clergyman crossed himself before exclaiming, 'May the good lord protect us!' and following her down the steps.

Mr Kendrick motioned Eleanor to go next. He still had tight hold of his case, and again she wondered what was inside. But now was not the time for wondering. She bent to retrieve the matron's apple before stepping out of the coach.

The night air was cold, and she was glad of her cloak. The wind stung her cheeks and whipped at the tendrils of dark brown hair which had escaped from her chignon. It tugged at the pins that held it up, threatening to spill her hair about her shoulders. She reached up and pushed them securely into place.

'Here,' she said to the matron, dropping the apple back into the basket, 'you lost this.'

'Oh, thank you, my dear,' said the matron. 'Though a lost apple's the least of our worries.' She glanced at the highwayman, who watched impassively as the final passenger, Mr Kendrick, climbed out of the coach.

Once all the passengers were clear of the coach, he said tersely, 'Over there.'

Controlling his dancing horse with light hands he motioned them to join the other passengers and the coachmen, who were standing at the side of the road.

'Now. Your valuables,' he said. He dismounted in one lithe movement. 'You there,' he called to the stout matron. 'Empty your basket.'

The matron, flustered, started to do as he said, but she was so nervous that she dropped it.

He took a step towards her, but Eleanor was too quick for him. Stepping protectively in front of the quivering matron she said, 'Leave her alone.'

She spoke boldly, but as soon as she had started to speak a part of her was already beginning to regret it. The highwayman was large and dark. Now that she was standing in front of him she could tell that he was over six feet tall. His black cloak accentuated his broad shoulders, and beneath it he was dressed all in black. A black coat was pulled across his chest and tight black breeches were stretched over his muscular thighs. He was strong and commanding. And dangerous.

He stopped dead and fixed his eyes on her. Her heart began to pound. Nevertheless she held her ground.

She was still looking up at him, but the angle was not as sharp as it had been when she had been sitting in the coach, and she could no longer see his eyes. They were hidden in the shadow of his hat. Still, she could imagine them burning with a cold blue flame. She felt her legs begin to shake.

'Can't you see she's frightened?' Eleanor demanded, knowing she must speak before her courage deserted her.

His eyes narrowed. 'Whereas you, it would seem, are not.'

She looked at him defiantly, whilst all the time knowing that he could not be more wrong. Still, she was determined not to show it.

'I have never been afraid of bullies,' she declared.

As soon as she had spoken she knew she had hit a nerve. His whole body tensed. She could see it in the lift of his shoulders and the firming of the muscles beneath his coat. And she could see it in the tightening of his hands - large, strong hands - around the handles of his pistols.

She held her breath.

'Bullies?' Beneath his mask she saw his jaw clamp, and there was a perilous edge to his voice.

She should say no more. She had taken enough chances. But though her palms were damp and her heart was thudding in her chest, something drove her on.

'Yes. Bullies. Or perhaps you think that holding up a coach full of clergymen, women and young boys is a sign of bravery?' she enquired bitingly.

And now she knew what it was that drove her. It was more than just her anger at being held up at gunpoint, it was her anger towards those who would threaten the safety and happiness of perfectly innocent people. Mr Kendrick had threatened her sister's safety, not by holding her at gunpoint, but by threatening her happiness with a handful of childish letters written when she was still in the schoolroom, and now here was this man threatening a group of similarly innocent and inoffensive people. And she had to give vent to her anger, no matter how rash it might be.

She could feel the tension in him, and she could feel her fellow passengers' amazement. All conversation, muted and rebellious though it had been, ceased. The night was suddenly silent.

'Sometimes . . .'

The highwayman's voice was so soft and husky that she could barely hear him.

' . . . such actions are necessary.'

She wondered whether she could have heard him properly. His remark was so unexpected that she was momentarily disconcerted. She had expected him to brag about his exploit, or perhaps laugh mockingly and push her aside, but instead his reply had been enigmatic. There was something unfathomable about his words. It was as though they contained a hidden meaning, but what could it be?

A moment later she took control of herself. That was nonsense. She was letting his magnetism cloud her judgement. For there was no denying the fact that he was magnetic. Something about him, something beyond his tall lithe body and steely blue eyes, compelled her attention.

Was it his stance? she wondered. It was strong and powerful, like the man himself. Or was it the force she felt emanating from him? Or was it something more nebulous, and yet real for all that? A mixture of mystery and intrigue that enveloped him as surely as his cloak? Angrily she shook away her unsettling thoughts. Despite his magnetism, he was a common highwayman, and she had better not forget it.

'I'm glad you're not afraid,' he said at last. His shoulders relaxed, and his voice lost some of its tension. 'I need someone to help me, and you've just elected yourself. Empty the basket and follow me.'

Without waiting for an answer he turned his attention to the other travellers. 'You will drop your valuables in the basket as I walk down the line, and then take three steps back. Do you understand?'

There was a murmur of rebellion from the young men, but although several of them bunched their fists, and one even took half a step forwards, they wilted beneath his gaze. One by one they muttered a reluctant agreement.

'Good.' His tone relented slightly. 'Do as I say and you will have nothing to fear.'

The fact that his attention was momentarily on her fellow travellers did not escape Eleanor's notice. With a further spurt of rashness she asked herself whether she would be able to disarm him. She had no intention of helping him to rob her fellow travellers if she could avoid it, but reluctantly she realized that disarming him was out of the question. Even if she managed to knock one of the pistols from his hand he would still have the other one, and he would be prepared to use it. But if she went along with him for the time being, then a better opportunity to foil him might present itself.

She bent down and picked up the matron's basket. Carefully setting the contents - a couple of jars of home-made jam, a shawl, a large bag of apples and a cushion - on to the ground she reluctantly followed the highwayman.

The highwayman, meantime, had walked up to the first of the passengers, a young gentleman who had been sitting on the roof. 'Hand over your valuables,' he commanded.

The young man snarled but he emptied his pockets nevertheless, dropping a collection of sovereigns into Eleanor's basket with a chink.

'And the rest,' remarked the highwayman.

The young man glowered, but he pulled off his gold signet ring and dropped it on top of the sovereigns, then followed it with his fob watch.

One by one the passengers emptied their pockets and purses, dropping first money and then watches, bracelets and necklaces into the basket. The young men on the roof were followed by the clergyman and then the matron, leaving Mr Kendrick until last. Eleanor tensed as the highwayman drew level with him. Would Mr Kendrick open his case?

She felt her pulse begin to quicken. If she was lucky, the unexpected hold-up might offer her a chance of rescuing Arabella's letters without having to speak to Mr Kendrick at all. If the letters were in the case she might find an opportunity to seize them when Mr Kendrick's attention was elsewhere, for she felt sure the highwayman would have no interest in them.

As Mr Kendrick began to empty his pockets she held her breath. He handed over a considerable amount of money, together with his watch and a gold ring, dropping them into her by-now almost full basket, but he did not open the case.

Would the highwayman care? He had what he wanted. Perhaps he would not trouble himself over it. Eleanor glanced towards him. To see that his gaze had dropped to the slim leather case.

'What's inside?'

'Nothing of any interest.' Mr Kendrick spoke smoothly, but there was something wary about him.

'Open it.'

The highwayman's command was curt.

Mr Kendrick made no move to do so, which surprised Eleanor. As a blackmailer, she had assumed he would be a coward, but there was a look of determination on his face that made her reconsider and she wondered how the encounter would progress.

She looked from Mr Kendrick to the highwayman, who was just as determined.

She looked back to Mr Kendrick and saw Mr Kendrick's expression alter slightly.

He is going to try and reason with him, she thought.

'The case contains nothing of value,' said Mr Kendrick evenly. 'Just some business documents. They would be of no interest to you.'

The temperature dropped by several degrees. An icy wind sprang up and whipped at the hem of the highwayman's cloak, blowing it out around him and making him look even larger than before.

'Open it,' he said again.

When Mr Kendrick did not comply, the highwayman slipped one pistol into the top of his breeches and with his free hand grasped the case, but still Mr Kendrick held it tight.

There was a tense moment as the two men's eyes met.

'Nothing of value, eh?' said the highwayman. He gave it a tug. 'Then you won't mind parting with it.'

'The documents are of value to me,' said Mr Kendrick desperately. 'I don't want to lose them. They would be very difficult to replace. But they would be worth nothing to anyone else.'

The highwayman's eyes hardened. 'I'll be the judge of that.' He wrenched the case out of Mr Kendrick's grip. Still holding the case, the highwayman glanced at the basket, which glittered and glimmered with gold and diamonds. 'A worthy haul. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your co-operation, and I will be on my way.'

He turned to Eleanor, and she held out the basket to him. He was holding the case in one hand, however, and a pistol in the other, so that instead of taking it he said, 'You will carry it for me.' He inclined his head in the direction of his horse, a magnificent black stallion that stood snorting nearby.

Eleanor hesitated. It was not a peaceable-looking animal, and she was afraid to go too close.

'Don't worry, he won't hurt you,' came the highwayman's soft voice. Then, sardonically, he said, 'he is not as dangerous as I am.' The mocking tone in his voice stiffened Eleanor's spine and gave her all the courage she needed. Squaring her shoulders, she went over to the horse.

The highwayman followed her, walking backwards and keeping the pistol levelled at the other passengers to hold them at bay.

'Now, take the contents of the basket and put them into my saddlebags,' he said. 'Split the contents evenly between the two and fasten them when you have done.'

He spoke in an aside. His attention was still on the coachmen and travellers, who were beginning to look mutinous.

Eleanor cast a covert glance towards the pistol that was tucked into the top of his breeches. If she made a grab for it then he, with a pistol in one hand and the case in the other, would not be able to stop her. He might, it was true, level his own pistol at her, but if her hand was on the other one . . . Tucked into his breeches as it was, she felt sure he would not take the chance of her pulling the trigger.

She summoned her courage and, without giving herself time to think about it, she passed the basket into her left hand and reached for his pistol with her right.

Quicker than thought he dropped the case and before she knew what was happening his fingers had closed tightly over her own. Her hand might be on the pistol . . . but his hand was on hers.

'I wouldn't do that if I were you.'

His voice was level but it held an edge of steel.

Eleanor swallowed. She wished she could threaten to shoot, but he had been too quick for her, and although her hand rested on the handle, her finger was nowhere near the trigger. Loath though she was to admit it, she was beaten.

'It was a good try,' he said, his fingers still closed about her own. 'But let me give you a word of warning. If you ever find yourself faced with a highwayman again, don't attempt such a rash action. Another highwayman might not be as . . . forgiving . . . as I am.' Then his strong hand closed more firmly around her fingers and he prised them loose.

Eleanor instinctively glanced down. His hand was large. The long fingers tapered towards the end. Her own hand, enclosed within it, looked tiny. The sight made her feel vulnerable. She tried to draw her hand back, but instead of letting it go he held onto it. He ought by rights to have relinquished it. Once he had prised her fingers loose of the pistol he should have let them go. But instead he held them in his own. Through her glove, and through his glove, she was aware of the touch of his fingers. It was firm and hard . . . and it burned.

Her eyes widened, and without her volition they raised to his own. Their gazes met. She was so close to him that the brim of his hat no longer shaded his eyes, and she saw that beneath their steeliness they were as blue as a summer sky. Dark brows arched over them, and a lock of black hair fell across his forehead.

His fingers once again locked around her own, but this time there was a gentleness that had not been there before, and in a surprisingly courtly gesture he lifted her hand.

She froze, held motionless by some strange force that robbed her of control of her body, and without realizing what she was doing she held her breath. It was only for a moment, but a moment was all he needed. Bending his head, he brushed his mouth over the back of her hand. She gasped as a sudden crackle of energy ran over her skin. It caused her eyes to widen as they were held by his. She saw his steely eyes smoulder, and knew by the sudden fire that he had felt the potent force as well.

And then she began to regain her senses. The incident had been strange and disturbing. If she had experienced such a strong reaction when any other man had kissed her hand she would have found it exhilarating, but to have it happen with a highwayman . . . it was mortifying.

In confusion, she tried to reclaim her hand. For a moment he held on to it, but then he allowed it to slide through his fingers. Even so, his eyes continued to gaze into hers. Then, with a last steely glance, he grasped the basket and emptied the contents into his saddlebag before casting it aside.

Eleanor stepped back.

'As for your purse . . . ' he said.

She lifted her chin. Her purse contained fifty guineas, the remnants of a legacy, and it was all she and Arabella possessed. She must hold onto it if she was to have a chance of buying back Arabella's letters. But instead of demanding it, his eyes danced. ' . . . you can keep it,' he said.

With one last burning glance he mounted his horse and rode away. She watched him go. Despite her horror at what he had done, she could not tear her eyes away from him.

Once he had disappeared from view, she became aware that a hubbub had broken out amongst the passengers. One of the young men from the roof was demanding that the coachman should follow the highwayman.

'With what?' snorted the coachman, hands on hips.

The other passengers were beginning to take sides, some unreasonably demanding that the coachman follow the highwayman, whilst others were demanding to be taken on their way.

'Unharness a horse!' said the young man, already running towards one.

'It is too late for that, my son,' said the clergyman, putting a hand on his arm. 'Never fear, the good lord will make sure he doesn't escape his punishment.'

'Pah!' The young man shook off the clergyman.

'You'll never catch him on one of those, Mark,' said another young gentlemen. 'Didn't you see what he was riding? The devil certainly knows his horse flesh. He'll be miles away before you can get one of the carriage horses out of the traces.'

'Damn!' said the young man, letting go of the harness in frustration. 'The one time I win at cards, and that -'

The clergyman coughed meaningfully.

'That rascal,' said the young man, glancing towards the ladies and swallowing down the more forthright word he had been about to use, 'has to take every sovereign.'

Eleanor was by now standing next to Mr Kendrick.

'I hope you didn't lose anything too important,' she said, hoping against hope that he might be unsettled enough to tell her what had been in the case, for if he let slip that the letters had been there then Arabella was safe.

But she was not to be so fortunate. Mr Kendrick did not look perturbed. 'No,' he replied non-commitally.

'It must be worse to lose papers than money,' she ventured, determined to make the most of the opportunity that had presented itself. 'I know how hard letters are to replace.'

Unfortunately, Mr Kendrick did not rise to her bait. Eleanor gave an inward sigh. She had hoped to startle him into some kind of admission but she was no further forward than she had been an hour ago. There was only one thing for it. She would have to broach the subject directly. Seizing the moment she opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Mr Kendrick excused himself and went over to the coachman, lending him a hand in calming the horses, which had become skittish during the incident.

Eleanor swallowed a cry of vexation. She would have to wait until the coach reached London and speak to Mr Kendrick then. Her spirits sank. She was not looking forward to it. Still, it must be done. It was the reason for her journey, after all. And at least she still had her purse.

As soon as the horses were calmed, the coachman became business-like once again.

'All aboard,' he called, climbing onto the box. 'We've lost enough time as it is.'

The passengers responded quickly, boarding the coach with a minimum of fuss and settling themselves once more in their seats. Eleanor had just taken her place when the coach gave a lurch and then it pulled away.

'I want to thank you, my dear,' said the stout matron as they set off again. 'If you hadn't have come to my rescue I don't know what I would have done.'

'These are lawless times we live in,' said the clergyman, shaking his head. 'It's all the fault of Napoleon. He's taken our best men away from us. They're all fighting on the continent.'

The matron nodded. 'Sam, my youngest - and never a better boy drew breath - has gone for a soldier. Fighting for king and country, he is.'

'And my nephew,' remarked the clergyman.

The hold-up provided a fruitful source of gossip, with much exclaiming on the state of the country, the iniquities of the criminal classes, and the bravery of the fine young men who had joined the army in order to stop the Corsican monster in his tracks. The coach continued on its way across the countryside, finally pulling into the yard of the respectable coaching inn. It was a long, low half-timbered building. A number of passengers climbed out. To Eleanor's surprise, one of them was Mr Kendrick. His housekeeper had declared that he was going to London, but either the woman had been mistaken, or he was going to break his journey, or he had changed his mind about his destination.

Eleanor's spirits rose. It seemed her luck had changed. She knew the inn, and the neighbourhood, for Mrs Lydia Godmersham, one of her mother's school friends, lived there. And since her mother's death, Lydia and her husband Frederick had been good friends to Eleanor and Arabella. Indeed, Frederick was to give Arabella away at her wedding. As Eleanor climbed out of the coach she kept a close eye on Mr Kendrick to see where he went. Twilight had fallen, but lanterns had been lit to counteract the gathering gloom, and she saw him weave his way in and out of the post boys, past a carriage whose horses were being changed and on in the direction of the road.

She slipped through a crowd of travellers, past a well-dressed lady who was emerging from her carriage, a post boy, and a footman unloading a private coach, and discreetly followed him . . . only to see a private carriage roll up beside him as he reached the road. He glanced quickly to left and right, then climbed into the carriage and it pulled away.

'No!' exclaimed Eleanor out loud.

She felt a wave of frustration wash over her. After all she had been through, to lose him at the last moment was too vexing. And not only was it vexing, but it left her with a very real problem, namely, how was she to find him again?

She let out a long sigh. She had come so far, and yet she had been defeated at the last.

Still, things would look better in the morning, she consoled herself. Abandoning her quest for the present, Eleanor went into the inn to enquire about a carriage to take her to Godmersham Park. No sooner had she set foot over the threshold, however, when she was accosted from behind - and turned round to see Lydia herself! Lydia was looking as elegant as usual. Her lilac pelisse was in the first stare of fashion, and her bonnet, with its curled ostrich feather, was a dream.

'My dear Eleanor!' exclaimed Lydia. 'I thought it was you! What are you doing here? And why didn't you tell me you were coming? What a wonderful surprise.'

'Lydia!' Overcoming her astonishment, Eleanor greeted the older woman warmly, and returned her embrace. 'I would have let you know I was coming if I could, but my journey was arranged at such short notice that -'

Lydia nodded sagely. 'My dear, there's no need to explain. I know just what it's like when you are organising a wedding. The duchess might be seeing to most of the arrangements, but there must still be a hundred and one things for you to do. And so you are on your way to London to try on your dress, I suppose.'

Eleanor was about to contradict her, but then changed her mind. If Lydia had assumed she was travelling to London in order to have a fitting for a new gown to wear at Arabella's wedding then so be it: she did not feel equal to the task of explaining the real situation just at the moment, and in such a public place.

'I don't blame you,' Lydia went on. 'You must have something stylish to wear for the occasion. And who knows,' she added innocently, 'with so many eligible young gentlemen attending, you might meet a husband of your own.'

Eleanor suppressed a smile. Lydia's matchmaking instincts would not allow her to accept that Eleanor was now six-and-twenty, and as such on the shelf, and she insisted on making hopeful comments every time they met.

'For you know, a society wedding is just the sort of place to meet a husband,' continued Lydia. 'There will be any number of dukes, earls and barons, all thinking about marriage. What better place to find your destiny?'

'I don't think dukes, earls and barons will want to marry a penniless young lady with no connections,' Eleanor pointed out with a smile.

'Why not?' Lydia challenged her. 'Charles did.'

The point was unarguable. Charles had been happy to propose to the penniless Arabella. But then, Arabella had qualities to counteract her lack of fortune and connections. Golden hair and cornflower-blue eyes, a sweet nature and a delectably tiny figure, were all powerful inducements to ignore her other shortcomings. Whereas Eleanor's brown hair and plain features were not.

Eleanor, however, did not point this out, for Lydia would have immediately recommended a variety of lotions for brightening her hair and improving her complexion, and would not have rested until she had tried them all!

'But we can't stand here gossiping all day. We have to get back home. It is lucky I bumped into you,' Lydia said, taking Eleanor's arm. 'You will stay with us, of course.'

Eleanor gave her heartfelt thanks for the invitation and readily agreed.

'I am looking forward to the wedding,' said Lydia as the two ladies went over to Lydia's smart carriage. 'And Frederick is very pleased to be giving Arabella away. He - but where is your bag?' asked Lydia, suddenly noticing that Eleanor did not have a valise. Eleanor was just about to say that it was a long story, when Lydia forestalled her. 'You weren't on the stagecoach, were you? The one that was held up by the highwayman? The news is all round the inn.'

'Already?' asked Eleanor in surprise.

'Bad news always travels quickly,' said Lydia. 'As soon as the first passenger walked through the door and declared he needed a double brandy, for he had just been held up by a highwayman, the inn was buzzing with the news.'

Eleanor gave a wry smile. It would be the young gentleman who had complained so bitterly about having his winnings stolen! she imagined. But Lydia was right. Bad news did travel quickly.

'Yes, I was,' she acknowledged.

'Oh! How wonderful. That is, how terrible,' Lydia said, suddenly recollecting that she ought not to exclaim quite so happily over Eleanor's misfortune. 'I do hope you have not been hurt?'

'No, not at all.'

'Oh, good.' Reassured that Eleanor was all right, Lydia was free to enjoy the sensational happening. 'It will be something exciting to talk about over dinner.' Then her face fell. 'Frederick will be incensed. He is the local magistrate,' she reminded Eleanor, 'and he will be annoyed that it has happened here, right under his nose.' She sighed. 'And it will fall to him to investigate the incident. Which means that we will not find him at home when we return. It is such a nuisance, for we have a house full of guests. And I have already had to leave them, which of course, as the hostess, I did not want to do. But I have had a raging toothache and I could bear it no longer. I had to come into town to have it attended to.'

'It doesn't need to come out, I hope?' asked Eleanor sympathetically, glad to forget about her own troubles for a while.

'Fortunately not. Apparently the tooth is sound and the problem should clear up of its own accord. I can't tell you what a relief it is!'

They reached the carriage, with its highly-polished brass work, and comfortable pink-upholstered squabs. A liveried footman let down the step and handed them in, and then folded up the step and shut the door behind them. And then they were on their way.

As Eleanor settled herself back against the squabs she remarked casually, 'Do you know a Mr Kendrick?'

The fact that he had been met by a private carriage at the coaching inn implied that he was staying the area, and in that case it occurred to her that Lydia might know him. If fortune favoured her, she might be able to discover where he was and to learn something about him, so that she would have an idea of how to approach him over the matter of Arabella's letters.

Lydia became thoughtful. 'No, I don't think I do. Why?'

'Oh, no reason. It is just that he was on the coach, and he was then met by a private carriage, which led me to think he might be a neighbour of yours.'

Lydia shook her head. 'No. The name is not familiar.'

Eleanor swallowed her disappointment. Still, it was possible that Frederick might know something about him. Perhaps Frederick would even be able to give her some help and advice on how to deal with him. She had thought of consulting Frederick when Arabella had first confided in her, but in order to keep Arabella's confidence she had decided to try and solve the problem on her own before involving anyone else.

It was not far to Godmersham Park. In less than a quarter of an hour the carriage turned off the road and bowled along a broad drive before coming to a halt. The building was an elegant one. Its golden stone glowed in the lamplight and its elegant proportions gave it a peaceful, tranquil air. The façade was lined by tall windows, and from them came a welcoming stream of light.

As the carriage finally rolled to a halt, Eleanor and Lydia were handed out by a footman, and together they entered the house. Eleanor looked round the familiar hall with pleasure. She had visited the house on a number of occasions, and it held many happy memories. The hallway was impressive. Large marble pillars rose gracefully to the high ceiling, where they were ornamented round the top with gold acanthus leaves. Beyond them, a splendid staircase curved upwards to the first floor. Family portraits were arranged neatly on the pale walls, and there was a black-and-white floor.

Lydia divested herself of her outdoor things, revealing her expertly-arranged hair and trim figure. Eleanor, too, slipped off her cloak and pelisse, and became suddenly conscious of the fact that her brown muslin dress was three years old. Although the style was not dated - its high waist and puffed sleeves were as much in vogue as they had ever been - it had a patch near the bottom where she had torn it whilst digging in the garden.

Lydia, however, was too polite to notice, and having said how well Eleanor looked she turned to the butler and enquired, 'Where is everyone?'

'They are assembled in the drawing-room, madam,' he replied deferentially.

'Oh, good.' She turned to Eleanor. 'Then you will be able to meet them all before they retire to dress for dinner.' Turning to the butler again, she went on, 'Inform Mrs Hingis we have another guest and instruct her to make up the blue room, if you please, Tompkins.'

'Very good, madam,' he said, before withdrawing to make the necessary arrangements.

Eleanor followed Lydia into the drawing-room, where the other house guests were passing the time until it was time to dress for dinner. It was an elegant apartment, and although not quite as grand as the hall, it had a large marble fireplace and impressive white mouldings on the walls.

The room was full of guests. There was a young girl with her mother, an elegant woman just beyond the first flush of youth, two respectable-looking gentlemen, and over by the far wall, with his back towards her, a tall, lean gentleman with black hair.

'Everyone, we have a new guest in our midst,' said Lydia. Eleanor turned her attention back to her hostess.

'Miss Grantham, one of my dearest friends' daughters, is here. She was on a stagecoach which has just been held up, and a monster of a highwayman took everything but her clothes,' she said. 'She is going to be staying with us, but you are not allowed to ask her anything about her ordeal until she has had something to eat.' She turned to Eleanor. 'And now, let me introduce you to everyone, Eleanor, my dear.'

As Lydia went through a list of names, Eleanor found her attention once again drawn to the gentleman standing in the corner. Continuing to pour his drink, he did not look round as she was introduced to the rest of the guests.

'This is Mrs Benson,' said Lydia, continuing with the introductions.

Eleanor murmured something politely as she was introduced to the glamorous Mrs Benson.

'And that's just about everybody,' said Lydia. 'Except, of course, for Lord Silverton.'

At this, the tall man in the corner slowly turned. Eleanor saw a lean, tanned face, with olive skin drawn tightly across high cheekbones, a straight nose, a firm jaw and deeply cleft chin. Black hair framed his face . . . and a pair of steely blue eyes met her own.

A feeling of foreboding washed over her. But he gave no sign of recognition, and she thought she must be mistaken.

'Lord Silverton, allow me to introduce Miss Grantham,' said Lydia.

Eleanor watched him as he crossed the room towards her. His hard muscles rippled beneath his black tailcoat, and his stride was one of predatory grace.

'Miss Grantham,' he murmured, taking her hand.

He lifted it to his lips and kissed it. As he did so, a surge of energy ran up her arm and down her spine, leaving her tingling from head to foot.

Her eyes flew open.

Impossible! she thought.

But impossible or not, Lord Silverton was the highwayman.

Extracts from The Silverton Scandal by Amanda Grange, published by Robert Hale