Rosemary Carlyle stood in the middle of the swirling sea of humanity that thronged the Plymouth waterfront and thought surely she would perish of the cold. Why hadn't anyone ever told her England was so cold? She burrowed deeper into the folds of her woolen cloak - only a few weeks ago she had resented its scratchy weight as she'd laid it in the trunk - now it seemed a most inadequate barrier against the piercing chill and the rain drizzling down from the oppressive gray clouds.

As if reading her thoughts, Primat said, "It is a most disagreeable place."

Rosemary turned to the woman who had been her ayah, and now was the closest thing she had to a friend. "It is most disagreeable," she said warmly, "and you were very, very good to come with me."

Primat gave a little snort and wound herself deeper into her own cloak. "I am only doing as your dear mother would have wished. She would not have you make this terrible long journey alone."

Alone. Rosemary shivered again. It seemed she had always been alone. Her mother and father had certainly loved her, but they were sufficient for each other's happiness, and she had grown up knowing herself excluded from the magic circle of their devotion. She had been far more in Primat's company than her mother's, and it was to Primat that she had always turned for counsel and advice. It was only Primat who had seen that Robert Carlyle could make no woman a suitable husband, and only Primat who had consoled Rosemary when she had finally learned that opium was his one true passion.

She let Primat steer her competently through the crowded streets toward the inn that the Star of India's captain had recommended for them, an establishment well-accustomed to ladies traveling without male escort as they disembarked from Bombay. Indifferent parents and an opium-eater husband, only her dear sister Anne had never failed her, had always cherished her and enlivened their separation with constant long and loving letters. But now even Anne had been taken from her.

"Primat, you are a conjurer," Rosemary sighed as she stretched out her aching, blue fingers to the blazing fire. "How ever did you persuade them to give us a private room?"

Primat began unhooking the bodice of Rosemary's dull green traveling gown. "Why, I was only telling the proprietor that your sister is the Marchioness of Seaforth. He was very eager then that we should have his best room."

Rosemary turned around in dismay. "Primat! You shouldn't have done such a thing. You know that Anne has not acknowledged me since her marriage. We cannot presume to claim kinship with her."

Primat firmly turned Rosemary back around and continued unfastening the gown. "I told no lies. She is your sister, is she not?"

Rosemary eased the gown off her shoulders and nodded sadly. "Of course she's my sister. But apparently now she has no desire to profess our relationship."

Primat lifted a shimmering pile of crimson silk out of the trunk and gave another of her little snorts. "You have only the snake's word for that. Why do you credit it?"

"But Primat," Rosemary protested as she arranged the lustrous folds of the sari, "Why should Cecily care whether Anne and I see each other? What possible reason could she have to keep as apart? Oh, I know that you have always disliked her..."

"She is a snake," said Primat firmly, now lifting the cover off one of the dishes on the table and wrinkling her nose at the cold meat pie beneath. "She is evil to her very core and will indeed be a snake the next time she comes into this world. Are we expected to eat this foulness?"

Rosemary sniffed at the pie. "I think it is mutton and not pork," she said doubtfully, dismissing her powerful longing for one of Primat's fragrant curries.

"It is not fit to be consumed. I will throw it out the window..."

Primat lifted up the dish, but Rosemary laid a restraining hand on her arm. "I think we must eat it. We haven't money enough to order something else and I don't believe the innkeeper will thank you for tossing his mutton pie into the street."

Freed from the uncomfortable stays and voluminous petticoats and happy to feel Indian silk against her skin again, Rosemary was content enough to sit and eat the indifferent perhaps-mutton pie while Primat nibbled gloomily on bits of pastry and the hard rolls that had been sent up with the pie. "We will have to learn to enjoy all things English," Rosemary said. "Robert used to tell me..."

Primat crumbled her last roll into dust. "Captain Carlyle was a loathsome insect."

It was too much. Rosemary couldn't stop the hot tears that sprang into her dark eyes and spilled onto her cheeks, and suddenly her weariness, grief, and anxiety seemed too much to bear. Primat was instantly contrite. "Mem," she crooned, kneeling beside Rosemary's chair and putting a gentle arm around her shoulders. "Dear Mem, you have had so many sad days, a daughter alone in her household, a sister separated from her sister, a wife who was not a wife..."

Rosemary turned into the familiar comfort of Primat's embrace. "Robert never meant to hurt me. He was the kindest of men. It was only..."

"It was only the poppy." Primat smoothed Rosemary's dark hair and said, "It was only the poppy, like so many of the English. He loved it more and the poppy is a demanding mistress."

"Oh, Primat," Rosemary said, her tears coming even faster, "I wish I could have kept him at home that day."

"Dear Mem," Primat dried Rosemary's tears with a fold of her sari. "The man who loves the poppy will never listen to reason. Captain Carlyle was meant to die that day. It was his fate. Just as it is yours..."

"To be alone and friendless in a strange land?" Rosemary suddenly pushed Primat away from her and stood. "I came because Cecily said she would welcome me, that perhaps, with her influence, Anne might someday be willing to acknowledge me. But you say that I should not trust Cecily."

"The snake must have her own reasons for paying your passage and bringing you to England. You have forgotten her wickedness, Mem, but I have not."

Rosemary went to her little teak writing test and took out Cecily's letters. Cousin Cecily had written when Anne had not. Cousin Cecily had sent soothing words of sympathy and support when Anne had not even responded to the news that Rosemary was a widow. Cecily had sent funds to settle Robert's opium debts and obtain a starboard cabin on the Star of India. Why shouldn't she turn to Cecily now, join her in London and begin the new life her cousin was eager to help make for her?

It had been so easy in India, Rosemary thought longingly. Like one of the little singing birds her mother had loved, she had been happy in her gilded cage, always cared for, with nothing more difficult to decide than whether she would wear English or Indian dress. Even in Robert's house Primat had been her constant companion, always there to shield her from every danger and smooth out every difficulty. Cecily would take care of her, too.

A log snapped and crackled as it settled in the fire, and eager new flames began to dance in the hearth. With a sudden, decisive movement Rosemary returned the letters to the desk and snapped the lid shut. "Tomorrow, Primat, you are going to London."

"I?" Primat's dark face turned pale and her luminous eyes widened. "You are sending me away?"

"I am sending you to Cecily," Rosemary said firmly. "You will tell her that I am a few days behind, that I sent you on ahead to - to ..."

"To make things ready for you," Primat said with admirable promptness. "And what will Mem be doing while I am lying to the snake?"

Rosemary smiled, her heart filled for the first time in months with something like hope, and suddenly eager to meet the next day. "Why Primat, I shall be going to look for my sister, Anne."

"Good... God!"

Alistair lifted his aching head from the breakfast table and blearily met his brother's eyes. All six of them. "Yes?" he croaked, massaging his temples until the multiple images resolved themselves into one very fine looking man. "What criticism am I to be greeted with this morning? 'Good God, Alistair, whatever possessed you to wear that waistcoat? 'Tis the 1740's, not the 1640's.' 'Good God, Alistair, why can you not have the common decency to powder before breakfast? 'Tis an affront to mine eyes to see the glint of golden hair before my coffee.' 'Good God, Alistair... '"

"You fash yourself for naught, brother mine," Alex broke in coolly, raising one eyebrow. "My ejaculation was caused by Tibby's infamous haggis making an appearance on the breakfast sideboard rather than the luncheon." He pushed back the large sleeves of his dressing gown and made as if to tuck in.

"Must you wear such a hideous print?" Alistair grumbled. "'Tis enough to make my eyeballs burn."

Alex glanced at the festive pattern of green serpents slithering ruby-eyed across a royal blue background on his gown, then returned his attention to his food. "Do not think to distract me from my purpose," he warned, then took a bite of eggs. His jaw stilled; an arrested look came into his eyes. "I see that Tibby still believes a few shells are a necessary addition to any well-cooked eggs," he murmured, taking a long swallow of ale and pushing his plate aside. "What was I saying? Oh, yes, do not think to distract me from my purpose, Brother. In case you managed to drown the recollection in that bottle of brandy you thought you hid from me under the counterpane, I am here to discover exactly what happened to cause your disgrace. And also to find out what your plans entail for that lovely bit of green you keep under your pillow."

Alistair snorted dismissively. "'Twas nothin' to worry your prrretty head aboot, Alex. Nothin' that willna bore ye in two seconds flat and cause yer immediate rrreturn to Town."

Alex's eyes narrowed at this deliberate provocation, and he hissed, "Do not spout dialect like a savage in hopes of infuriating me into leaving, you ungrateful cur. I traveled up to this barbaric stronghold to help myself, not you, and until I have won my return to Polite Society you may take it as written that you will not be rid of me."

Alistair's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light that was identical to that in his brother's gaze. There was no telling what may have happened if, just at that juncture, a delicate, petite brunette lady had not made her entrance. As calmly as though the sideboard she approached were in her own home, she pattered over to the plates resting next to the covered platters and picked up two, one in each fine-boned hand. Carrying them over to the thick oakwood table, she laid them gently down and then returned to the sideboard to pick up a third plate. Lifting the covers, she proceeded to serve herself an astonishing amount of food for so tiny a lady, then, when she came back to the table, divided the servings into meats on one plate, breads on another, and left her eggs on her third plate. After this absorbing ritual was completed, she sat in one rickety chair and smiled impartially at both gentlemen, her angelic blue eyes holding a bewitching warmth.

"Good morning," she offered in a clear, high voice, when no such salutation seemed to be forthcoming from either of her dining companions.

Alistair, who had been watching the spectacle with amazement and increasing outrage, slammed his fist down on the table as he turned furiously on his brother. "Damn it, Alex! How dare you bring your chere amie to my house? Tibby will have a seizure!"

"But I am not Mr. Erskyne's chere amie," the maligned guest piped up again. "I am his mistress, which is quite different, you know, for the other is French and I am from Kent."

Alex quirked one corner of his mouth in rueful amusement, and he shrugged helplessly at his twin. "My apologies, Alistair, but you see my situation."

"Yes, quite so!" Alistair responded, regarding the happily eating mistress from Kent with a mixture of bemusement and growing respect as she put away food at a prodigious rate.

Looking up from her rapidly clearing plate long enough to meet his eyes, she offered, "I am Miss Martha Nesper. You must be Alistair."

Tearing his gaze away from the scandalous amount of what his mother would have politely termed "neck" that was revealed by her filmy morning dress, Alistair croaked, "Yes. May I ask why you are here?"

Miss Nesper appeared most struck by the question. Chewing pensively, she waited until she had swallowed to reply, "I must go with Alex, you see. He pays for me, and I am very expensive. Especially as I am all the crack and many gentlemen vie for my attentions." Alistair nodded his comprehension at this, for he could easily discern by the stuff of her gown, however skimpy, that she was worth a pretty penny. She continued thinking for a moment, then as further thought occurred to her jerked her head a little and said, "Oh, yes, and I am also Lady Emlin MacPherson's second cousin, and when I wrote to tell her of my wish to go to Scotland she wrote and asked me to reassure her as to your health. She is very fond of you, sir. She said that you were by far the most gruff and yet tender-hearted of all her lovers." She clapped one hand over her bow-shaped lips in sudden dismay. "Oh! Perhaps I should not have said that. You must forgive. Alex will say I am a widgeon." Flashing a dazzling smile in that debonaire gentleman's direction, she resumed eating.

"If it were not such a lovely creature, she would really be unbearable," Alex muttered, then noticed his brother's expression. Clucking in remonstrance, Alex reached from his place at the table to gently support his older brother's sagging jaw. "Really, Alistair," he chided. "You must make at least an attempt at being awake on some suits. Now, on to business. I have sent messages to Cave and Dunnett. I suppose Dunnett will bring his irritating sister-in-law along for she will tease him until he relents. The milksop."

"Since you have seen fit to invite other guests, I had best let Tibby know. I'm sure you two will do well without me." Alistair rose, and thought better of the bow he began. "Miss Nesper, if you require another side of beef do not hesitate to have Alex ring for it."

"A side of beef?" Martha picked up her meat plate and began to stand.

"Martha, love, my brother is attempting to tease you." Alex slanted a mocking glance at his elder brother, who strove to ignore it.

"Oh." The little lady laughed in response, and sat down again to finish her breakfast.

Alistair left the breakfast room with such dignity as he still had, and found himself facing another woman, this one wrapped in a ridiculously heavy cloak and looking shocked and decidedly guilty. If Alex had had the gall to bring along a doxy for his brother, he certainly hadn't spent much money on her.

"Who the devil are you?" He glanced back over his shoulder and addressed his brother." Alex, you didn't have the nerve to bring a second woman with you, did you?"

"You mean, one for you? Of course not. I want you to concentrate on clearing your name, not building a reputation as a rake."

"I thought not. This one is too plain anyways."

The woman didn't even react to his insults. Instead, she drew herself up and addressed him directly. "I am Mrs. Rosemary Carlyle and I am here to see my sister Anne, the Marchioness of Seaforth. Be so good as to let her know I am here."

Wonderful, a madwoman. "Lady Seaforth? Whyever do you think that she would be here?"

"I heard her laugh from the carriage in Edinburgh and followed her here. I've come from India to see her and I will see her."

"Her laugh? From India? Ma'm, your tale grows more fantastical with each new detail." He frowned and stepped forward to loom over her threateningly. He'd sent maidservants and raw recruits scrambling, surely he could over-awe this ridiculous woman. If she wasn't mad, then she was plotting some scheme or other.

"Someone left the front door open and I heard Anne's laugh. Perhaps she has told you that she doesn't want to see me, but if I could have just a few minutes of her time."

The woman's glance went past him to the open door and the breakfast room. "I... I promise, if she wants me to go away and never trouble her again, I will. I promise. But I have to hear it from her. "Tis too important to leave to letters."

Tears suddenly sparkled on the woman's long dark lashes, and he expected to see blacking running down her face any moment. Unless she were clever enough to blot the tears before her cosmetics ran. She held out her hands pleadingly. "Oh, please! The servants at the horse farm told me she was in Edinburgh, and the innkeeper said she'd just left, and I heard her and followed her here. She's all the family I have left."

Alistair took a deep breath and decided to try reasoning with this absurd creature just once before he threw her out of the house. "Ma'm, Lady Seaforth is not here. She has never visited this house, and is unlikely to ever visit this house. Now..."

The woman took a step to her left, as though to edge around him, and he stepped over to block the move. Unfortunately, the move had been a feint, and the woman dashed around to his left before he could stop her. He caught at her cloak and found himself tangled in yards of rough, scratchy wool. The woman was in the breakfast room before he could prevent it.

"Anne! Anne? Where is she? I heard her!" The woman was looking wildly about the room.

"As you can see, the only guests I am entertaining are my brother and his, ah, friend." Alistair leaned back against the door jam and watched to see what else this woman would do. He did not feel up to wrestling the woman out of the house and rather hoped she would goad Alex into doing it for him. But she did seem genuinely distressed, so he began to suspect she was indeed mad and not trying some sort of scheme. Her gown was a thin cotton and brightly patterned. Perhaps she really had come from India. He'd heard of more than one Englishwoman who had suffered greatly from living in that wild place.

"But they were here, I heard my sister." She pointed at the remains of breakfast. "And there, there are five plates and only three of you." She glanced at the windows, but obviously dismissed them as being too small for anyone to climb out of. She began knocking and pushing at the walls. "Where is it? There must be another way out of this room. Oh, please, where is Anne?"

He sighed and moved forward to catch at her hands and pull her away from the wall. He spoke as soothingly as he could. "M'am, you will only injure yourself if you go on like this. There is no other way out of this room."

"But, but I heard her. And the plates..." The woman was willing to fight on, but her white face, her trembling, and her tears (tracking cleanly down her face, he noticed idly) told him she was near the end of her strength.

"Miss Nesper can answer about the plates." He turned towards the little mistress, who was watching the scene and sipping hot chocolate. "M'am?"

"Oh, certainly. I prefer to keep the meat juices away from my rolls and the breadcrumbs out of my eggs. So I use three plates."

The woman now clinging to his hands took a shuddering breath, and asked, "Ma'm, could you, could you laugh for me?"

Martha glanced at Alex, who nodded, and then gave the same trill of amusement she'd given his attempt at sarcasm. The woman relaxed her grip on his hands and would have fallen if he hadn't caught her.

He eased her to the floor and would have laid her down if she hadn't caught at his shoulders and buried her face against the front of his waistcoat. His newly-misanthropic self urged him to pull her free and drop her on the floor, but old habits took over and he found himself murmuring the usual, meaningless comforting phrases and running a hand soothing up and down her slender back. She was putting a great deal of effort into not crying. He didn't think he'd ever tried to comfort a non-crying woman before. Her clothes were travel-worn and far from new, but her hair was clean and glossy and scented with exotic perfumes.

In a little while, he felt her take a deep breath and sit back. She wiped at her face, and ran a smoothing hand over dark, silky hair. Her large dark eyes studied him as directly as Miss Nesper's had, but there was a wealth of experience and intelligence behind this woman's eyes that the little mistress from Kent would never know.

Perhaps it was the woman's dark coloring and her statement that she'd come from India, but she brought to mind legends of Eastern princesses and the heroes who had fought for and won their hearts and hands.

Alistair sighed and ran a hand over his face. Then, adopting his best "you-can-trust-me" expression he dropped to one knee before the intruder and asked softly, "Is everything all right? You're not running a fever are you?" He attempted to feel her forehead but got a tiny slap on his hand for his trouble.

She took some of the sting away from that slap with an apologetic smile. "I'm just very tired and now I am sure I've been led on a wildgoose chase. I am looking for my sister."

Alex stopped staring at his brother in astonishment and interjected, "Allow me to introduce myself, for the half-wit here certainly won't follow protocol. Alexander Erskyn, at your service." He made a little bow. "And this is my friend, Martha Nesper, and my brother Alistair."

Rosemary lifted her head in surprise, "You're not the 'Evil Erskyn'? The 'Archfiend Alistair'?"

Alistair winced as his brother barked with laughter; then gave a rueful smile, "Ah. My fame has preceeded me."

"I'm sorry. I only meant, I heard stories about your kidnapping and rav-- of -- of Lady MacPherson on the coach here."

Alistair started to turn an interesting shade of puce but before he could answer a ruckus at the front door announced the arrival of his three best friends.

First through the door without any introduction was a small, dark man with a permanent scowl etched into his face. As he entered, he threw over his shoulder, "If you hadn't flirted with the coachman the entire way here you wouldn't have got your shawl dirty."

Alistair's eyes widened at the statement.

Immediately following the choleric gentleman came a woman equal his height with russet-colored hair. "I was not flirting. I was engaging him in conversation. He looked lonely."

"Lonely!?" the gentleman snorted in response.

"Further," the lady continued passionately, "my shawl got dirty because I was sitting with the coachman. When you sit uncovered on a coach, you will get dirty!"

"So why are you complaining?!"

"I wasn't! I was commenting."

"Oh... commenting. Yes, of course."

Alistair made an incoherent noise of frustration which, amazingly enough, cut through the argument and brought his guests attention back to where it belonged... on him. He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Alistair, greetings!" the lady threw her arms around him and bussed him on the cheek.

Alexander stood and greeted the lady in a similar fashion. Then, always mindful of the appearance of etiquette if not the actual use, he turned to the forelorn Rosemary and offered her his hand. "Mrs. Carlyle? Let me introduce the invaders." He gestured casually to the choleric gentleman, "Gareth Cave. Lowlander." Cave sneered at him, and then made a pretty leg in her general direction. "Miss Mariana Atwell, charm itself." Atwell smiled charmingly and embraced Rosemary thinking she was some new friend of the family she had not yet met. "And... where's Kenneth?"

Alistair, Alexander, Gareth, Rosemary, and Mariana all looked around in confusion and somewhat expectantly. Only Miss Nesper continued unconcernedly to pack away several pounds of food.

Gareth smacked his head, "Good God! Did we leave him in the coach?!" He strode to the door and peeked into the hallway then announced to the room, "Fear not! He's just enamored of your Bougereau in the hallway."

Alistair preened a bit, "Isn't it lovely? I just had it sent over last month." Then recalling himself he called into the hallway, "Kenneth! Get your head out of the clouds and come in!"

Rosemary looked with anticipation toward the hallway, still frustrated by her inability to find her sister yet somewhat diverted by the people before her. Entering into the room, was a fellow of excessive height with brown hair and brown eyes and a brown cloak. He was verily brown all over. She looked closer and realized he was covered in mud.

The introductions were delayed a moment while Kenneth, Lord Dunnett was cleaned up by Tibby who doted on him. Meanwhile, Alexander concentrated his attention on their lovely intruder, which caused Alistair a moment of irritation.

Alexander addressed himself to Mrs Carlyle, "Madam, I assure you again that your sister is not here. But if we can render you any assistance..."

Alistair found himself nodding in vehement agreement. "Yes, indeed."

Their concern played on Rosemary's already frazzled nerves to the extent that she could feel a tear (one tear, only one!) trickling down her cheek. "I have just returned from India after my husband died and I was hoping to see my sister again. I have written to her several times over the past year but received no response. Then I heard she married a Marquis and thought that perhaps she didn't want to associate with me anymore."

Miss Nesper frowned around her kippers.

"But then I was sure that if I could just see her and talk to her, everything would be as it was when we were children. And if not, at least I could be sure she was happy."

Alexander made noises of disbelief and outrage as his twin frowned thoughtfully.

Alistair asked, "You said, the Marchioness of... ?"

Rosemary sniffed circumspectly, "Seaforth."

Alistair's eyes widened, "By Jove! Do you know, I had an old Cambridge chum named James Havershaw. He was the younger son of a Seaforth. I bet he would know something about this."

"Hi-ho, hi-ho," cried Kenneth, Lord Dunnett who had crept into the room again during Rosemary's recital. "Then it's off we go!"

As the crowded room rang with the excitement of an adventure, Alexander noted his brother smile more than he had for a long time. "By jove, an adventure will do the trick."