He flung open a door. “Ah, there you are, Mother.” With a curt gesture he ushered George into the room. Two elegantly dressed young gentlemen immediately jumped to their feet. They bowed, but George had no eyes for them.

The duke ignored the men as well. In an icy voice he said, “You’ve met Lady Georgiana Rutherford, I gather, Mother.”

The duchess turned toward them, showing no self-consciousness. “Yes, of course. How do you do, Lady Georgiana?”

George forgot to respond. She stared at the duke’s mother, stunned.

The duchess was seated, fully dressed, in front of a large round looking glass where she had clearly been making the final touches to her toilette. Her skin glowed, her cheeks were delicately tinged with color. She was dressed to go out, in an elegant, rose-pink silk ball gown, a lacy shawl draped over her almost bare shoulders, darker pink satin slippers on her feet. A magnificent diamond set graced her throat, ears and wrist. On the dressing table before her lay a pair of long white satin gloves and a painted ivory fan.

She was the picture of health.

The two gentlemen, also in the most formal of dress, were, it seemed, her escorts for the evening. They were about the duke’s age.

George didn’t know what to say. “But you’re looking so well, your grace. I thought . . .”

“It was a miracle,” the duchess said composedly. “Snatched back from the brink of the grave, I was.” She smiled at the two gentlemen, who made sympathetic noises.

The duke said in a hard voice, “You’ve had a lot of miracles in your time, haven’t you, Mother?”

The duchess was oblivious of her son’s sarcasm. “I have been blessed,” she admitted modestly.

He turned to George. “Seen enough? Right then, good-bye, Mother.” And he towed George from the room.

She followed him blindly, her brain whirling. Without a word he helped her into the curricle, took the reins and drove away.

After a while, she gathered her thoughts enough to speak. “You mean her illness was—”

“Faked.”

“I thought she was dying.”

“Yes, she’s good at that.” He gave her a grim, sideways glance. “She’s had a lot of practice. Was it the full scene—candles, incense, all the medicines, the lavish use of cosmetics, the onion in the handkerchief?”

“The onion in—?”

“Helps the tears along.”

He sounded so matter-of-fact—furious, but matter-of-fact—that George was stunned. “Does she often do this kind of thing?”