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Every night the sorcerer would come to the knot garden and smile and gloat over the soldier he had ensorcelled. But by day, the sorcerer closed himself in his castle and thought up evil schemes.
One day a swallow joined the birds resting upon Truth Teller’s stone shoulders. This swallow happened to be one of the number formerly imprisoned by the sorcerer, and somehow the bird must have recognized her savior. Gliding down to the yew hedge, the swallow plucked a single leaf. Then she spread her wings and flew high into the sky, away from the castle. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
The luncheon party had already started by the time Helen and Alistair arrived on the Earl of Blanchard’s front step. They’d been delayed because Alistair had been waiting for a mysterious message at the hotel. Just before they’d left, a small scrawny lad had brought him a dirty letter. Alistair had read it, grunted in what sounded like satisfaction, and sent the boy away again with a shilling and another letter, hastily written.
Helen tapped her foot as they waited for the door to open.
“Relax,” Alistair growled softly beside her.
“How can I?” Helen said impatiently. “I don’t know why that letter was so important. What if we missed the luncheon altogether?”
“We haven’t. The carriages still clog the street, and besides, these things go on for hours; you know that.” He sighed and muttered, “You should’ve stayed in the hotel room as I suggested.”
Helen glared. “They’re my children.”
He cast his eye heavenward.
“Tell me again what your plan is,” she demanded.
“All I have to do is get Lister to relinquish claim on the children,” he said in a maddeningly soothing voice.
“Yes, but how?”
“Trust me.”
“But—”
The door was opened by a harried maid at that point. “Yes?”
“Late as usual, I’m afraid,” Alistair said in a loud, cheerful voice entirely unlike his normal tones. “And my wife has just now torn a lace or some such. Perhaps you can show us to a room where she can put herself to rights?”
The girl wrenched her horrified gaze from Alistair’s face and stood back to let them in. Blanchard House was one of the grandest houses on the square, the interior hall lined with pale pink marble and gilt. They passed a white marble statue of Diana with her hounds, and then the girl opened a door leading to an elegant sitting room.
“This will do excellently,” Alistair said. “Please, don’t let us keep you from your duties. We’ll show ourselves in when my wife is ready.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away. The occasion of a luncheon honoring the king no doubt involved every available servant.
“Stay here, please,” Alistair said. He pressed a hard kiss to her lips and swung toward the door.
And froze.
“What is it?” Helen asked.
On the wall by the door was a huge painting—a life-sized portrait of a young man.
“Nothing,” he muttered, his gaze still on the painting. He shook his head and turned to her. “Stay here. I’ll return and collect you after I’ve talked to Lister. All right?”
She had barely nodded when he strode from the room.
Helen closed her eyes and inhaled, trying to calm herself. She’d already agreed that the best plan was for Alistair to talk to Lister by himself. She couldn’t change her mind now. She needed to wait and let Alistair try to persuade the duke. The problem was it was so difficult to simply wait.
She opened her eyes and looked about the room, seeking something to distract herself with. There were several groupings of delicate low chairs, their arms painted white and gilt. Large portraits lined the wall, figures dressed in fashions long past, but the most commanding painting was of the young man that Alistair had stared at. Helen approached and peered up at it.
The painting depicted a young man dressed in casual hunting clothes. He held a tricorne carelessly by his side, and his gaiter-clad legs were crossed at the ankle. He leaned against a large oak tree, a long rifle cradled in the crook of one arm. At his feet, two spotted hunting dogs lay, their heads turned adoringly to the man.
Helen could understand their worshipful gaze. The man was so handsome he was almost pretty, his face smooth and unlined in that first youthful bloom of manhood. His lips were full, sensuously wide, and slightly tilted as if he repressed a smile. His heavy-lidded black eyes seemed to laugh at the viewer as if inviting participation in a naughty joke. His entire form was so full of vigor and life that one almost expected him to leap from the painting itself.
