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  Her mother—was it her mother?—looked at her just as strangely. “Just met? What game are you playing at, Kathryn?”

  “You've found us out, Mrs. Sykes-Prescott. Miss Prescott and I were simply playing a little game,” interposed Ryan smoothly. “It was my idea. All is well between us now.”

  Her mother smiled uncertainly and left them to greet some newly arriving guests. Kathryn, meanwhile, was beginning to sense that something was very wrong. Her mother had never mentioned using the name Prescott this evening, though apparently this Mr. James knew about it.

  “I'll expect payment in full for that favor, Miss Prescott,” he said with a wolfish grin, interrupting her musings. “I'm sure you are grateful to me for deflecting your mother's wrath—for wrathful she would certainly be to find you, ah, toying with my affections.” He allowed his hand to brush hers, and then to slide caressingly up her arm in a manner that was far from cousinly.

  Kathryn stepped away from him hastily, trying to marshal her confused thoughts. “I'm afraid your affections will have to wait, Mr. James,” she said with formal politeness. “Right now, I need to speak to my father.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and made her way to the front of the house.

  The hall seemed to be getting full. Hadn't her mother said that she'd invited only the “best” families? As she made her way between the richly dressed strangers, Kathryn noticed some unlikely odors. Many of the women—and men!—were wearing heavy perfume, and those that weren't seemed long overdue for a good shower. Surely that was taking authenticity a bit too far!

  Her mother was still by the front door, and Kathryn hoped to find her father nearby. He'd always been solidly rooted in reality, and might be able to shed some light on whatever was going on. A portly, middle-aged man she'd never seen before stood at her mother's side, apparently greeting people as they came in. Her father was nowhere in sight.

  “Here you are, Kathryn.” Her mother beckoned to her as she approached. “I was hoping you would join me in greeting our guests. Many of them are anxious to see you now that you are back in South Carolina.”

  Kathryn smiled and nodded graciously to an elderly couple just entering before turning back to her mother. “I really need to speak to Father, if you don't mind, Mother. I'll be back in a minute.”

  “Certainly,” she replied with a surprised look. “In private, I presume you mean? Joseph,” she said, nudging the man at her side, “Kathryn has something to tell you. Don't keep her long, I beg you.”

  The man nodded and held out his arm. “Shall we go into the music room, my dear? I believe it is as yet unoccupied.”

  They went into the formal parlor where she'd met Logan yesterday, only now it was furnished primarily with an old-fashioned piano and a large harp. How odd, thought Kathryn. Those instruments hadn't been here before. And who was this Joseph? She'd wanted to speak to her father. She was feeling increasingly disoriented by now, but the man's next words caused a real surge of alarm.

  “You're not going to berate me again about the slaves, are you, Kathryn?” he asked with gruff affection. “I told you before that I won't have a daughter of mine concerning herself in such matters, regardless of what radical ideas she may have picked up in England. The cotton could never be gathered without them, even with those newfangled machines you keep pressing on me.”

  Kathryn's head swam. This had to be a dream. There was absolutely no other explanation for what was going on. Trying desperately to remain calm, she decided to play along with this man who seemed to think he was her father.

  “No, I suppose you're right. I . . . I just wanted to say I was sorry for upsetting you about it earlier.” She barely knew what she was saying. She had to get away by herself to think. “Um, tell Mother I'll be with her in a couple of minutes. I think I forgot something in my room.”

  Before this man who looked nothing like her father could reply, she bolted from the room, making for the staircase at the rear of the house. Several guests, all complete strangers, spoke to her as she hurried by, but she was by now too distraught to answer. There was no sign of the man who'd introduced himself as Ryan James, and Kathryn breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't feel up to another encounter with him right then.

  It wasn't until she was partway up the staircase, holding her gown up in front so that she wouldn't trip on it, that Kathryn noticed the material between her hands. It was heavier, much heavier, than the silky polyester blend she'd put on an hour ago. And, even more bizarre, it was a pale apricot color instead of blue.

  Kathryn only just managed to reach the landing, where she was out of sight of the guests below. Trembling, she sank onto a step just above the grandfather clock, unable to go any farther.

  What is going on? she asked herself wildly. What the hell can possibly be going on?

  ***

  CHAPTER TWO

  Catherine grimaced as Nancy tightened the laces of her corset. Why did clothing have to be so uncomfortable? Fleetingly, she longed for her childhood, when she had worn simple, loose-fitting frocks, or even, when away from her mother, breeches. Then, she could be comfortable without scandalizing anyone. Even in England, these torture devices had not been necessary for girls of her build, as flowing, high-waisted dresses had been all the rage there.

  “That's enough, Nancy. Don't pinch!” she admonished when the maid gave a final tug to the lacings. “I have no desire to compete with Leslie Allerby's nineteen-inch waist. Twenty-two is dainty enough, if you ask me.”

  After Nancy helped her into an apricot satin gown and put the finishing touches to her hair, Catherine dismissed her. “I should like to relax for a few minutes before I go down.”

  “Yes, Miss Catherine. Mind you don't fall asleep, though, or the Missus'll give you a tongue-lashing for sure and certain.”

  “I won't. Thank you, Nancy.”

  The maid left, and Catherine slowly crossed to the window to stare down at the gardens below. Her mother, proud of her heritage as granddaughter of an earl, had had them laid out in traditional English style with massed plantings of yew, ivy and spring flowers. Catherine scarcely noticed. She was dreading the evening ahead, playing the role her mother demanded while Ryan James leered and embarrassed her at every turn. If she weren't so eager to meet General Lafayette, she'd pretend the headache and refuse to go down at all.

  Why were her parents so set on her marrying? Her father had trained her extensively to manage the plantation that would one day be hers. She could handle it quite well, she thought, without any help from Ryan James. As his wife, she would no doubt be relegated to a purely social role, her opinions on the management of their combined lands counting for naught. Such a life would bore her into an early grave, she was certain.

  Oh, he was handsome enough, she had to admit. In fact, several young ladies of her acquaintance had pronounced him the handsomest—and most eligible—bachelor in South Carolina. But she herself could never remain above five minutes in his company without feeling uneasy. Rumor held that he was an incorrigible ladies' man who would make his wife's life a misery and, even worse, that he was dreadfully cruel to his slaves. She saw no reason to disbelieve either rumor.

  For a moment Catherine tried to imagine another sort of man, the one she would marry. Somehow she knew, with a certainty that went beyond wishful thinking, that such a man existed somewhere, and that he waited for her as she did for him. He would encourage her to read, to explore, to enjoy what life had to offer, not expect her to conform to some silly stereotype of what a woman should be. And he would be a real gentleman. What he might look like, she didn't know. Sometimes she imagined him one way, sometimes another. No matter, though. When she met him, she would know him at once.

  On sudden impulse, she left the window and walked over to her writing desk, unerringly twisting a carved wooden rose petal at one corner. Sitting down, she pulled her diary from the recess revealed and opened it to reread what she had written of her expectations about London. About half had come true. It had been exc
iting, especially at first, and she'd learned much—too much!—about how to go on in civilized society. The etiquette her mother prized so highly was elevated to an art in London. In a way, it was a relief to return to her plain-speaking American neighbors. But some, notably Ryan James, were a mite too plain-spoken for even her liking.

  Catherine picked up the pen and dipped it into the almost-empty inkwell. There was something to be said for recording one's feelings for future perusal. She had only put down a few paragraphs, though, when she heard voices below. Her mother had specifically said she was to be downstairs before eight o'clock, and here she was dawdling! Scribbling one last sentence, she replaced the pen in its stand and the diary in its cubbyhole before leaving the room in a flurry. She and her mother were at odds about enough things without adding one more.

  Yes, she was definitely late—the grandfather clock on the landing began striking the hour as she passed it. It stopped abruptly after four chimes, however, and Catherine glanced at it, suddenly feeling strangely light-headed. The hands had stopped at twelve-twenty and the pendulum was still. She shook her head to clear it, hoping her mother wouldn't add the broken clock to her already long list of sins.

  Resuming her descent of the curving staircase, Catherine suddenly realized she was breathing more easily than she had a moment before. “Perhaps I am finally growing used to these damnable corsets,” she muttered, then guiltily glanced around. If her mother had overheard that expletive, she'd be set to a week of prayers.

  On reaching the ground floor, she noticed that the lights seemed abnormally bright. Had her mother added more sconces for the occasion? She looked up at the nearest chandelier and blinked. Those flames looked like nothing she'd ever seen before—they were white, rather than yellow, and did not flicker in the least.

  “Cathy, there you are!” came her mother's voice. Relieved, Catherine realized that she must not be upset at her tardiness, or she would not have used the affectionate nickname.

  “I'm sorry if I am a bit late, Mama,” she said, turning quickly. “I did hurry. Did you know that something is wrong with the clock on the landing?”

  “Yes, of course, it hasn't worked for years. I did mean to have it repaired before this evening, but the time seemed to slip away.” She paused to chuckle at her own wit. “I must say, Cathy, you look splendid. You must plan to really play the part!”

  “Yes, of . . . of course, Mama,” Catherine answered reluctantly. Was it so obvious that she detested these social games? Why else would her mother have phrased it so? Still, she would try tonight, though she knew if Ryan James began his outrageous flirting, her resolution would vanish like a puff of smoke.

  “Good, good!” Her mother beamed at her, then bustled off to the parlor to make certain that everything was ready for the first guests.

  Catherine glanced after her thoughtfully. Mama looked unusually well tonight, she thought, with an almost youthful glow. There had been something different about her voice, as well, though she could not quite place what it was.

  On her way to the front door, where she knew she would be required to play hostess alongside her parents, Catherine paused in amazement at the sight of a small fountain spraying miniature cascades of water down its ornamental sides. How on earth had her mother managed that? The unusual brightness was even more noticeable by the door, where a chandelier hung lower, and she took the opportunity to examine the new candles more closely. Why, they were not candles at all! Where the flame should be, there appeared to be little globes of glass, lit from within. She had seen gas lights in London, but they had looked nothing like this—nor, in all her extensive reading, had she come across any new inventions fitting this description.

  An approaching figure drew her rapt attention reluctantly away from the chandelier. From his height she at first feared it was Ryan James, but then saw that this man had dark blond hair, not brown, and that it was cropped short, according to the new fashion in England. Just as she noticed that there was something decidedly odd about his attire, he spoke.

  “Something wrong with the light?” he asked, glancing at the chandelier. His voice was deep and rich, and affected her profoundly. “All the bulbs seem to be working. I'm glad I found you here early. I wanted to apologize for my—attitude—yesterday. I was in a foul mood, but it wasn't your fault and I had no right to take it out on you.”

  Catherine stared at the man, tom between admiration and perplexity. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen. A tingle, first icy and then warm, curled through her as she gazed at him. Though his features were unfamiliar, she felt as if she knew him. In fact, she felt inexplicably drawn to him—to the strength in the chiseled lines of his face, the kindness in his eyes. But she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

  “I . . . I beg your pardon?” she finally asked. “Have we met, sir?”

  “That's carrying a grudge a bit far, Cathy,” he said, the softness leaving his hazel eyes. “I wouldn't have thought it of you—or maybe I would. I'd nearly forgotten that sharp tongue of yours. If you decide to accept my apology, fine. But don't expect me to repeat it.” He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving her to stare in confusion at his retreating back.

  Now she had offended him, and she didn't even know why. Even in that outlandish outfit—what had that thing around his neck been, some new sort of cravat?—he looked splendid. She wondered again who he could be. Some foreign visitor, perhaps? His accent had been unusual, but not precisely foreign. More as though he came from some part of the English-speaking world that spoke in a strange dialect. And there was that tantalizing familiarity that made her wonder if they had, indeed, met before, as he had implied. Could it be . . . ?

  She felt a surge of sudden, wild hope. Determined to discover all she could about this fascinating man during the course of the evening, she looked for her mother. She saw her coming out of the front parlor, which had apparently been set up for refreshments.

  “Sorry to leave you alone by the door, Cathy, but no harm done, I see. No one has arrived yet,” she said breathlessly as she hurried over.

  “Someone has, however, Mama,” replied Catherine, glancing over to where the man she had unwittingly insulted stood with his back to them.

  “Logan doesn't count. He's almost family,” replied her mother, dismissing that intriguing gentleman with a wave of her hand. Catherine noticed again a change in her mother's manner of speech and regarded her more closely, although most of her attention was still claimed by the enigmatic stranger. Could her parents have an alternative to Ryan James in mind?

  “You look wonderful tonight, Mama,” said Catherine as the results of her inspection finally sank in. However had she achieved that clearness of complexion? No heavy, covering cosmetic was evident that might account for it.

  “Why, thank you, sweetheart!” Her mother gave her a quick hug, her eyes suddenly moist. “You don't know how I've missed you calling me 'Mama'—”

  Just then the bell rang, and the attention of both ladies was claimed by a steady stream of visitors for the next half hour. Strangely, Catherine didn't recognize anybody, though she had thought she knew nearly everyone in Columbia. Ryan James must not be coming after all, she thought with relief. But where were Priscilla, Jane, or even the pretentious Leslie Allerby? They had all been invited, and none were prone to tardiness.

  As greetings were exchanged, she had ample opportunity to listen more closely to her mother's voice. Something had definitely changed. She spoke more quickly, and with a trace of the same accent she had first noticed in Logan's voice. Was it some new fashion that no one had told her about? She found herself mimicking it almost unconsciously.

  “So this is our actress!” a woman of about her mother's age exclaimed, breaking into her thoughts. “When will we see 'Catherine Sykes-Monroe' up in lights?”

  Catherine blinked at the woman in utter confusion, but her mother answered smoothly, “Cathy's other work has taken precedence over the theater lately, Mary. Did you not read abo
ut the Animal Rights Foundation demonstration that she spearheaded? It was in all the papers. We're so proud of the good she's doing.”

  The woman moved on, leaving Catherine shaken by the incomprehensible exchange. She began to pay closer attention to the comments between her mother and the arriving guests, noticing more and more oddities. For one thing, although those who appeared to know her mother well addressed her as “Catherine,” as might have been expected (although Catherine herself knew none of these “close friends”), more than one guest greeted her as Mrs. Sykes-Monroe—and her mother made no effort to correct them. No mention was made of General Lafayette's incipient arrival, which she expected to be on everyone's lips, and a few of the gentlemen were attired in the same odd style as Logan had been, although most wore the proper knee-breeches and cutaway coats.

  She had not yet seen her father, whom she had expected to share their post by the door, but could not but be relieved at his absence. They had argued violently that very morning about his treatment of the slaves, and she doubted he had yet forgiven her. Certainly she had not forgiven him. In addition, he might have discovered by now that she had taken the forbidden Xerxes from his stable for one last gallop this afternoon (and not sidesaddle, either) before he was delivered to Colonel Hampton, his new owner. For that, he would likely be furious.

  “Oh, Cathy, I'm sorry I'm late!” A pretty, dark-haired girl that Catherine was certain she had never seen before, ran forward to embrace her with the familiarity of an old, dear friend. “I've gotten a little bigger since I started making this dress, and I had a hard time getting into it.” Glancing down at the girl's pink satin gown, Catherine realized that the young lady was “increasing.”

  “I'm sure Cathy doesn't mind in the least, Annette,” commented her mother, smiling fondly on the two girls. “I'll let you go join the guests, Cathy, since nearly everyone is here. I'm sure some of the people who said they wouldn't miss it were politely lying, anyway.”