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brothers. There are no men better company than
Lord Guy.”
    Eleanor mentally thanked all the gods for whatever reason brought Guy to the
grove house at this time. She had yet to meet any woman, be she shrinking maiden
or ageing matron, who stood proof against Guy’s charm. Several days of mild and
perfectly harmless flirtation would do Cicely the power of good.
    Eleanor only noticed the unusual fact that his profile was clean shaven as she
neared him.
    “My lord,” she said, “you converse with the carp? Do they exercise your wit to
–”
    He turned. He was not Guy.
    A badly healed scar carved through the right side of his face from hairline to
jaw. Otherwise, though, he was so similar to Guy that he might have been a copy
made by a mortal sculptor from the original crafted by the gods. His angular
features made for a face handsome with character rather than comely prettiness.
Dark brows nearly met above the bridge of his nose. Strong chin. He even
possessed the same sensuous mouth that looked out of place on a warrior’s face.
But the green eyes were darker. More intense. He stared without Guy’s ready,
boyishly infectious smile.
    For the first time in many a year, Eleanor felt the heat of embarrassment rising
to her cheeks. “Your pardon, sir. I mistook you for someone else.”
    He continued to stare openly. The blatant admiration in his gaze, and his
complete lack of attempt to conceal it, robbed his attention of all rudeness.
Eleanor’s sense of humour reasserted itself and she smiled.
    “I thought you Lord Guy, cousin to the queen,” Eleanor said. “I suspect that I’m
not too far in error. You, sir, must be one of his brothers?”
    Where Guy would have replied with an easy remark, the man before her looked as
though he struggled to find words.
    “I have a brother called Guy,” he said. “But I’m not his brother. By your leave,
lady.”
    He bowed and stalked away. His long legs swiftly carried him to the gate and out
of the garden. A peripheral part of Eleanor’s mind noted that his voice was not
as deep as Guy’s, and that he had barely noticed her beautiful niece. Most of
Eleanor’s attention, though, wrestled the conundrum of his apparently
contradictory statements.
    “Did we offend him?” Cicely asked.
    “Any offence was of my offering,” Eleanor said. “Though I cannot think what it
might be. Perhaps he did not appreciate my levity in reference to the carp.”
    Cicely looked uncertain. “How could he be brother and yet not brother to Lord
Guy?”
    “That, I confess, has me at a loss. With any man other than the late Earl
Marshal, I would surmise he meant that he was a base-born son. But it is said of
the late Earl Marshal that he loved his first wife so well that he not only did
not remarry, but took solace in no woman’s arms after her death. Which is so
extraordinary, and contrary to every normal behaviour of men, that there must be
truth to it.”
    Eleanor shook her head. “It seems unlikely that the late Earl Marshal populated
the countryside with by-blows. For certès, though, that man looked the image of
Lord Guy, and only a handful of years younger.”
    Cicely cast a frown at the gate. “Does the Earl Marshal resemble him?”
    “No. Lord Henry is not, I fancy, quite as tall, but is a much broader man. More
powerfully built. He looks strong enough to wrestle a bear.”
    She did not add that, at four and forty years old, Henry was a good decade and a
half older than the man who just departed, with more grey than black in his hair
and beard.
    “Is the Earl Marshal more handsome than his brother?” Cicely asked. “Still, he
must be.”
    Eleanor’s eyebrow arched. Her niece had not considered him good-looking?
    “The Earl Marshal isn’t horribly scarred, too, is he?” Cicely shuddered. “I
cannot imagine looking often upon that disfigurement.”
    Eleanor compared her memories of the two similar faces – of Guy and his
tongue-tied brother – and, in fairness, had to concede