He considered taking a seat, but it was impossible to relax when he could almost hear the echoes of old rows with his father rebounding from the silk clad walls. Instead he paced the drawing room, flexing his aching left hand. It had not healed well after the incident several months earlier when an unpleasant gentleman had carefully broken the bones one by one. A pity that Robin was left handed.

Portraits of stern, upright Andrevilles adorned one wall, their reproachful gazes following their unworthy descendant. They would have respected the goals for which he had worked, but they certainly would not have approved of his methods.

The place of honor above the carved mantel belonged to a portrait of the Andreville brothers, painted two years before Robin had left Wolverhampton for good. He paused to study the painting. A stranger would not know the two youths were brothers without reading the engraved plate. Even their eyes were different shades of blue. Giles was tall and broadly built, with thick brown hair. At twentyone he had already worn the grave air of someone who carried great responsibilities.

In contrast, Robin was no more than average height, slightly built and brightly blond. The portrait painter had done a good job of catching the mischievous twinkle in his azure eyes.

Superficially, he knew that he had changed very little, though he was now thirtytwo instead of sixteen. Ironic that he retained that boyish look when he felt so much older than his years, from having seen and done things better forgotten.

He moved to the window and looked across the rolling, green velvet grounds, immaculate even in late autumn. The first light flakes of snow were starting to fall.

What was he doing here? A scapegrace younger son didn't belong at Wolverhampton. But Lord Robert Andreville didn't belong anywhere else, either.