Downstairs, Lord Carleton finished his dinner in solitary state; Mrs Madden, as usual, having refused to join him. Alone, he found himself dwelling on Rosamond's duplicity. Why had she led him on to think she would welcome his attentions if she was in love with someone else? He didn't think now, that he had really loved her but it had been close - he called for a second bottle of claret.

It was a pity Peter had gone to bed, he could have talked him out of the black mood that was pressing down on him. He sat for a long time gazing into the fire and drinking steadily. Eventually he stood up rather carefully and made his way up to bed. The household had retired and quietness lay over everything like a blanket, the light he carried threw vast shadows over the walls.

When he reached his room he looked around for Fanshaw before remembering he had told him not to wait up. Oh well, surely he could manage to take off his own boots for once. He undressed with careful concentration, not that he was by any means drunk by Jove, no, just a little tired. The faint glow from the fire showed the curtains still open around the bed and - he froze. There was a girl's face on the pillow, a girl actually sleeping in his bed!

His mind confused by the claret, he didn't stop to think who it could be or how she had got there. There was only one reason a woman would be in his bed and his first reaction was to throw her out. Before he had even moved however, he had second thoughts. Why not take advantage of what was offered for once? It had been so long since he had slept with a woman. Casting caution to the winds he leant across the bed and kissed the soft lips.

Startled grey eyes opened and the mouth was wrenched away from his. A strong hand thrust him back and a voice cried "No! My lord!" in a shocked, fierce, horrifyingly familiar tone.

In a flash, Carleton was standing back from the bed, his face white with shock. "Oh God! I'm sorry - I didn't - I thought - Oh my God!" he repeated, gathered his clothes up in one arm and fled.

Frances stared after him, her heart thudding like a hammer. What in the name of heaven had he been thinking? He'd looked devastated at her reaction, but how could he seriously believe she would just fall in to his arms? It took a while for her jangled brain to realise Carleton had not been horrified because he thought he had kissed a woman, he thought he had just kissed Peter Francis.

The disaster ran round and round in her mind like a mouse in a cage, trying to find a way out. For a brief moment she considered packing her bags and climbing out the window, but that smacked of bad melodrama. On a more practical note, her boots and breeches were still in the care of Fanshaw, she would have to leave in the morning. Could she pretend she did not remember what had happened? She fell into an uneasy sleep.

Morning came eventually, but no further solution had occurred to her by the time she had packed her bags and made her way down to the breakfast room. To her great relief it was empty. Her stomach was churning, and she helped herself to coffee, unable to face the thought of food. What could she say to him?

Carleton came in. Frances went bright red and could not meet his eyes. "I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, "I'll go straight away."

"I suppose that's the only thing to do," Carleton replied, his voice harsh with strain. He cleared his throat and continued jerkily. "Will you believe me when I say I did not know it was you? I had forgotten we'd changed rooms and when I saw you ... I thought -" he stopped. He could hardly say he'd thought Peter was a girl! "God knows what I thought, but I didn't think it was you, Peter!"

"I know," the words came out in a whisper.

"My God, if I was another type of man I could laugh about this and pretend it was all a jest in poor taste!" He paused again. "You won't - won't speak of this to anyone?"

"Never!" Frances cried, looking at him for the first time. His appearance shocked her. Dark circles under his eyes proved hours of sleepless worry and the tension in every line of his body showed the rigid control he was now exerting on himself. His face was white and drawn, and when she met his eyes she saw agonised shame, and what really shocked her, a touch of fear.

Carleton had not slept for self disgust. It had been a frighteningly short time before the horrifying thought had slid into his mind that perhaps he had known it was Peter, perhaps there was a terrible reason why he had no wife or even a mistress. What would he have done if Peter had kissed him back?

The fear lurking in Carleton's face brought Frances up short, even though she did not fully understand it.

She shook her head decisively, "No, it is not fair! You don't deserve this."

Carlton stared at her, not daring to even imagine what she was leading up to.

"Richard, this will be a shock, but not as great a one as you have had already," she tried to smile and failed. "I must tell you the truth about myself, I have been deceiving you." She took a deep breath. "I am a woman, not a man."

Carleton looked at her in disbelief.

"My name is not really Peter but Frances, with an "e". All that I told you about myself is true, except for that. I disguised myself as a man for my own safety, so I can travel freely and earn my living," she explained carefully, still looking at him. "For most of my life, even when I lived with my father, I was dressed as a boy more often than a girl."

Unconvinced, Carleton shook his head, "I just can't believe it."

"I know it is difficult in these clothes," Frances agreed. "I'll go upstairs and change into a dress, if you will give me ten minutes then come up to my room?"

Carleton looked at her speechlessly, then nodded. As she left the room, he walked over to the window in a daze. What on earth had he let himself in for? Peter (he still thought of him that way) had admitted to him he was an adventurer. Was this some kind of horrible trap to extort money from him? He did not want to believe it, but had everything been an act? No, it was I who kissed him, he reminded himself, still hardly able to bear the thought. Had ten minutes passed yet?

He had to go and see for himself, find out the truth about his sex at least, before he could even start to make any sense of the rest of it.

Frances raced upstairs, thinking only of how she must wipe that terrible look from Richard's face. Her fingers were trembling so much she could barely manage to unlock her bag. Eventually she got it open and scrambled hastily into her green gown. She slipped on the brown wig and dusted a little powder on her face, then stepped into her white slippers as a knock came at the door.

" 'Tis me, Carleton." He wondered fearfully what he would find when Peter opened the door. He heard the key being turned in the lock and then stepped cautiously into the room.

He could scarcely believe his eyes. A young woman stood before him. Peter, no 'Frances' had gently rounded shoulders, unmistakable breasts and a neat waist. Her face looked different too, softer under the curled wig. Needing further reassurance he reached out to touch her. Gently he ran his fingertips down her soft cheek, then down the side of her throat then down to cup her breast with his hand. He could feel it round, heavy and warm through the flimsy material and realised that at least was true, this was definitely a woman! He looked at her again and stepped closer.

Frances had just realised, rather belatedly, that perhaps her bedroom was not the most sensible place she could have chosen to prove she was a woman. She spoke quickly, putting up a hand to hold him off. "I realise this must be very confusing for you, my lord. Will you please leave now, and let me change back to Peter? I will come downstairs and talk to you in a few minutes, I promise."

Carleton stared down at her, grappling with his feelings, uncertain as to whether he wanted to hit her or kiss her, or maybe both! It was painfully obvious what sort of woman she must be, to live that kind of life.

Made uneasy by his continued silence, Frances spoke again, "Let me go, please." Deliberately, she raised her chin and squared her shoulders like Peter Francis. "The answer is still 'no,' my lord."

Carleton flinched and stepped back. "I have no idea whether I am coming or going," he admitted slowly, "My head is still spinning, I need some time to think."

"Unless you would prefer to be alone, could I suggest we go somewhere else to talk? Riding, perhaps?"

"That sounds the safest idea under the circumstances. I'll send word to the stables." He turned on his heel and walked out quickly, shutting the door firmly behind him. He leant against it for a second, fighting a mad desire to rush back in and - too late. He heard the key turn in the lock. It was probably for the best, he was scarcely thinking clearly at the moment. Her voice came to him through the door as if she knew he was still there. "Just don't forget I'm a man, my lord. For Heaven's sake do not order me a side saddle!"