The situation was far worse than she had imagined. The talk was all over London, and even as unfashionable as Tempest sought to be, it was persistent enough and loud enough that even she could not help hearing the latest on-dit. For Tempest Makepeace had not only defied Saintignon, but caused his horse to toss him on the ground. The talk was far more exaggerated, of course. In the rumors, Tempest heard that she had struck him on the face with his own whip. Closely accompanying the rumors were the wagers on the outcome of Saintignon's rage on her life, gleefully discussed in polite company, as though, Tempest thought resentfully as though her life were less than livestock to be butchered for meat.

Tempest decided there was no point in staying on Curzon Street, waiting to be mobbed by Saintignon's faithful followers. No, she would take the battle to him.

So she searched through the house and found articles of clothing belonging to the servant girls, items that she would never have dreamed of touching had she not sunk to this level. Even when she was hiding out, she hadn't thought it a war, but only something to be endured, much like needlepoint.

But now, she searched through the servants' quarters until she found a simple black garb and a muslin cap. She thought, after putting it on, that she made a very credible maid indeed, even though the thought was depressing.

She had heard that Saintignon frequented White's, the male scion of Torydom in London, and made her way there cautiously at one in the afternoon the following days. By ducking her head low and moving in a scuttling fashion, she found she was virtually invisible.

It was on the third day that she found her target, for coming out of White's at two in the afternoon were Saintignon, Lord Nigel, Lord Marchmont, and Rochefort.

Saintignon, as was habitual, walked in front, his brows drawn down low across the bridge of his nose in an expression of perpetual dyspepsia. She was so focused on him that she saw nothing and nobody else.

She was so intent on her goal that she only half listened to their conversation.

"-a bore," Lord Nigel was saying.

"What's interesting is that Makepeace chit. What's been happening there, Saint?" drawled Marchmont.

"Thanks to Rochefort, I wasn't able to-"

"Speak of the devil," Lord Nigel was saying. Tempest found he was peering in her direction. "Isn't that-"

But Tempest had moved forward. "Saintignon, you're not worthy of the name of gentleman!" she shouted, and she swung out with her reticule and it struck him full on the temple. It was a giant thing, filled with coins, apples she had bought at a costermonger just that morning, and a book of Lady Islington's she had to return to the circulating library.

Full of mounting fury, she hardly noticed the resounding thwack it made against the side of his head, and she hardly noticed when he stumbled backwards and was supported by the arms of his friends. She jabbed him in the stomach and as he doubled over, She was intent only on her anger and she looped a length of red ribbon around his neck and and yanked so that it formed a noose around his neck.

"You are the one who should be eliminated from this town!" she yelled, and before the men could recover, she had run off.

Tempest had made it to the next street before she slowed. What folly! What utter folly! she thought, and yet it had felt like the most satisfying thing she had done this age. If only she had had the courage to pull and pull until she could see Saintignon gasping for air-No. Tempest shook her head to clear her mind of such wicked temptation. She could never have done #that. But oh, how she had wanted to.

The next morning saw a change in Tempest as the victory from the night before set in.

She dressed in her own clothing, and when she emerged from the townhouse, it was with boldness. When men shouted, "There she is!" and she spied men jumping from behind carriage to throw rotten vegetables at her, she jerked out the meat cleaver that she had secreted in her ever handy reticule.

"Come closer!" she shouted, batting away a flying tomato with the meat cleaver. She advanced on the men-boys, really. "I'll show you a horsewoman's power!"

One young man, no older than eighteen, yelped and dropped the cabbage in his hand and dove back into the carriage, shouting,
"God's hounds, she's gone stark raving mad!"

He drove off so suddenly that he left his companions standing in the street, one of which ran off. Another's eyes widened when he saw the gleaming meat cleaver she had filched from the kitchen, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of water.

She couldn't help the surge of satisfaction as she advanced on him, waving the meat cleaver in the air for emphasis. "Are you going to throw that?" she asked, gesturing at the egg in his hand.

He gulped and looked down. "No-er, n-n-no, ma'am," he said, slowly bending and setting the egg on the ground, never taking his wide, scared eyes off her.

"And will you be throwing any more?" she asked, advancing still on him and pointing the cleaver right under his nose.

His eyes followed the cleaver. "N-n-no, no, never, never thought of doing s-such a thing."

"Then I think you had better run and tell your friends that Saintignon's met his match, and that anyone coming around here will get a mouthful of my cleaver and my hunting rifle," she said ominously.

The youth whimpered and backed away slowly before breaking into a hell-for-leather sprint.

It was hardly the most prudent thing to do, Tempest thought. But considering the fact that living up to her name had availed her of nothing, she decided that bearding the lion as per her habits of old couldn't make matters worse. And she had been right. Acting like a quivering, cowardly lady has accomplished nothing. Waving a meat cleaver in the air and running at her adversaries had made them all back down!

The following day, she discovered the tale of her attack on Saintignon and the story of the meat cleaver had made its way across London. She expected she would be shunned, for her behavior was hardly ladylike or politic or even sane.

But then, she was hardly living in a sane world.

"Miss Makepeace," a gentleman hailed her from across the street as she boldly opened the door the following day. He hurried up to her with a wide smile. "Miss Makepeace, you're a heroine! I heard of your actions and may I say that you have inspired me, greatly inspired me! I beg leave to ask you to become my muse!"

It was the tipsy man of the rout so long ago. She nodded dazedly at him and he darted off quickly. She heard him say to his compatriots, "What a thrill! I actually spoke to that Amazon of a woman, and quite a lady she was too!"

She was accosted all the way to the park and back, but nary a sign of violence this time. It was as though she had become a celebrity virtually overnight. From anonymity, she had blossomed into a national savior.

So she had not been wrong, she thought. Saintignon has enemies.

But the enemies were far and few in between.

Tempest found she was given the cut direct by all ladies.

"La, there she goes, mother. Can you imagine why she's still in town?" she heard from a young miss.

"Look away, Penelope," came the reply. "We don't want it getting back to Saintignon that we support such vulgar actions."

But Tempest found that words had little effect after the physical barrage top which she had been exposed. The few supporters she had, who darted up to her smothered with scarves to hide her identity, were enough for her.

Since her life began to resume normally, Tempest found herself walking towards the river Thames one morning and halted abruptly when she heard the notes of song ring through the air. She moved haltingly forward. A flute, yes, a flute, with its sweet music floating wistfully in the morning air.

Somehow she was not surprised to see Lord Rochefort lying in his old spot under the tree, not asleep this time, but playing a small flute with surprising skill.

When he reached a lull in his song, Tempest moved forward into his line of vision and sat gingerly on the rock she had occupied the last time. "It's beautiful, your music," she said quietly.

He gazed up at her with those strange and beautiful dispassionate eyes that fell away and left her feeling bereft. "It's nothing."

When she didn't say anything for a while, he said gently, "You know, I do come here to be alone."

She cleared her throat. "I...I just wanted to thank you properly. If you hadn't saved me that time..."

"It's nothing," he repeated in a bored voice. "Really, I'm beginning to think you're following me. I hope you're not going to pick up that distasteful habit, otherwise I'll really regret saving you."

"No, I..." Tempest found she was at a loss for words. Somehow his presence was so calming that his words should have been hurtful, but weren't. "I hope...I hope we can be friends."

"I daresay that would be unlikely," he replied without inflection, and then with a lithe movement, sprang to his feet and sauntered off.

Somehow even that did not faze her. Despite his cold words, she thought, he was the one to step in and save her. He spoke to her next to the river without attacking her or belittling her.

Then, there was his music.

It has surprised her, moved her. It didn't seem like the music of a beast like Saintignon. It was the music of a poet.

She walked slowly back to Curzon Street. Tempest had planned to leave town the following day. The townhouse was empty of servants and of life. Her goal of tying Saintignon's own red ribbon back on him has been accomplished. She had, moreover, ruined her own reputation, which might have been Saintignon's goal in the first place. There was nothing left for her here.

But...

An image of Lord Rochefort's impassive face appeared unbidden in front of Tempest's eyes.

If she returned to Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble, it was certain she would never see him again.

Was she then betting on staying just for glimpses of him? Was she that foolish?

Tempest was within sight of the townhouse when a carriage rattled to a halt next to her. She failed to react immediately when the doors opened and no stairs were let down.

Without preamble of any kind, Tempest was jerked off her feet and bundled inside.