‘I am not looking to make a marriage.’ She might as well be clear on that matter with Ashe from the beginning.

‘Not tonight anyway.’ Ashe laughed at her defiance. ‘That doesn’t mean we can’t explore other interesting avenues of association.’

‘I decide for myself. You don’t have any claim on me,’ Genevra asserted, although her body knew the latter statement to be something of a lie. Ashe did claim her attentions—in a way that transcended their connection through the estate.

Ashe’s long fingers reached out to stroke a cheek. ‘And what have you decided, Neva? Have you decided to allow yourself the pleasure of a night? It is too late to deny it. I see the desire in your eyes. And not only tonight. I’ve seen it before, in the conservatory. I intrigue you and you intrigue me. I would gladly give you the one night your body is asking for.’

Introducing a brand-new deliciously sinful and mischievously witty trilogy from

Bronwyn Scott

Rakes Beyond Redemption

Too wicked for polite society…

They’re the men society mamas warn their daughters about…and the men that innocent debutantes find scandalously irresistible!

The notorious Merrick St Magnus knows just

HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY September 2012

The untameable Ashe Bevedere needs no lessons in

HOW TO RUIN A REPUTATION October 2012

The shameless Riordan Barrett is an unequalled master in

HOW TO SIN SUCCESSFULLY November 2012

Be sure not to miss any of these sexy men!

About the Author

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.

Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to hear from readers.

Previous novels from Bronwyn Scott: PICKPOCKET COUNTESS NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD UNTAMED ROGUE, SCANDALOUS MISTRESS A THOROUGHLY COMPROMISED LADY SECRET LIFE OF A SCANDALOUS DEBUTANTE UNBEFITTING A LADY† HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY*

†Castonbury Park Regency mini-series *Rakes Beyond Redemption trilogy

Look for HOW TO SIN SUCCESSFULLY Coming soon!

and in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks: LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW ARABIAN NIGHTS WITH A RAKE AN ILLICIT INDISCRETION

And in M&B: PRINCE CHARMING IN DISGUISE (part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages)

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE

The Rakes Beyond Redemption trilogy is a chance to look at three gentlemen of the ton who are transformed for the better by crisis. In Book One, HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY, Merrick faces personal financial ruination and a test of his long-dormant sense of honour when he’s placed at the heart of a sinister wager to transform the retiring Alixe Burke into the Toast of the Season. In Book Two, HOW TO RUIN A REPUTATION, Ashe has to cope with the aftershocks of a death in the family. And in Book Three, HOW TO SIN SUCCESSFULLY, Riordan grapples with becoming an instant father when he inherits his brother’s two young wards.

These are three Regency-style crises that often served to shape families and destinies in nineteenth-century England, but their situations find echoes in modern society: economic hardship, loss and changing family structures in which more and more extended family are stepping in to raise children while parents work, often far from home, to make ends meet.

I thought this was a fitting theme, given the current economic situations around the world and what they mean to regular people like you and me. In the past few years my family, like so many others, has had to decide what’s really important to us about where our money and time are spent. What will we give up and how will we change our living habits to accommodate our needs?

In HOW TO RUIN A REPUTATION Ashe is faced with that same decision. What is he willing to change in order to keep the things and the people that are important to him? Up until now he’d envisaged and lived a fairly self-centred life. He’d never imagined a time when his father was dead and his brother no longer a bulwark of respectability to shoulder the mantle of the earldom. Now the earldom is his—if he dares to claim it. Ashe is not an ideal hero. His father, worried that Ashe might be the heir after all, has made some provisions in his will in order to protect the estate and the earldom’s legacy from the prodigal second son. Death does not make Ashe perfect—he’s not suddenly transformed into a bulwark of familial stability. He is filled with regret, and he does set out to make things right, but it’s not an easy road for him—especially with the nominally perfect Cousin Henry waiting in the wings to take over the estate should Ashe fail.

There are secrets revealed and tests to pass along the way for Ashe in his journey to recognise his true potential. Fortunately, as on any good journey, there is someone to help. For Ashe that mentor comes in the form of Genevra Ralston, an American heiress who understands his trials and failures better than he thinks because she has secrets of her own—secrets Ashe will delight in uncovering as he faces the greatest trial of all…a rake falling in love.

Happy reading—I’ll see you out there!

Drop by my blog at www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com for updates on new titles and sneak peeks.

How to Ruin

a Reputation

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEDICATION

For my dad and Nancy,

just because it’s been a long time since I’ve dedicated a book to you.

Hugs and love to you both.

Prologue

The dim interior of the sickroom bristled with contentious silence. ‘The will must be changed.’ The old earl fairly shook in his chair with the force of his statement.

‘I heard you the first time,’ Markham Marsbury, solicitor to the Earl of Audley over the past ten years, responded with a patience born of long practice. The earl wasn’t his first client who’d had last-minute doubts about his final arrangements. But the earl’s requests might be the most irregular.

‘You disagree with my decision,’ the earl challenged, sounding more like his usual irascible self than he had in months. Perhaps it was a good sign, Marsbury thought hopefully. Perhaps the old man would get better one more time. Goodness knew the earldom could ill afford to lose him now. On the other hand, he knew better. Anyone who had been around lingering death knew the signs: a sudden rally, a brief explosion of energy that might last a day or two—then nothing.

‘Yes, I disagree, Richard.’ They’d become friends over his decade in Audley. ‘I can understand wanting to make the inheritance into a regency, a trusteeship of sorts. After what happened to Alex, it’s a logical course.’ Marsbury shook his head. ‘But to divide the governance into shares and leave fifty-one per cent to her makes no sense. You have two viable male heirs hanging on the family tree, one of them your second son. For goodness’ sake, Richard, she’s not even British. She’s American.’

‘She’s what the estate needs. She’s already proven it in the year she’s been here,’ the earl broke in with vigour, unwilling to hear his position maligned. ‘Some American thinking will rejuvenate the place and she’s become the daughter I never had.’

And maybe even a substitute for the son who had not come home in ten years. ‘Ashe will come home,’ Marsbury put in. But he got out his papers and his ink and began to write. He recognised the signs of early intractability. There would be no dissuading the earl.

‘Not while I’m alive,’ the earl said matter of factly. ‘We quarrelled and he made his position very clear.’

Then the son was a lot like his father, Marsbury thought privately as he finished the codicil and brought the paper to the earl. He held the older man’s hand steady as he signed. The earl hadn’t been able to write on his own for some time. Even with help, the signature was a barely legible scrawl.

Marsbury sanded the document and carefully placed it with the other papers. He reached out to shake his friend’s hand. ‘Perhaps there will be no need for this, after all. You look better today.’ He offered a smile.

The smile was not returned. ‘There is every need for it,’ the earl barked. ‘I’ve done what needs doing to bring my son home. I know my son. What he wouldn’t do for me, he’ll do for Bedevere. He loves Bedevere and he will come for that reason alone.’

Marsbury nodded, thinking of the other two names on the codicil, the other two ‘shareholders’ named in the trusteeship. His father’s death would bring the errant son home, but knowing Bedevere was surrounded by enemies who had been positioned to snatch it up should he falter, might be enough to make him stay.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Marsbury snapped his writing case shut.

The earl gave him a wan smile, looking more tired than he had a few minutes prior. ‘I rather doubt that. If you mean to say goodbye to me, I would suggest you say it now.’

‘You are far too stubborn for such maudlin talk,’ Marsbury joked, clasping the old man’s hand one last time.

Stubborn as the fourth Earl of Audley was, Death was ultimately more so. It was with no surprise that Markham Marsbury received word over his morning coffee the next day that the earl had passed away shortly before sunrise surrounded by family and one Genevra Ralston, the American in whose hands the fate of Bedevere now resided. Markham called for his writing things and dispatched a note to London, hoping it would find Ashe Bedevere and bring him home with all possible haste.

Chapter One

Sex with Ashe Bedevere was one of the ‘Great Pleasures’ of the Season and not to be missed, which explained why Lady Hargrove was favouring him with a splendid pout and a peek-a-boo glimpse of her bosom beneath a carefully draped sheet in hopes of persuading him to stay.

‘Surely a few more minutes will not matter,’ she protested with a coy look, letting the sheet slip ever so provocatively over the curve of her hip.

Ashe shoved his arms through the sleeves of his shirt, dressing rapidly. Whatever he’d found appealing about Lady Hargrove’s feminine assets earlier in the evening had vanished in the wake of the note that had come for him. He pulled on his trousers and favoured her with a sinful smile designed to placate. ‘My dear, what I had in mind for us takes more than a few minutes.’

The promise of deferred pleasure was enough. Ashe eased out the door before she could argue, all his thoughts fixed on one goal: getting to Bedevere, the Earl of Audley’s family seat. Never mind that Bedevere was three days’ ride away. Never mind he hadn’t any idea of what to do once he got there. Never mind he could have answered numerous requests to return home in the past years and hadn’t. Never mind any of it. This time it was different. This time, the solicitor had written two desperate sentences. ‘Come home. Your father has died.’

Ashe sprinted the last few streets to his rooms on Jermyn Street, fuelled by a sense of urgency and impotence. He’d always thought he’d have more time.

Three days later

God and the devil in the details! Ashe swore none too softly and pulled his bay stallion to a jolting halt. This was Bedevere land? More to the point, this was his father’s land? He could hardly reconcile the weed-choked fields and broken stone fences lining the roadway with the once-fertile fields and immaculate roads of his youth. He’d seen plenty of the devil since he’d ridden on to Bedevere land and not much of God. How had it come to this?

A sharp pang of guilt stabbed at him deep and hard. He knew the answer.

It was his fault.

The current summons home wasn’t the first, but it would be the last. Ashe could have come home long before when the first bout of illness had settled in four years ago. He could have come home when his brother had gone round the bend two years ago for reasons still unclear to him. But he hadn’t and an extraordinary consequence had occurred as a result: the timeless fortitude of Bedevere had faltered, proven fallible at last. He’d waited too long and all this ruin could be laid at his feet.

It seemed an ironic twist of fate that he was now poised to be the curator of a place he’d so willingly fled in years past. The place had been perfect then, so unlike his imperfect self. It was less perfect now and he was still flawed—a broken king to rule a broken Camelot.

There was no use in putting it off. Ashe kicked his horse into a canter for the last ride home. His trunks would have arrived yesterday, signalling that he was not far behind. The aunts had probably been up since daybreak, anticipating his coming, and they would all be waiting.

All four of them. He was their protector now, a role he felt ill suited to play. He supposed that was part of the Bedevere legacy, too; the Bedevere women didn’t marry men who had the foresight to provide beyond the grave and the Bedevere males hadn’t much luck in living long enough to do it for them.

The rough-kept lands preceding the park were a blessing of sorts in that they prepared him for the sight of the manor. Ivy crawled rampant across the formerly pristine sandstone of the hall’s façade. A shutter hung loose from a second-storey window. Flowerbeds were overrun with plants that had long outgrown their intended shapes. Nature was having its way with the once-orderly estate.

Years ago, it had been a point of pride that Bedevere Hall, seat of the Audleys for four generations, was the gem of the county. It might not have been the largest home—Seaton Hall was bigger just a few miles to the south—but Bedevere was by far lovelier with its comely gardens and well-appointed views. From what Ashe could see trotting down the drive, there wasn’t much of that left now.

Ashe dismounted and steeled himself for what lay inside. If the outside looked this bad, he could only imagine what had taken place inside to allow such decay to be permissible. A lone stable boy ran up to take his horse. Ashe was tempted to ask him about the state of things, but decided against it. He’d rather see it all with his own eyes.

Ashe doubted he’d even finished knocking before the door swung open and time stalled. Gardener stood there, as tall and sombre as Ashe remembered him, perhaps a bit greyer, a bit thinner, but very much the same. Growing up, Ashe had thought it was funny to have a butler named Gardener and a gardener named Smith, who looked to be long gone from the state of things.

‘Mr Bedevere, welcome home.’ Gardener bowed, ‘I am sorry for the circumstances, sir.’

For a moment, Ashe almost looked behind him to see who else had followed him home—the greeting had been so very formal.

‘This way, sir,’ Gardener said. ‘You are expected.’

Ashe followed Gardener down the hall to the drawing room, making mental notes as they went: bare hall tables, faded rugs and curtains. There was a shabbiness to the house. But most striking was the emptiness. There were no maids polishing the staircase, no footmen awaiting errands. The usual bustle of the hall was silent. There was Gardener and the stable boy. Presumably there were more, including a cook, hopefully, but Ashe didn’t want to presume too much. It didn’t look promising.

Ashe paused outside the drawing-room door and took a deep breath. Beyond those doors lay a responsibility he’d eschewed for years. He had his reasons. It was a mean act of fate that all his efforts to avoid it had come to naught. The Bedevere legacy, the one thing he’d tried so hard to escape, had landed quite squarely in his lap anyway. Perhaps it was true that all roads lead home in the end.

‘Are you ready, sir?’ Gardener enquired. With years of impeccable service behind him, Gardener knew how to read his betters and had given him a few seconds to prepare himself.

‘Yes, I’m ready.’ Or not. Ashe squared his shoulders.

‘Yes, sir, I believe you are. Ready at last.’ Gardener’s eyes held the twinkle of approval.

‘I certainly hope so,’ Ashe replied with a nod of his head. He could see Gardener’s rendition of the tale below stairs already, full of admiration about how the young lord had ridden in, taking no time to fuss over his appearance after a long ride. Instead, he’d gone straight to his aunts.

Gardener had made a habit of seeing the best in him in his youth. Gardener would make him out to be an angel by evening. But if he was an angel, he was a very wicked one. Heaven forbid anyone at Bedevere ever learn what he’d been doing the moment the message of his father’s demise had arrived. In hindsight, ‘aggressively flirting’ with Lady Hargrove seemed akin to fiddling while Rome burned.

Gardener opened the door and cleared his throat. ‘Ladies, Mr Bedevere.’

Ashe stepped into the room, noticing the difference immediately. The curtains were faded, but the best of what was left in the house had been brought here. There were vases filled with flowers on the side tables, pillows on the sofas, little knick-knacks set about the room for decoration. Ashe saw the room for what it was: an oasis, or perhaps bastion was a better word—a last bastion of gentility against the bare realities that lay outside the drawing-room doors.

His eyes roved the room, taking in the surprising amount of occupants. His aunts were not alone; Leticia, Lavinia, Melisande and Marguerite were settled near the fireplace with a man he didn’t recognise, but it was the woman seated just beyond them, by the window overlooking the garden, who held his attention. She was of uncommon loveliness—dark-haired with wide grey eyes framed by equally dark lashes against the creamy backdrop of her skin. Even in a crowded London ballroom she would stand out. Ashe suspected she’d chosen her seat away from the others in an attempt to be discreet, a task her beauty no doubt made impossible under the best of circumstances. Today, in a room peopled by elderly ladies and a middle-aged man, there was no opportunity for obscurity.

Ashe approached and gave his aunts his best bow. ‘Ladies, I am at your service’, but his gaze kept returning to the corner. Her comeliness was not all due to her good looks. It was in the way she held her slender neck, the straightness of her shoulders, both of which said, ‘Notice me, I dare you.’ For all her delicate beauty, she was no shy maiden. He could see it in the jut of her chin and the frank stare of her gaze in spite of her efforts at anonymity.

Leticia swept forwards, white-haired, regal and perhaps more fragile than Ashe remembered. They were all more fragile than he remembered, except for the siren at the window. She’d been watching him since the moment he’d entered the room, no doubt wondering and assessing, just as he was now. She was no one he recognised, but apparently she was important enough to be invited to his homecoming. More importantly, she’d been invited into the household in the aftermath of a significant death.

Ashe was cynical enough in his dealings with the world to be suspect of such an invitation. The aftermath of funerals were private matters for families, a chance for the bereaved to mop up the particulars of the deceased’s life, re-organise and carry on. The weeks after a funeral were intimate times. Strangers were not welcome, although strangers invariably came in the hopes of grabbing a scrap from the table. Lovely, dark-haired females aside, Ashe had a word for those importunistic people: carrion.

Leticia took his hand. ‘Ashe, it’s so good of you to come. I am sorry we could not wait to bury him,’ she said softly.

Ashe nodded. He knew that, counting the time it had taken for a message to reach him in London, at least six days had passed since his father’s death. Even with all haste, he’d known he’d miss the funeral. One more regret to heap on an already laden platter.

‘Come meet everyone. This is Mrs Ralston, our dear Genni.’ She gestured fondly to the lovely creature at the window. ‘She’s been our rock in our time of need.’

Genni was far too girlish a name for the woman. She rose and extended her hand, not to be kissed, but to be shaken. ‘It is good to meet you at last.’

Ashe did not miss the note of censure in her tone, so subtly hidden no one would notice it except the intended recipient—or was that his own guilt-plagued imagination imposing its own frameworks?

‘Mrs Ralston, a pleasure, I’m sure,’ Ashe returned drily. Whoever she was, she’d already inveigled her way into the aunts’ good graces. He doubted she was a companion, at least not a successful one. Her demeanour was far too confident to play that submissive role and her clothes too fine. Even the simple lines of her afternoon gown of forest-green merino were cut with the perfection of a high-class dressmaker; the lace trim at her collar and cuffs was demure, but expensive. From the looks of Bedevere, affording that calibre of companion made the point moot. But it raised others. If she was not a companion, what was she?

‘Genni has bought Seaton Hall for restoration.’

‘Is that so?’ Ashe said politely, but his speculations ratcheted up a notch. That probably wasn’t all she meant to take advantage of. A woman choosing to take on the responsibilities of an estate alone was quite unusual. Perhaps there was a husband at home? Leticia didn’t make it sound as if there were and there was no more information forthcoming. A young widow, then. Interesting. Young widows often had the most peculiar histories, some of which didn’t necessarily include husbands.

Leticia moved on to complete introductions. ‘This gentleman is your father’s solicitor, Mr Marsbury. He’s generously stayed on until your arrival so the estate can be settled.’

Ashe extended a hand, taking Mr Marsbury’s measure. He was an older gentleman, bluff and florid, reminding Ashe of a country squire. ‘Thank you for your timely note. I hope you haven’t been unduly inconvenienced.’

Marsbury’s demeanour was as firm as his handshake. ‘It’s been no trouble. It made more sense to wait for you to arrive since everyone else involved is already here.’

Ashe gave ‘Genni’ a cool glance. Did the unfamiliar beauty have a stake in his father’s estate? A kaleidoscope of unpleasant scenarios ran through his mind—if she was a widow, was she a late-life lover his father had taken? Did she hope to be provided for?

With that pile of satiny black hair and the delicate sweep of her jaw, Ashe had no trouble believing she could entice even the most resolute of men into a proposal, a difference of thirty years in age notwithstanding. Ashe raised his eyebrows in query. ‘Everyone else?’

Marsbury met his gaze evenly. ‘Your cousin, Henry Bennington.’

Cold suspicion took up residence in Ashe’s stomach. ‘What does my cousin Henry have to do with anything?’

‘Henry has been a great support these past months.’ The beauty spoke up from her station by the window. Ashe imagined he saw the quicksilver lightning of emotion flash in the depths of those grey eyes. Did the beauty carry a tendre for Henry? Henry of the blue eyes, golden hair and manipulative manners?

Ashe met her gaze evenly over the heads of the others. ‘Forgive me if I find that hard to believe. Cousin Henry’s only notable distinction, other than his penchant for collecting literature, is being the nearest male heir should my father die without surviving issue; a prospect, I assure you, he has long dined out on.’ Most especially, Ashe knew from London gossip, in recent years when Ashe’s brother, Alex, had no longer been a contender and Ashe’s own lifestyle seemed destined to place him on the explosive end of a jealous husband’s pistol.

Marsbury folded his arms across his broad chest and coughed to indicate his disapproval of Ashe’s comment. ‘Mr Bennington will join Mrs Ralston and ourselves in the study where we can discuss everything privately.’

Ashe noted Mrs Ralston looked up with surprise that was rapidly masked. An act, perhaps?

Ashe turned his hard stare on Marsbury, his voice firm with command. ‘Yes, we certainly shall.’

So, the reading of the will was to involve the three of them. Certainly not the ménage à trois he was used to, but the dynamics were the same: two on one. Ashe wondered if the delectable Mrs Ralston and Henry had cooked something up together. She’d been quick to defend him and that had raised Ashe’s suspicions.

Whatever webs his cousin had been weaving in his absence, Ashe wanted it understood that Henry Bennington had no authority here, nor did pretty, dark-haired Americans. Ashe Bedevere had returned.

Chapter Two

The elusive Mr Bedevere had returned. The room fairly vibrated with the evidence of it even after he’d departed with Marsbury. Genevra was not sorry to see him go. In a span of minutes he had unnerved her as few people could. She needed time to gather her thoughts and settle her surprise over the summons.

Genevra turned her attentions out the window, giving the aunts some time to digest their own excitement over Bedevere’s arrival. He was the kind of man who stirred excitement wherever he went. Power sat on his broad shoulders as comfortably as his travelling cloak. But she’d met powerful men before. What had disturbed her most was the sensual potency of him. He wasn’t just confident, he was seductive. His devil-dark hair had been windblown and rakish, his green eyes as hard as jade when he’d looked at her, his very gaze seeming to penetrate her innermost thoughts with an intensity that had sent a frisson down her spine.

If she could get through the reading of the will, she would make sure to avoid Mr Bedevere when at all possible. Perhaps there’d even be enough chambers done at Seaton Hall for her to move back home. That would certainly help her keep Mr Bedevere at a distance.

‘We shall have a party!’ Lavinia exclaimed to the others. ‘Cook can fix pheasant and we’ll put flowers on the dining-room table.’

A party at which Mr Bedevere would be the guest of honour. Genevra turned from the window, her hopes of quick and immediate avoidance sinking a bit further.

Melisande gasped. ‘Do you think we should? We’re in mourning.’

‘It will be private, no one will know and it’s not as if there will be dancing afterwards,’ Lavinia said staunchly.

She held out a blue-veined hand to Genevra. ‘Isn’t our nephew a handsome one? I told you he was.’

Genevra smiled and took Lavinia’s hand. If the ladies wanted a party, she’d give them one. The past months with the ailing earl had taken a toll on them and not one of them was a day under seventy. She’d ridden over daily to help and had eventually moved in to stay over the winter to be of assistance while Seaton was undergoing renovations. Henry had already taken up residence by then and she’d meant it when she’d said Henry had been a support, which was more than she could say for the errant Ashe Bedevere.

Perhaps the allure of an inheritance had finally been the carrot to bring him home. Whatever had brought him, he was here now. Having taken his measure, she’d do best to keep him at arm’s length. Forewarned was forearmed. She’d finally got her life back together. She’d learned her lesson. She wasn’t about to let a handsome man turn her life upside down again.

The study was getting crowded, Ashe thought uncharitably. He’d barely seated Mrs Ralston when Henry made his entrance, striding towards him, hand outstretched, a wide smile on his face. ‘Cousin Ashe, it’s so good of you to come.’

Ashe didn’t trust that smile for a moment. Most of the trouble Ashe and his brother had ever found themselves in could be laid at Henry’s feet. Henry had a habit of making others pay for his misdeeds.

‘So Aunt Leticia has already told me.’ Ashe replied drily. Had there really been that much doubt? Ashe made no move to shake the offered hand. He was gratified to see that his lack of a polite response gave Henry a slight pause.

Henry regrouped and took an empty chair, smoothing his hands on his trousers in a nervous gesture. ‘I would have been down sooner to greet you, but I was taking care of some estate business.’

‘It’s my home, cousin, I don’t need to wait on an invitation.’ He would not tolerate being treated as a guest in his own house. Nor did it sit well that Henry had sailed in here and commandeered the estate. Well, no more.

Ashe moved to take the upper hand. ‘Marsbury, let’s get on with your business.’

Marsbury settled a pair of spectacles on the bridge of his nose and folded his hands on the desk. ‘Gentlemen, Mrs Ralston, as you are aware, circumstances are somewhat unusual in this case. The earl has died, but his oldest son has suffered a nervous breakdown that has left him incapable of overseeing the estate. The title will, of course, transfer to the legitimate heir. Mentally incapable or not, he is still a recognised peer. Alexander Bedevere is officially the fifth Earl of Audley until his death. Should he die without a legal son, the title will pass to you, Mr Bedevere. This is all very regular. However, in the meantime, there is the estate to consider.’ Marsbury eyed them over the rim of his spectacles. ‘In his present condition, the current earl cannot be expected to manage the estate or its finances.’

Ashe was listening intently now. He’d known the title wouldn’t be his, he hadn’t wanted it. He was perfectly happy being Mr Bedevere, London’s finest lover. But now, he sensed that Bedevere itself was in danger. The cold pit in his stomach spread a little deeper.

On either side of him, Mrs Ralston and Henry had their own reactions; Henry’s eyes contained a barely concealed expectation while Mrs Ralston’s hands were white from their iron grip on the arms of her chair. Henry was excited, but Mrs Ralston was cautious, perhaps even alarmed and trying to hide it.

Marsbury went on, ‘The former earl petitioned the crown for a regency to be granted, not unlike the regency granted during King George III’s illness. The petition was granted a few months before Audley’s death. Under a regency, your father was free to appoint any guardians or trustees he saw fit.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ Ashe growled.

‘It means, cousin, that Bedevere, in the common vernacular, is up for grabs.’ Henry was all nonchalant insouciance.

Marsbury cleared his throat in censure of the indelicate translation. ‘Not exactly, Mr Bennington. I think it will become clearer if I read the settlement straight from the will.’

Marsbury withdrew a sheaf of papers from his valise and began to read. ‘I, Richard Thomas Bedevere, fourth Earl of Audley, being of sound mind and body on the twenty-fourth day of January, eighteen hundred thirty-four…’

The date pierced him. This codicil Marsbury read from was not some long-standing document.

The alteration had been made the day before his father’s death. Ashe shot Henry a speculative look. Had Henry talked his father into something absurd? Had Mrs Ralston? Sick, desperate men were fallible creatures. Perhaps more than one person had got their talons into his father.

The first part of the reading covered what Marsbury had already relayed concerning the transfer of the title. It was the second part that garnered Ashe’s attention.

‘During Alexander Bedevere’s lifetime, the Bedevere estate shall be managed under a regency overseen by the following trustees who have been allotted the following shares of influence: to my son, Ashton Bedevere, with whom I regretfully quarrelled and have not seen since, I leave forty-five per cent of the estate in the hopes this will inspire him to embrace responsibility. I leave to my nephew, Henry Bennington, four per cent of the estate in the hopes he will understand he has got his due reward. Finally, to Genevra Ralston, who has been like a daughter to me in my final days and who has inspired me with her vision of a profitable estate, I leave fifty-one per cent of the estate.’

Ashe went rigid at the implication. The estate he’d been reluctant to assume had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders, but Ashe did not feel relief. He felt anger. He felt resentment. Had his father thought such an arrangement was what he’d want? Or had his father thought something else altogether less altruistic? He could divine those reasons later. Right now his brain was calculating at lightning speed and discarding scenarios about this particular three-way regency. Had he been meant to align with Henry?

Henry’s four per cent did nothing for him. Aligning with Henry would only give him forty-nine per cent. Clearly his father did not mean to achieve a reconciliation between him and his cousin from beyond the grave. It served as further proof that Henry was no good and his father suspected it. From the insult-red beet colour of Henry’s face, Henry knew it too.

‘Four per cent! That’s it? After all I’ve done this past year?’ Henry burst out. ‘I gave up a year of my life to come here and look after him.’

‘No one asked you to make that choice,’ Marsbury said calmly. ‘Surely you chose to look after your uncle out of a sense of familial duty and not out of misplaced avarice?’

Well done. Marsbury rose a notch in Ashe’s estimation. Henry glowered and stood up, making a hasty departure on the premise that he had a meeting elsewhere. That left only Mrs Ralston. She was beautifully demure, her gaze downcast, effectively hiding what must be a barrage of thoughts. She’d just inherited, at least temporarily, a controlling share in the governance of an English estate. Was she shocked? Was she secretly pleased that all had come out as she’d perhaps so carefully planned?

‘Mrs Ralston, I would like a word with Mr Marsbury,’ Ashe said, assuming she would be well-bred enough to hear the implicit request for privacy. She did not fail him.

‘Yes, certainly. Good afternoon, Mr Marsbury. I hope we will have the pleasure of your company on happier occasions.’ Mrs Ralston seemed all too relieved to quit the room. Perhaps she was eager to go up to her rooms and do a victory dance over her good fortune. Or perhaps she was eager to sneak off and celebrate with Henry at his supposed meeting. Together they could rule Bedevere at least during Alex’s life, which should by rights be a long one. It had not escaped Ashe’s mathematical attention that fifty-one plus four gave Henry a lot more control of the estate through Mrs Ralston. Of course, forty-five plus fifty-one maximised his own control of the estate quite nicely.

It was all becoming clear. Whoever wanted to control Bedevere had to go through Mrs Ralston. His father must have thought highly of Mrs Ralston indeed.

Marsbury set down his papers and folded his hands calmly as if he told sons of earls every day how they’d been essentially cut out of their father’s will.

‘Mr Bedevere, I think you come out of this better than you believe at present. You will inherit in due course should your brother’s life end prematurely, whereas Mrs Ralston’s tenure will terminate at some point.’

Marsbury had said absolutely the wrong thing. Ashe fought the urge to reach across the desk and seize Marsbury by the lapels in spite of his earlier favourable outlook towards the man. ‘Is that supposed to console me? Because I assure you, it does not. There’s nothing I’d like better than to have my father alive and my brother restored to his right mind.’

‘Mr Bedevere, I can see you’re disappointed.’

‘I’d say disappointed is an understatement, Mr Marsbury. Let’s be clear about this. I am mad as hell and, for the record, nobody takes what’s mine, not an upstart American who has somehow weaseled her way into the family, nor my cousin.’ Growing up, Henry had always been a snake in the grass as far as Ashe was concerned. He was not getting his hands on Bedevere. Henry would run through the estate within a year.

Apparently most of Marsbury’s clients took bad news sitting down. Having no idea how to respond to the blunt remark, Marsbury cleared his throat again and glanced meaningfully at the documents. The man was positively tubercular. If he cleared his throat one more time, Ashe thought he just might leap across the desk anyway.

‘Don’t think I cannot see what my father has done.’ Ashe fixed Marsbury with a hard stare. ‘He is mandating marriage without saying the words. The man who weds Mrs Ralston will gain control of her shares upon marriage.’

‘That is your construction,’ Marsbury said firmly.

‘And Henry’s too, no doubt, once he arrives at it,’ Ashe said coldly. Henry had never been quick. ‘It will be a race now to see who can woo the lovely American to the altar.’ He paused in contemplation. Every scrap and speck of human nature went back to motives, his father’s nature notwithstanding. ‘Can you tell me, Mr Marsbury, why my father would have wanted that?’

Marsbury cleared his damned throat. ‘Bedevere needs an heiress, sir.’

Marsbury’s announcement was the final coup de grâce. Ashe felt the quiet words like a blow to the stomach. Bedevere was debt ridden? How was that possible? His father had always been a strict and diligent steward of the funds. Sometimes too strict for a young man about town, but Bedevere’s coffers had always been full.

‘How bad is it?’ He’d not anticipated this. But neither had he anticipated contesting Henry for his own inheritance.

Marsbury met his gaze, his tone matter of fact. ‘The money is all gone. Your brother went and lost it a few years ago in some fool land investment that turned out to be a swindle.’

‘The Forsyth scandal?’ Ashe said with no small amount of disbelief. Three years ago, London had been rocked by the land swindle. It had dominated the newspapers. Shares of a Caribbean island had been sold to merchants and nobles looking to invest in New World property. The problem had been that the island did exist, but it had turned out to be swampy and infested with tropical disease. The shares were valid, but worth nothing. Ashe knew several people who’d lost money, but he’d never imagined his brother would be caught up in it. Alex had always been too intelligent, too reserved for rash behaviours.

Marsbury nodded in confirmation. ‘That was the major one.’

Lucifer’s stones, there’d been others? The sensation of guilt returned. If he’d come home when first asked, he might have caught his brother in time. Three years past would have put the incident right before Alex’s breakdown. Perhaps his brother’s faculties had been failing even then to have taken such an unprecedented risk.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing left?’ Ashe put the question to Marsbury.

‘I’ve looked over the books. Mr Bennington has looked over the books. No stone has been left unturned, or in this case, bled.’

Henry had looked over the books? Henry had known Bedevere’s assets and worth right down to the last farthing and done nothing? Arguing Henry had known and done nothing made Ashe look like a hypocrite, even to himself. In the years of Bedevere’s demise, he had done nothing either. Yet it seemed as though Henry’s crime was the worse. He had been unaware, but Henry had allowed it to happen.

‘Can I challenge this will?’

Marsbury sighed and shook his head. ‘You can appeal the process, of course, but this was a special dispensation from the crown and there is legal precedent for it no matter how unusual the situation. I do think it will be a waste of your time and energies.’

‘Energies better spent pursuing Mrs Ralston?’ Ashe supplied with a dose of sarcasm.

‘Yes, if you want to keep Bedevere.’

Ashe clenched and unclenched his fist at his side in an attempt to hold on to his temper. Again, there was the subtle implication that he did not have to assume Bedevere unless he chose to. He could leave it to Mrs Ralston and Henry. It would stay in the family and perhaps Mrs Ralston’s American ingenuity would protect it against Henry’s inherent stupidity.

Ashe sighed. It was time to talk about the American. ‘What did Mrs Ralston do to earn my father’s regard? Did she think to marry him at the last moment, but having failed to do that decided to influence the will with her apparent fortune?’ His tone left no mistake as to what kind of ‘influence’ she might have wielded; the kind women had wielded against men since Eve.

Marsbury, who’d managed to stay cool throughout the difficult interview, did look nonplussed at that comment. He was from the old school. One could talk about money baldly with other men, but one did not bandy about slanderous consideration regarding the fairer sex.

‘Mr Bedevere, Mrs Ralston could buy Bedevere ten times over if she had a mind to.’ Marsbury’s voice was cold as he gathered his papers into a folder. ‘Her “apparent” fortune is quite tangible, I assure you.’

‘You have to understand this all comes as a shock to me.’ Ashe held the man’s gaze.

Marsbury took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair. ‘Shock or not, it boils to one common denominator. You, Mr Bedevere, are in great need of an heiress and there’s one practically living next door with a shipping line and a hundred thousand pounds to her name. I’d call that a pretty piece of serendipity if I were you.’

‘That’s where we differ, Marsbury.’ Ashe fixed the solicitor with a hard stare. ‘I’d call it suspicious.’ This was starting to look a lot like a conspiracy: an estate that had been allowed to fail, coffers that had suddenly become prey to a string of bad investments, a recently altered will and a rich American living in Henry’s pockets.

The next question was—at whose door step did he lay the blame? Mrs Ralston’s? Henry’s? Were they both in it together? Maybe he was too cynical. Maybe the conspiracy was his father’s—one last attempt to order his wayward son’s life to specification. His father had thrown down the gauntlet even on his deathbed. Marriage to a woman of his father’s choosing was to be the price for Bedevere, for his wildness, for ever having left. Ultimately, whose conspiracy this was didn’t matter. The only thing that did matter was what he was going to do about it. Would he sell himself in a marriage of convenience to save Bedevere?

Chapter Three

The aunts were all in it together. Genevra had seen their conspiracy for what it was: matchmaking. She would do almost anything for the old dears, but she couldn’t do that. The last thing she was looking for was male attention even if it came with a set of broad shoulders and mossy-green eyes.

Genevra smoothed the skirts of her evening gown one last time before she entered the drawing room. The gunmetal-silk gown was one of her favourites and she’d need all the confidence it afforded if she was going to withstand the probing gaze of Mr Bedevere and the romantic hearts of the old aunts.

Dinner would be a polite battle on two fronts, even if there wasn’t the issue of the estate between them. The announcement this afternoon had been most unexpected. Not once had the old earl offered any indication of his thoughts. He’d been intrigued by the American management practices she’d shared with him and she’d known he held her in high esteem. But to leave her the majority share in the estate had not occurred to her.

She appreciated the honour the old man had done her and she would do her best for him. He had been a father to her when she had no one. But taking on the estate also meant taking on other complications, not the least of which waited for her on the other side of the drawing-room door. Mr Bedevere would not be happy or complacent about the current arrangements.

Genevra stepped into the room and her eyes fixed on the man standing at the fireplace mantel. Surely the old earl had not been blind to the implications created by giving her fifty-one per cent. He’d all but set her up to be a target for his errant son should the son decide he wanted the estate. She liked to think she was sighting her enemy straight away, but she would have noticed him regardless. How could she not? He stood there surveying the room, surveying her, like a king from his throne. Washing away the road dust had done nothing to diminish his aura of power. It was the hands she noticed first. Long, elegant fingers negligently wrapped about a preprandial drink in a way that conjured up the most decadent of thoughts. She couldn’t help but wonder what else he could do with those hands.

Quite a lot if his eyes told the wicked truth. She’d stared too long and he’d caught her. Genevra blushed. A slow smile on his lips said he was making her accountable for it. She looked away from his face with its straight Grecian nose to avoid the forthright heat of his gaze only to find her eyes travelling down the length of his well-apportioned body. Good lord, she couldn’t look him in the eye, and no self-respecting lady should look at him there where her efforts had landed. She’d try his face again—that was where normal people looked at each other, after all.

Then he spoke without a hint of animosity, his tone more reminiscent of bedrooms than drawing rooms. ‘Mrs Ralston, allow me to properly welcome you to Bedevere. There wasn’t time earlier.’ He might as well have said, ‘Mrs Ralston, allow me to properly welcome you to sin.’ How many women had he led astray already with that voice? She’d never encountered such a blatant sexuality before. Yet she knew precisely what it was; it was dangerous and it drew her as thoroughly as a magnet draws iron filings.

Years of hostessing for her father and then for Philip saved her from an utter loss of words. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Mr Bedevere. Your aunts have spoken of you often.’

Genevra managed a curtsy, determined to do her best for the aunts. Tonight was to be a party. The ladies were dressed in their best silk dinner gowns that had seen more fashionable days, but their spirits were high. The aunts, herself, Henry—all of them deserved a slightly festive occasion. Henry! Genevra’s mind tripped back over its thoughts.

She’d been so distracted by the handsome newcomer she hadn’t realised Henry was missing. ‘Will Mr Bennington be joining us tonight?’ Genevra’s eyes swept the room guiltily in case she’d simply overlooked him. Not that anyone would overlook Henry with his good looks and guinea-gold hair.

‘No, dear, Henry had an appointment to dine with the Brownes at the vicarage,’ Leticia offered.

Genevra furrowed her brow, trying to recall the appointment. ‘Mr Bennington didn’t say anything yesterday about it when we went out walking.’ Nor had Vicar Browne when they’d stopped by to deliver some items for the sewing circle.

Leticia waved a hand in airy dismissal. ‘He said it came up rather suddenly this afternoon. But our Ashe is here now.’ There was no chance to say more. Gardener announced dinner and there was a potent moment when Genevra thought the dark god at the fireplace was going to offer her his arm to go into supper. Instead, he turned to Leticia. ‘Shall we, Aunt?’

The regal Leticia giggled for a moment like a young girl. ‘It’s been an age since anyone’s taken me into supper, young scamp.’ She took his arm and said with a wink, ‘You have two arms, don’t you, my boy?’

‘Mrs Ralston, would you do me the pleasure?’ He was all polished English manners in his dark evening clothes, but the eyes that held hers weren’t mannerly in the least. Those eyes seemed to be studying her from the inside out, a decidedly uncomfortable predicament that left her feeling as if she was standing there naked.

The Bedevere dining room was turned out in its best; the long dining table was set with the Bedevere china and crystal and a vase of hothouse flowers graced the centre, courtesy of Lavinia’s greenhouse efforts.

In the friendly light of candles, one could forget the worn surroundings. There was a whisper of Bedevere’s past glory here, of what it must have looked like in more prosperous, happy times, Genevra thought. Mr Bedevere seated them all, giving her the spot on his left and Leticia the seat on his right. At least the devil had manners aplenty, she’d give him that. But manners and good looks made her wary. Philip had had just such a way about him and, in the end, he’d not been so very fine.

‘Are you enjoying Seaton Hall, Mrs Ralston?’ Mr Bedevere enquired politely after a creamy bisque had been set down in front of them.

Genevra smiled. Seaton Hall was one of her favourite topics. ‘Very much. There’s been quite a bit of work to do on the gardens, but I hope to have them finished in time for summer.’ The gardens were the first stage in a much larger plan she had to turn Seaton Hall into a tourist business. If Mr Bedevere was willing, she could do the same here and help the estate generate funds. He really shouldn’t object. The estate was in need and his ten-year absence made it plain that he didn’t live here. The experiment would hardly inconvenience him.

Bedevere cocked a dark eyebrow her direction. ‘Won’t you be going up to London for the Season in a month or so? I would have thought the entertainments of the city would be vastly more appealing, especially after a long winter in the country.’

There was no question of being in London. There was too much work to be done here. It was an excuse she’d long relied on and in time it had become the truth. Besides, the only reason to be in London was to catch a husband. In London, she would attract too much attention and someone was bound to dig up the old scandal. Genevra shrugged and said with a great show of nonchalance, ‘London holds little allure for me, Mr Bedevere.’ London could keep its prowling bachelors. Her brief marriage had not recommended the institution worth repeating.

He held her gaze over the rim of his wine glass for a second longer than was decent, long enough to cause a note of silence. When he spoke, his words were deliberate and commanded everyone’s attention. ‘Why is that, Mrs Ralston? London is generally held to be one of the finest cities in the world. For myself, I’ve lived there for several years and have yet to grow bored with it.’

Genevra had the vague feeling she was being quizzed, tested. There would be more questions she’d rather not answer if she didn’t take the offensive now. She shot him a quick smile, ‘Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? We can’t all live in London. Someone has to hold things together in the country.’

There was the slightest movement of his dark brows in acknowledgement of her sweetly delivered barb. ‘Touché, Mrs Ralston,’ he murmured for her ears alone, leaving Genevra to wonder if her subtle attack had done her more harm than good.

Genevra turned her attentions to the aunts. It was far easier talking to them than it was their nephew, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of Mr Bedevere’s eyes on her, seeking answers as if he intuitively knew the answers she’d supplied were blithe smokescreens for the truth. It was impossible. He’d only just met her. He couldn’t possibly guess she was here because this was her refuge, because the rural backwaters of Staffordshire was one place where scandal couldn’t find her.

The rural backwaters of Staffordshire were full of surprises these days, not the least of them the elegant young woman on his left with her piles of dark hair and exquisite figure shown deliciously in a gown of gunmetal silk.

Ashe decided by the fish course that Mrs Ralston would have been a pleasant delight under other circumstances. Watching her converse with his aunts about their watercolours and embroidery had pleased him.

By the time pheasant was served, however, all that pleasantness had begun to work against her. Her answers about her presence here had been vague earlier and far too non-committal for his tastes combined with the fact that she was almost too good to be true.

Ashe watched her with stealthy objectivity as she cut into her pheasant; here she was, beautiful, rich, apparently disposed to a genteel temperament that pleased his aunts, and living practically next door precisely when he needed an heiress to save Bedevere.

His father’s intentions couldn’t be more blatant. The only thing more transparent was his aunts’ matchmaking efforts. If the efforts hadn’t been aimed at him, he would have found them humorous. The old dears weren’t even trying to be discreet as they flaunted Mrs Ralston’s charms shamelessly course after course. But always Ashe’s thoughts came back to the one idea: when things were too good to be true, they probably were.

All through dinner, he’d looked for a defect: a nasty table manner, a poor conversation ability, an annoying habit. He was disappointed to note that, in spite of her American upbringing, she used the correct fork, carried on flawless conversation without the slightest stutter and hadn’t a single bad habit visible to his critical eye.

It all begged the question: what was an attractive heiress doing here of all places? In his experience, such a paragon of marriageable womanhood should be in London, American or not. There was no reason for her to be in the country. That in itself was a point of intrigue. Why would she be here when she didn’t have to be?

There were really only two answers that came to mind: she was hiding, which carried all sorts of unsavoury implications, or the likelihood that she was fortune hunting—title-hunting, to be exact. That was the only fortune Bedevere had to offer these days and she had to be well aware of it.

Beside him, the mysterious Mrs Ralston laughed, a wonderful throaty sound with a hint of smoke, a laugh made for evenings and candlelight. She shook her head at something Melisande had said and the candles caught the discreet diamonds in her ears. Expensive diamonds. It had been a long time since he’d been able to afford to give a woman such a gift. They sparkled enticingly, lending her an air of sophistication.

It was all too easy to see how his father might have been fooled by her. It was also all too easy to see what she might have been after with her diamonds and elegance; perhaps she’d thought to marry his father before he passed away, no matter what Marsbury thought. That strategy having failed, she’d now opted to stay on and wait to snare the title eventually through the sane second son. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had traded themselves for a title. One didn’t have to be a sick man to find Mrs Ralston’s charms appealing. His own growing fascination with their dinner guest was proof enough of that.

Ashe drained the rest of his wine and set his glass aside. Wedding and bedding aside, it was time to uncover her secrets before things went any further, a task Ashe thought he’d might enjoy just as much as uncovering her.

‘Mrs Ralston, perhaps you’d do me the pleasure of a stroll in the conservatory. I seem to recall it used to be lovely by moonlight.’ No time like the present to start with that uncovering.

His suggestion was met with great enthusiasm from his aunts and he had a sudden vision of all of them traipsing through the conservatory, a scenario hardly conducive to seducing one’s secrets.

‘Genni has made so many improvements to the conservatory,’ Lavinia put in. ‘She saved the roses last summer when they came down with aphids. She mixed up a special spray.’

‘Well then, Mrs Ralston, I don’t see how you can refuse. Shall we?’ Ashe rose and offered her his arm. Walking brought her close to him, her skirts rustling against his trouser leg with the sway of her motion. She smelled of lemongrass and cassia as she walked beside him. It was a telling scent, not the standard lavender or rosewater worn by so many of London’s débutantes. The sharp spicy edge of lemongrass was not an innocent’s perfume. It was a woman’s perfume: a smart, confident woman’s.

At the entrance to the conservatory, he moved his hand to the small of her back and ushered her ahead of him. He left his hand there, comfortably splayed. Touch invited confidences and he wanted hers very much.

His intuition hadn’t been wrong. The conservatory was beautiful. Moonlight streamed through the glass roof and the scent of orange trees lingered enticingly. A small fountain trickled in the background.

‘This is my favourite place at Bedevere.’ Mrs Ralston tried to walk ahead of him, a step too fast for his hand to remain at her back. Ashe closed the gap with a long stride, his hand remaining unshakeable at her back. He was making her nervous. Good.

‘I can see why, Mrs Ralston, it’s very lovely.’

Chapter Four

He was most definitely making her nervous. Not even an innocent débutante would believe he was talking about the conservatory with a remark like that. Especially not after the way he’d studied her with his eyes all through dinner, stalking her without moving from the table or after the way his hand had loitered so deliberately at her back. What was worse, his attentions had aroused her. She was honest enough to admit it, to herself at least.

‘This place holds the heat in winter. The glass makes it possible to trap the heat from the sun.’ She was rambling out of some desperate need to minimise the tension that had sprung between them. ‘Your father liked to come here when he was well enough. Henry and I would bring him and spend the afternoons reading.’

She stopped suddenly and faced him, realising she hadn’t offered any condolences. It had seemed the wrong thing to do amid the gay atmosphere of the aunts’ dinner party. ‘I am sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man, a brave man.’

‘Was he?’ Mr Bedevere’s green eyes narrowed in dangerous disagreement. ‘Pardon me, Mrs Ralston, I don’t need a stranger to tell me about my father.’

A person of less fortitude might have flinched under the cold words. She squared her shoulders and met his gaze unswervingly. ‘Forgive me, I thought perhaps it would ease your grief to know he died well.’

‘Why? Because I wasn’t here?’

There it was, the crime she’d charged him with at the dinner table—absent Ashe Bedevere who couldn’t be bothered to come home. It seemed wrong that she, a mere stranger of a neighbour, had seen more of the earl in his last days than his own son had.

‘Surely you knew how grave his situation had become.’

‘Is the pun intended, Mrs Ralston?’ There was a terse set to his finely carved jaw and a hardness to his gaze that matched his rigid posture.

Genevra bristled. Handsome or not, it was ill mannered of him to think she’d engage in witty word play in the midst of a delicate conversation. ‘No. The pun is not intended. Was your absence? Intended, that is.’

His eyes glittered dangerously, his tone forebodingly quiet. ‘I must inform you, Mrs Ralston, I find this an unsuitable topic of conversation between two people who have barely met.’

Genevra tilted her chin upwards a mere fraction, letting her cold tone convey just the opposite. ‘My apologies for any untoward assumptions.’

His eyes were studying her again, the hardness gone now, replaced by something else more feral. ‘You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean, Mrs Ralston.’ The faintest hint of a wicked smile played on his lips. The dratted man was calling her out, fully aware she hadn’t really apologised.

‘And you, sir, should know better than to scold a lady.’ Genevra opted for the high road.

‘Why is that?’ He stepped closer to her, the clean manly scent of him swamping her senses, his nearness hinting of the muscled physique beneath the clothes. He was all man and there was no place for her to go. She’d backed herself against a stone bench. This was nothing like being with Henry. Henry was the consummate companion, comfortable, never imposing. There were no prickles of awareness like the ones goose pimpling her skin right now.

‘Because you are a gentleman.’ At least he was dressed like one. Up close, she could appreciate his impeccably brushed jacket stretched elegantly across an impressive breadth of shoulder and the rich cabernet hue of his waistcoat. But other than the clothes, she had her doubts.

‘Are you sure?’ His voice was low and she was acutely aware of the long curling strand of hair he’d wrapped around one finger. He gave her a sensual half-smile, his eyes roving her face, flicking down ever so briefly to her throat and perhaps slightly lower. His attentions were perilously arousing.

‘No,’ her voice came out in a hoarse tremor. She wasn’t sure of anything in that moment, least of all how they’d arrived at this point. They’d been talking of his father. But the conversation had wandered afield from the comforting solace she’d intended to something else far more seductive and personal.

‘Good, because I can think of better things to do by moonlight than quarrel, can’t you?’

His next move startled her entirely. Before she could think, his hand was at the nape of her neck, warm and caressing, drawing her to him until his mouth covered hers in a full kiss that sent a jolt of heat to her stomach.

The kiss was all hot challenge and she answered it without provocation. The arrogant man was far too sure of himself. He needed to know he wasn’t completely in charge. His tongue sought hers and the kiss became a heady duel. He tasted of rich red wine against her lips. His hands were warm against the fabric of her gown, massaging, pressing her to him, making her aware of the hard lines of him and the most sinful invitation his body issued. She arched her neck, letting his kiss travel the length of her throat. This was not the hesitant kiss of a moonstruck dandy. This was the kiss of man proficient in the art. The kiss promised fulfilment. If she took the invitation, she would not be disappointed.

Her arms were about his neck and she breathed deeply of him. If temptation had a scent it would be this: the understated mixture of sandalwood and vanilla combined with the clean smell of freshly laundered clothing. Genevra nipped at his ear, eliciting an entirely male growl of appreciation. She was not the only one intoxicated by the duel.

Without warning, Ashe stepped back, releasing her, his eyes a smoky green. It was his eyes that held her attention. They were surrounded by long soft black lashes, but the green orbs were hard and assessing when he looked at her. They were not the eyes of a man in the throes of desire, although his body argued that to the contrary.

‘I don’t know what you’re doing here, Mrs Ralston, but I will find out.’

‘What makes you think I’m doing “anything”?’

‘A woman doesn’t kiss like that unless she wants something. Badly.’

It took a moment to comprehend, so unexpected was the comment. ‘If I were a gentleman, I would call you out for that.’ Genevra fairly shook with rage. She’d never been so insulted. If he wasn’t careful, she’d call him out anyway.

‘We’ve already established there are no gentlemen here at present,’ he drawled. ‘And you, Mrs Ralston, are no lady.’

Genevra stiffened, her temper rising. If she couldn’t call him out, there was one thing she could do. She slapped him right across the face.

In the retrospection of a sleepless night, Genevra understood she’d slapped him as much for her behaviour as for his. She should have been indifferent to that kiss. Instead, she’d been so flustered that she’d ordered her carriage and set out for home, finished renovations or not. She’d not spend a night under Ashe Bedevere’s roof.

She had still been berating herself as she tossed and turned through a sleepless night until she’d finally given up and risen at dawn, her mind more than eager to ponder her behaviour while she watched the sunrise from her window.

There were several reasons she could offer as to why she’d given in. First, there was the element of surprise. She hadn’t been expecting such an audacious move on his part. Second, she was lonely. Except for the company of Ashe’s aunts and Henry, this part of Staffordshire wasn’t exactly a hotbed of society.

These were good excuses for her momentary lapse, but none of them could disguise the reality. She’d let her independent streak get the better of her. He’d baited her and she’d taken the lure, unable to resist the challenge. He’d been testing her again as he had at the table, but it hadn’t been the test she’d expected. She’d thought he’d been testing her mettle. It hadn’t been until afterwards when he’d spoken those insulting words that she’d realised he’d still been probing for answers as to why she was here in this place of all places and why his father would give her controlling interest in the estate. Answering his challenge as she’d done had not been the best way to allay his concerns.

She hoped the slap had conveyed her intentions as readily as his hot gaze had conveyed his. He was a seducer of the first water, used to getting what he wanted. But in this case, he would not succeed in seducing her fifty-one per cent out of her. His game was far too obvious, even if his kisses had been nothing short of dazzling. Never had anything roused her so thoroughly or so immediately. The stirrings of such emotions was a risky pot. Kisses could cloud a woman’s mind, make her forget certain realities. She’d learned her lesson with Philip. He’d only wanted her for her father’s money. Bedevere only wanted her share of the regency.

Genevra rose from her chair and prepared to dress. Debating herself over Mr Bedevere’s kiss was accomplishing nothing. What she needed was activity to purge last night’s memories. Time in the garden overseeing the new landscaping would be just the thing to distract her.

Chapter Five

Henry heartily wished for a distraction—a bird hitting the glass panes of his benefactor’s prized French doors, a servant spilling hot coffee on someone’s lap. Really, anything would do as long as it took the gentlemen’s eyes off him. Breakfast wasn’t his favourite time of day, especially when he had bad news to report. All eyes at the well-set table fixed on him. The meal had long been finished. It was time to discuss the business for which their host, a Mr Marcus Trent, had invited them all.

‘Well, Bennington, we’ve had our kippers and ham. Tell us how the will went yesterday. Are you in full possession of the trust?’ Trent was a florid figure of a man with blunt manners honed in a merchant’s world. His sense of competition and honour had been honed in a different world—however, a darker, more dangerous world where one took what one wanted at the point of a knife if need be. For all the wealth and fine trappings surrounding Trent, he was no gentleman. Henry had noted at the beginning of their association not to run afoul of Trent’s good humour. He very much feared he was about to do so.

‘There is good news,’ Henry began cheerfully. ‘My uncle did indeed set up a trusteeship for the running of the estate, as I told you he would.’ They needed to remember he had been right about some things. If it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t even have this opportunity to begin with.

Trent’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Who is the trustee, Bennington?’

Henry looked at the four other men assembled, sensing their growing worry and, with it, their growing distrust of him. Of them all, he was the outsider. These five men had done business together before. ‘Three of us were named trustees: my cousin, Ashe, myself and the American, Mrs Ralston. We’ve all been given a share of influence when it comes how the estate is to be managed.’

‘What precisely is your share?’ Mr Ellingson, the group’s accountant, spoke up from the far end of the table.

‘Four per cent,’ Henry offered with feigned pride. He’d been livid over the slight all night. How dare his uncle reward him with so little after a year of his devotion. But Henry would be damned if he’d let this group of cut-throat investors see that disappointment. He went on to spell out the details of the other portions given to Ashe and Genevra while Ellingson stared at him thoughtfully, doing sums in his head.

‘This is not what we agreed upon,’ Trent put in after Henry had finished. ‘You said Bedevere wouldn’t come home, that he’d want to sell his shares, that he’d be lucky to receive any shares at all when you got through kowtowing to your uncle.’ The others murmured amongst themselves up and down the length of the table. Henry fought the urge to squirm. He’d been wrong about Ashe and therein lay the crux of his troubles. He’d wagered Ashe wouldn’t come home.

Ellingson spoke up. ‘There’s only one thing for it. Bennington needs to wed the Ralston widow. Marriage will secure him the majority interest in the estate. Her control will pass to him upon marriage and give him fifty-four per cent.’

Trent nodded with approval. ‘The Ralston chit is perfect.’

Henry’s blood chilled a degree at the potential direction this conversation was heading. They were going to mandate marriage, his marriage, as if it were of no major import. ‘There’s always a possibility she’ll refuse me.’ Henry hedged.

The table roared with congenial laughter. ‘You’re too handsome to be refused, Bennington.’ The man next to him clapped him on the back and Trent tossed a bag of coins on the table. ‘Buy her a pretty bauble and be done with it, Bennington. We’re an “I do” away from untold wealth. It would be a shame to falter here at the last.’ Trent surveyed the group. ‘Let’s meet again in a week and see how our young Romeo is progressing.’

Henry smiled and pocketed the bag of coins, but he didn’t miss the implication of Trent’s dismissal. He had one week to secure the promise of matrimony to a woman he’d not choose to marry of his own volition. Since yesterday, his prospects had been steadily going downhill.

Henry took the long road home, giving plans a chance to settle in his head. He would change clothes, then he would call on Genevra. The thought of pursuing her left a sour taste in his mouth. He had cultivated her friendship of course during the earl’s illness because it pleased the earl. The old man had doted on the pretty American. But Henry had seen right away how outspoken she was, how she would be the most non-compliant of wives. She would never give him full control of her money, even if she did happen to fall in love with him. He’d have to beg every shilling from her. It would be like asking his father for an allowance all over again. But it would be worth it, he reminded himself. There was much to be gained.

On his suspicions, a bore hole dug four years ago on the outskirts of Bedevere land had produced a promising sampling of lignite, indicating a rich deposit of coal beneath the land. It stood to be the most plentiful coalfield in Audley, a piece of Staffordshire known not only for its hops and gardens, but for its coalfields as well. The possibility of attaining such wealth demanded extraordinary effort and the men he’d partnered with weren’t afraid to go to extremes. But so far, the extremes were all his. Aside from the money Trent’s cartel had put up, the risks had all been his. They hadn’t spent a year currying favour with the old earl, nor were they now facing a forced marriage.

He had to keep his eye on the goal. He would go courting today and keep in mind the purgatory of those consequences would last only a short while.

It had been a hell of a day and it was only two o’clock. Ashe pushed a hand through his hair, not caring that the action caused his hair to stand on ruffled ends and leaned back in the leather chair. At least here in the study he had the privacy he needed to think. There was so much to think about, it was hard to know where to start.

He’d spent the morning going over the estate books, trying to get a sense of where to start first, assuming he’d come up with some funds. Did he start outside with the gardens or inside with the most-used rooms? Maybe he didn’t start with the house at all. Maybe he should start with the tenant farmers in ways that would generate income.

Ashe sank his head into his hands. He didn’t know the first thing about managing an estate and there was no one to ask, unless one counted Henry. It would be a cold day in hell before he took that option. Ashe shut the leatherbound ledger. The numbers in the columns didn’t add up and there were bills to pay. Surely the horses listed as sold last autumn hadn’t gone for so little. The value posted in the ledger was half their worth. His father had kept prime cattle and knew their value.

Ashe pushed back from the desk. The morning hadn’t been an entire waste. He’d done what he could with regard to bills, which had amounted to writing assurances to those who held Bedevere’s outstanding accounts telling them all would soon be remedied. He wasn’t sure how he would see it remedied, but they didn’t need to know that.

He’d also sent off letters to London. One was a private message to his closest friend, Jamie Burke, asking him to look into Genevra Ralston’s background on the off chance that someone had heard of the American. That much money surely wouldn’t go undetected by society no matter what its nationality. If he was required to marry her, he wanted to know who she was and if there was any detrimental scandal attached to her name. It wouldn’t have been hard to hide such a thing from his father, but Mrs Ralston would find he was a bit more worldly than his father.

The second was about money as well. He’d enquired about the potential of a loan, as futile as such an enquiry seemed. Ashe was under no illusions. If he could not prove he was the predominant regent, no bank would advance him any funds.

Why does it matter? ventured the devil on his shoulder. If you don’t get the estate, why do you care if it goes to rack and ruin? If Henry wants it, let Henry figure out a way. If Mrs Ralston wants it, let her buy your shares and be done with it.

Because it’s the right thing to do, regardless, answered the angel on the other.

Because it’s my home, Ashe thought. Because he’d spent his life proving his father wrong. He wanted to prove his father was wrong here, too. His father and he had had their differences. Those differences had driven him away years ago, but he could not believe his father hated him that much, believed in him that little, to wrest Bedevere from him. Then again, his father had not planned on losing Alex. There’d never been a need for his father to consider leaving Bedevere to him. If only he could talk to his father one more time, try to explain why he’d had to go.

The devil on his shoulder wasn’t satisfied. If you want to save Bedevere stop brooding over books you can’t make sense of and start wooing that pretty heiress at Seaton Hall. You need money and she’s got ‘piles’ of it.

Genevra Ralston.

All his thoughts seemed to come back to her. In and of herself, she was enough to keep a man busy with all her mysteries. Woman in hiding or brazen fortune hunter, it hardly mattered which. Both spelled trouble. It was a matter of how much trouble he was willing to tolerate along with her money. And trouble was a surety. Last night had established that without equivocation.

He’d not dreamed she’d respond so ardently to his advances. He’d meant to warn her that she played with a man who was out of her league. He knew women and he knew their games. Just because he loved women didn’t mean he trusted them. They were as brutal as men when it came to getting their way.

His head ached. The estate wasn’t the only thing that needed sorting out. There were emotions he hadn’t expected to feel, and answers he desperately wanted. What had really transpired at Bedevere in his absence? What had really happened to his brother? He would have to find time to see Alex soon, although the prospect was one he dreaded.

A knock interrupted his thoughts and Melisande poked her head around the door. ‘There you are, Ashton.’ Only his aunties called him that. Not ‘Ashe’ like the ladies in London, who claimed he could burn them to cinders with one smouldering look of his green eyes.

‘You’ve been cooped up in here for hours.’ She clucked disapprovingly. ‘You should go for a ride. You never know when the weather will take a turn for a worse this time of year.’ She settled herself in a chair across from him at the desk. The chair was large and gave the impression of swallowing up his petite aunt. Old age had made her appear even smaller than he remembered, but no less sharp. She eyed the ledgers.

‘Are you making sense of it all?’ There was hope in the question. She wanted to hear that all would be well, that things would be better. She wanted to hear he’d found a hidden cache of money or a mistake in the ledger that suddenly rendered them wealthy again. He didn’t fault her for it. It was what he’d hoped, too, when he’d sat down with the books that morning, still in disbelief that the Bedevere largesse could all be gone.

Ashe offered her a warm smile. ‘There were no miracles in the ledgers. But we’ll make our own miracles, I promise.’ He would find a way to keep this promise, never mind the string of broken, half-kept promises that littered his past. He had a lot to make up for. He was only just beginning to understand he wasn’t the only one who’d borne the consequences of his choices.

‘Genni will be our miracle, Ashton,’ Melisande said with a straightforward confidence that bore none of Ashe’s own cynicism on the subject.

Ashe didn’t wish to argue with his aunt, neither did he know how much they knew regarding the will. Was this a comment she made because of their less-than-subtle matchmaking efforts, or because she knew ‘Genni’s’ business acumen would save the estate? Ashe merely shrugged.

The non-committal shrug wasn’t enough for his aunt. Melisande leaned forwards and said with force, ‘Genni. We all like her and your father thought highly of her. She’s the one we want.’ He’d never heard his delicate flower of an aunt sound so demanding. At least the outburst had confirmed her motives. She was strictly about matchmaking. She didn’t know about his father’s arrangement, only her own.

‘She might not want me,’ Ashe ventured.

‘She will. You can be irresistible when you choose, Ashton.’ That shamed him. Aunt Melisande meant it with all the goodness of her heart, remembering the pretty child and the handsome youth. She had no idea how ‘irresistible’ the man had become or how he’d bartered those charms for a price.

Melisande pushed a soft package in brown wrapping paper across the desk at him. ‘Since you’re going for a ride, I thought you could take this to Seaton Hall. It can be your reason to visit and then you can apologise.’

‘Apologise for what, Aunt?’ Ashe drawled obtusely.

‘For whatever you did to her last night. She’s too much of a lady to say anything, but she left so quickly we knew something had happened. I hadn’t even had time to give this to her.’ A scolding and guilt all rolled into one.

Melisande patted his hand. ‘A good apology is never wasted on a woman’s heart, Ashton. Your great-uncle could always turn my head with one. Women are capable of great forgiveness if men ask for it.’

‘And if we don’t?’ Ashe teased, taking the package.

Melisande winked. ‘Then we’re capable of a great many other things.’ She rose and made to leave. ‘I’ll tell the groom you’ll want your horse brought around in twenty minutes.’

She shut the door behind her and Ashe let out a laugh. He’d been thoroughly manoeuvred by his seventy-three-year-old aunt. So much for delicate and fragile.

Twenty minutes later, Ashe swung up on Rex. Seaton Hall wouldn’t have been his destination of choice after last night. But, Ashe thought with a touch of mischief, it would be rather interesting to see how the stunning Mrs Ralston would follow up last night’s slap.

He spurred Rex into a canter and gave the big horse his head through the meadows. He took a jump over a stone fence and revelled at the wind in his face. He took another and let loose a cry of pure enjoyment. There weren’t fences like this in London. Anyone could ride in London as long as they could walk a horse through Hyde Park, but this kind of riding across open fields took an accomplished rider.

Ashe came to the road leading to Seaton Hall and reined Rex to a walk. No one in London thought of him as a country gentleman. It had been a long time since he’d thought of himself that way, but, buried and ignored, that was the stifled truth. Behind the fancy clothes and elegant manners, he was a product of the quiet rural lands of Staffordshire. Like himself, Staffordshire often struck him as a place of contradictions. The land was riddled with mining and industry, yet a large part of the land had also maintained its rural nature with fields for farming, and its proclivity for beautiful gardens; a proclivity Bedevere had apparently let slide in the last few years, but one that Seaton Hall had embraced with success from the look of things. Roles had been reversed. Under Genevra Ralston’s money and careful eye, Seaton Hall had emerged as the belle of the county while the once-elegant Bedevere strangled in weeds.

Ashe turned up the drive, noting with an appreciative eye the trimmed grass of the parkland, the organised flower beds showing early shoots of spring flowers poking through the soil. In a few months, those beds would be vivid with colours. Bedevere had looked like that once. Jealousy stabbed. He wanted Bedevere to look like that again. But that was foolishness, at least this year. One did not waste efforts on pretty gardens when there were bills to pay and mouths to feed. Perhaps if he could get a loan. Right now, everything hinged on money, even his own potential marriage. On his own, with no funds to speak of, what he could do was extremely limited. Once married to Mrs Ralston, an infinity of possibilities lay open to him—one more reason to sell himself in this marriage of his father’s choosing.

Ashe sighed. The reasons for marriage were mounting. His desire for freedom, to make his own choice when the time came were starting to look petty and stubborn next to the gains the marriage would give him.

At the door he was told Mrs Ralston was in the back gardens and was shown to a brightly done sitting room at the front of the house where he could wait. If the room was indicative of Seaton Hall’s recent fortunes, the American was doing very well for herself indeed. The creamy-yellow paint was fresh, the white-plaster moldings newly painted. Dusky-blue curtains framed the long windows overlooking the front drive. The pillows on the blue-and-yellow sofa were invitingly plump. Best of all, there was a pianoforte along the wall.

Ashe ran his hands along the keys experimentally, noting the full, mellow tones. It must be new if it had the Babcock strings. Curiosity piqued, Ashe gently lifted the lid of the case and peered inside, the old excitement rising. Ah, yes, the soundboard was cross-strung. He couldn’t resist.

Ashe sat down and began to play. It felt good, it felt liberating. There was no one to judge, no one to impress. This was just for him.

Chapter Six

Bedevere was here. The very thought brought a flutter to her usually stable stomach. What did one say to a man one had previously slapped? ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘I hope your cheek isn’t terribly sore today?’ Obviously the slap had not achieved the desired effect. He’d come to Seaton Hall, clearly undeterred. And here she was, gardening in an old gown in a desperate attempt to forget last night had ever happened.

If she was going to face Ashe Bedevere, she had to look decent. Genevra slid one of her favourite afternoon gowns over her head, a green-and-white sprigged-muslin affair that made her feel pretty and confident. She gave her hair a quick brushing to get rid of any garden debris she might have acquired. It wouldn’t do to give that green-eyed rogue a reason to touch her hair again, even if it was under the auspices of picking out a leaf.

Genevra was still trying out possible greetings on the stairs when she heard the music. It was lovely. Perhaps a lieder? It was far beyond anything she could produce. No one had mentioned Mr Bedevere had brought a guest.

At the doorway, Genevra halted in surprise. There was no guest. The musician was Bedevere himself. His back was to her and she took advantage of it, reacquainting herself with the broad shoulders and wavy black hair that skimmed decadently over his collar, too long and too full for fashion’s dictates, but just right for him.

The piece ended and Genevra clapped. He started at the intrusion and turned on the bench. ‘Please, continue.’ Genevra took up a seat on the sofa, relieved that the music had offered a neutral entrée into their meeting. She could smoothly avoid any awkwardness over last night now.

‘I am afraid the piano doesn’t get much use, but I thought I should have one anyway for musical evenings. Although I must confess, we haven’t had one yet for all our good intentions.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve played enough. It’s a fine instrument. It’s new, I can tell from the strings. Do you play, Mrs Ralston?’

‘Only moderately,’ Genevra confessed. ‘But I am glad the instrument is a good one.’

‘Come here, and I’ll show you how good it is.’ Bedevere moved to the side, gesturing for her to join him. She crossed the room, unable to refuse the irresistible excitement that hummed about him as he peered into the case. He smelled of wind and vanilla, an entirely intoxicating combination when associated with a man.

‘These strings are Babcock’s. He patented them a few years back. They’re thicker than the old strings, allowing for increased volume.’ Bedevere plucked a string inside the case for demonstration. ‘And now piano makers are cross-stringing the soundboards to create more resonance.’

With hands like that, she should have guessed. ‘You’re very accomplished, Mr Bedevere. I didn’t know.’

‘Please, call me Ashe if you don’t mind.’

Genevra recognised the dangerously quiet tones from last night. ‘Of course.’ She decided not to enquire. She didn’t want to spoil this pleasant truce after last night’s unpleasantness. ‘Will you stay for tea?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. She went straight to the bell pull. This was England. Everyone stayed for tea.

‘I must apologise for dropping by unexpectedly, but I have something for you.’ Ashe took a seat and handed her a soft package.

A gift from him? An apology, perhaps, for his prior conduct? Certainly a gentleman would make the effort. A little flutter took up residence in her stomach as she played with the string. In the daylight, he seemed so civilised.

‘Melisande asked me to bring it.’

‘Of course.’ The flutter disappeared. Naturally it wasn’t from him. He was no gentleman and slapped men didn’t bring gifts. Genevra smiled to cover her mental error.

‘It must be Melisande’s latest embroidery pattern.’ Genevra held up the cloth. ‘Tell her it’s lovely. It will do well at the markets this spring.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ This time he was the one caught off guard and it did things to his face. His dark brows winged upwards, his eyes narrowed in speculation.

‘Didn’t they tell you?’ Genevra folded the cloth up. ‘She and your other aunts sell their handiwork at the local markets. Cook even sends some jams. They did quite well last summer.’

‘My aunts sell crafts at the market?’ The look on Ashe’s face was incredulous bordering on furious. ‘Like merchants?’

Genevra replied evenly, ‘Yes, like merchants. Like most of the normal world, in fact. Not all of us live in such rarefied circumstances as a British gentleman, dashing around London looking for entertainment.’

A tight tic began to pulse low on Ashe’s jaw. Whatever tenuous truce they’d had over the music had evaporated. ‘Whose idea was this?’ he ground out, thankfully choosing to overlook the other insinuations she’d so carelessly made.

‘It was mine,’ Genevra said, grateful for the arrival of the tea tray to derail this line of conversation.

But Ashe wasn’t ready to let it go like a self-respecting gentleman. ‘Why ever would you suggest something like that?’ His disbelief was tangible as he took a tea cup from her. She took care to make sure their fingers didn’t touch.

‘They had no money and you were nowhere to be found.’ Genevra allowed her temper to spill over. ‘They had to do something and it was a very good something. They were too proud to take so much as a farthing from me. If you must know, people like to buy things that represent the peerage. It’s a good advertising angle. It’s far more exciting to buy a handkerchief embroidered by a real lady.’

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