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Introducing a deliciously sinful and witty new 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!

AUTHOR NOTE

Welcome to Rakes Beyond Redemption. If this is your first look at the series or your last because you’ve been with us the whole way it doesn’t matter! Each of the three books stands alone quite well. But why miss one when the series features three sexy men? If you’re just joining us, let me catch you up.

The premise of the series is to explore how three second sons are transformed by family or personal crisis from their fast-living, hard-loving lifestyles to being men who take pride in their families and position in society. Really, the ultimate Regency make-over.

In Book One, HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY, Merrick finds himself at the heart of a wager that compromises the honour of a lady. In Book Two, HOW TO RUIN A REPUTATION, Ashe must rise to the challenge of meeting the conditions of his father’s will in order to save the earldom. In Book Three, HOW TO SIN SUCCESSFULLY, Riordan has instant fatherhood thrust upon him when he inherits two young wards.

Enter Maura, governess number six. She enchants both the children … and Riordan! But in order to hold true to her principles Maura knows she’ll have to resist the charming Earl—unless he can convince her one can sin successfully.

Happy reading!

Bronwyn

PS It’s the gentlemen who get all the action in Rakes Beyond Redemption, but it’s the ladies who set the ton on its ear next, in my forthcoming duet. Stay tuned for more about two women who redefine what it means to be a lady.

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*

HOW TO RUIN A REPUTATION *

†Castonbury Park Regency mini-series

*Rakes Beyond Redemption trilogy

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 the novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

How to Sin
Successfully
Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my extraordinary husband and my awesome kids,

who all are so patient with my writing schedule,

and the puppy, Apollo, who isn’t. I love you all.

Prologue

May 1835, London—the official opening of the Season

Rumour held that Riordan Barrett could bring a woman to climax at fifteen feet using only his eyes. At close range, the possibilities were endless, just like the lush curves of Lady Meacham’s delectable body. Riordan rested a light hand on the small of said lady’s back, contemplating those possibilities as he ushered her through the throng gathered at Somerset House to mark the beginning of the Season with the annual Royal Academy art exhibition.

Lady Meacham tossed him a coy glance that left no doubt she was thinking the same. He knew what she wanted, what they all wanted; she wanted the rumours to be true. She wanted to experience the pleasure he was reputed to offer. He wanted it, too, wanted to lose himself in it for a little while. He was good at that—losing himself in pleasures. Cards, wagering, racing, drinking, the usual vices of a gentleman—he knew them all. He was no stranger to the debauches of the demi-monde or the bedchambers of other men’s wives. He and the Lady Meachams of the world both knew why. ‘Pleasure’ was just another word for ‘escape’, a less-desperate word.

Desperate already and the Season had only just begun. When had the glitter of a London spring full of balls and beautiful women lost its shine? Riordan shook off the thought and manoeuvred Lady Meacham in front of Turner’s latest: a depiction of the burning of the House of Lords and Commons which had taken place last October. If this went well, he’d spend the afternoon immersed in Lady Meacham’s voluptuous charms, sprawled in his bed, forgetting.

Riordan bent to Lady Meacham’s ear and began the game in earnest. ‘Note how Turner’s brush conveys the energy of the flames, how the use of yellows and reds depicts the molten temperatures of the inferno.’ The light sweep of his fingers against her arm suggested he was stoking a different fire. Lady Meacham’s perfume filled his nostrils with its expensive, heavy scent. He preferred something sweeter, fresher.

‘You’re quite the expert on, ah, stroke technique,’ Lady Meacham murmured, her body angling subtly so that her breasts brushed the sleeve of his coat in discreet invitation.

‘I’m an expert at a great many things, Lady Meacham,’ Riordan replied in private tones.

‘Perhaps you should call me Sarah.’ She tapped his sleeve playfully with her furled fan. ‘You’re so well informed. I must ask, do you paint, yourself?’

‘I dabble a bit.’ He’d painted with more aspiration than dabbling once upon a time. But somewhere between then and now, painting had stopped occupying a central place in his life, much to his regret and to his surprise. He couldn’t recall how it had happened, only that he no longer painted.

Lady Meacham, Sarah, looked up at him from beneath long lashes, a smug smile playing on her lips. ‘And what is it that you paint?’ This conversation was going precisely where they both intended it. Riordan had his response ready.

‘Nudes, Sarah. I paint nudes. They tell me it tickles.’ Lady Meacham gave a throaty laugh at his naughty innuendo, the final confirmation she was willing to forgo Somerset House’s over-heated Great Room for a more comfortable address off Piccadilly and his brushes.

Her hand lingered overlong on his sleeve in a communication of familiarity. ‘There really is no speck of decency in you, is there?’

Riordan covered her gloved hand with his, his voice a low leonine rumble for her alone. ‘Not a scrap, I’m afraid.’

Her eyes lit at the possibilities the phrase invoked, a coy, knowing smile on her kissable mouth. ‘I find that quality positively delicious in a man.’

She was more than willing and less than a challenge. It was somewhat disappointing she’d been caught so easily. Still, he should feel more excitement over the conquest, more desire. Sarah Meacham was a prize indeed. Her husband was out of town with his mistress and gossip at White’s had it she was looking to take her first lover since the birth of the ‘spare’ last autumn. There’d been bets laid as to who that lover would be.

He’d come up to town specifically to win that wager, in case anyone doubted there wasn’t a redeemable bone in his body. He couldn’t have it be said Riordan Barrett was losing his touch, that his brother, Elliott, had finally talked some sense into him. The fates had decreed that Elliott, the heir, was to be good, so very good, and Riordan, the spare, was to be bad, so very bad, a natural juxtaposition to his beloved brother’s goodness. So here he was, up to town early, cutting short a visit with his brother in Sussex, to swive another man’s wife and prove to everyone Riordan Barrett was as wicked as rumour reported.

It was all very sordid if one dwelled on the details long enough or if one didn’t have enough to drink. Over the last year, Riordan had discovered it was taking more and more of the latter to keep himself from doing the former. His silver flask was ever-present in his coat pocket and, right now, he was too sober for his preference.

Riordan reached for the flask, only to be interrupted by the approach of a footman bearing a silver salver and a sealed letter. ‘Milord, pardon the intrusion. This arrived for you with the utmost urgency.’

Riordan studied the letter with curiosity. He didn’t have an interest in politics or any business investments that required his attention. In short, he was definitely not the sort of man people sought out with any of the urgency implied by the footman. He broke the seal and scanned the four short lines scribed in inky precision by Browning, the family solicitor, then re-read them in the hope that repetition would make the note any less fantastical, any less horrifying.

‘Not bad news, I hope?’ Lady Meacham enquired, her hazel eyes wide with concern, proving he looked as pale as he felt.

Not bad news—the worst news. The news would be all over London within a day, but London wouldn’t hear it from him. He wasn’t ready to dissemble to his latest affaire in the midst of the Academy art show. Riordan gathered his remaining senses and fixed Lady Meacham with a rakish smile to mask his roiling, rising emotions. ‘My dear, I regret my plans have changed.’ He gave a short, sardonic bow. ‘If you’ll excuse me? It seems I have become a father.’

He’d reach for his flask, but there seemed little point. There wasn’t enough brandy in the world to ease this. He was going to need help. He’d take any he could get.

Chapter One

‘I’ll take anything you have.’ Maura Harding sat ramrod straight with her gloved hands folded demurely in her lap. She strove to sound affable instead of desperate. She wasn’t desperate. Maura forced herself to believe the near-fiction. If she didn’t believe it, no one else would. Desperation would make her an easy target. People could sense desperation like dogs smelled fear.

According to the small watch pinned to her bodice, it was half past ten in the morning. She’d come straight from the mail coach to Mrs Pendergast’s Referral Service for Young Ladies of Good Breeding and she needed a position by nightfall. She’d been right on schedule up to this point—the point where Mrs Pendergast peered over the rims of her spectacles and hesitated.

‘I don’t see any references.’ Mrs Pendergast’s impressive bosom heaved in disapproval as she made her pronouncement.

Maura drew a deep breath, silently repeating the mantra that had sustained her on the long journey from Exeter: In London there would be help. She would not give up now simply because she had no references. After all, she’d known this would be a likely obstacle. ‘It’s my first time seeking a position, ma’am.’ First time using an assumed name, first time travelling outside of Devonshire, first time on my own … quite a lot of firsts, Mrs Pendergast, if you only knew.

Mrs Pendergast’s brows went up in an expression of doubt. She set down Maura’s carefully written paper and fixed Maura with an uncompromising stare. ‘I do not have time to play games, Miss Caulfield.’ The false name sounded, well, false to Maura, who had spent her whole life being Miss Harding. Could Mrs Pendergast tell? Did it sound as false to her? Did she suspect?

Mrs Pendergast rose to indicate the interview was over. ‘I am very busy. I’m sure you did not fail to notice the crowded waiting room full of young ladies with references, all eager to be placed in households. I suggest you try your luck elsewhere.’

This was a disaster. She could not leave here without a position. Where else would she go? She knew of no other referral agencies. She knew of this one only because one of her own governesses had mentioned it once. Maura thought quickly. ‘I have something better than references, ma’am. I have skills.’ Maura gestured towards the discarded paper. ‘I can do fine needlework, I can sing, I can dance, I can speak French. I can even paint watercolours.’ Maura paused. Her accomplishments did not seem to impress Mrs Pendergast.

When reasoning failed, there was always begging. ‘Please, ma’am, I have nowhere else to go. You must have something? I can be a companion to an elderly lady, a governess to a young girl. I can be anything. Surely, there’s one family in London that needs me.’

It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. London was a big city with far more opportunities than those offered in the remote Devonshire countryside outside Exeter where everyone knew everyone, a situation Maura was trying very hard to avoid. She didn’t want to be known, although she was fast discovering that choice came with its own consequences. She was now officially a stranger in a strange place and her carefully concocted plan was in jeopardy.

It worked. Mrs Pendergast sat back down and opened a desk drawer. ‘I might have something.’

She rifled through the drawer and pulled out a folder. ‘It’s not exactly a “family” situation. None of those girls out there will take it. I’ve already sent five governesses in the last three weeks. All have left.’

With those ominous words, Mrs Pendergast pushed the file towards her. ‘The gentleman is a bachelor with two young wards he’s inherited from his brother.’ Maura was only half-listening. Elation poured through her, drowning out her other sensibilities.

The large woman made a tsking sound. ‘It’s a bad business all around. The new earl is a dissolute rake. He’s out cavorting at all hours of the night, getting up to who knows what debaucheries while the children run wild. Then there’s the business with the earl’s brother.’ She made another tsking noise and peered meaningfully at Maura over her glasses again. ‘The manner of his death was highly shocking and sudden. As I said, it’s a bad business all around, but if you want it, the position is yours.’

If? Of course she’d take it. She couldn’t afford to be choosy at this juncture. Maura was starting to see how precipitous her flight had been, even if it had been necessary. ‘It will be fine. Thank you. You won’t be sorry.’ She would have gone on gushing her gratitude, but Mrs Pendergast held up a hand.

‘I won’t be sorry, but you might. Did you hear a word I said, Miss Caulfield?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie. She’d heard most of the words. She’d heard ‘new earl’ and ‘two wards’ and something about the suspect nature of the former earl’s death. The situation didn’t sound as bad as Mrs Pendergast was making it out. She had a position, that was all that mattered. Life could now proceed according to plan.

Mrs Pendergast communicated her doubt with a hard stare. ‘Very well then, I wish you luck, but either way, I don’t want to see you back here. This is the only position you’ll get without references. I suggest you find a way to make this work where the other five have failed.’

Maura rose, hiding her surprise. Clearly, she’d missed a little something while she’d carried on her mental celebration. ‘The other five?’

‘The other five governesses. I did mention them, Miss Caulfield. Did you miss the dissolute-rake part, too?’

Maura’s chin went up, determined not to show her surprise. She hadn’t listened as well as she’d thought. ‘You’ve been very clear, ma’am. Thank you again.’ The ‘dissolute’ part was unfortunate. She might have launched herself from the frying pan and into the fire, exchanging one dissolute male for another. But she doubted anyone could be as dissolute as Wildeham, the man her uncle had chosen for her to marry. Besides, she doubted she’d see much of this roguish Earl of Chatham. Dissolute rakes weren’t exactly the stay-at-home types when surrounded by the entertainments of London. It was difficult indeed to be rakish at all by staying home.

An hour later, a hired hackney deposited her in front of the Earl of Chatham’s Portland Square town house and departed with the last of her coins. In her estimation, it was money well spent. On her own, she would have walked for hours and never found the place. To put it mildly, London was daunting! Never had she seen so many people crammed together in one place. The traffic, the smells and the noises were enough to intimidate even the heartiest of country souls. Maura shaded her eyes and looked up at the town house.

It fit in perfectly. It was daunting, too, all four soaring storeys of it. There was nothing for it. The only way ahead was forwards. She picked up her things and walked up the steps to face her future. Forewarned was forearmed. She would focus on the positives. One positive was that her plan was proceeding according to schedule. Another was the address.

When she’d set out from Exeter, she’d imagined being placed in the comfortable home of a well-to-do family, possibly one hoping to launch a daughter on to the bottom rungs of society. Never had she thought to find a position in an earl’s home. Of course, she’d also never thought to have to find a position in the first place. For that matter, she’d never thought to leave Exeter. She’d faced a lot of ‘nevers’ in the past month she’d not expected to encounter.

As a gentleman’s daughter, the granddaughter of an earl, she’d been raised to expect more, although those assumptions had been misplaced. She could have kept those assumptions intact. Her uncle had made it clear she could live in comfortable luxury and marry a title, but for a price she’d been unwilling to pay. Even now, with Exeter a week and miles behind her, that price made her shudder in the noon sun.

Her lack of co-operation had made it impossible to stay so here she was, a stranger alone, ready to start her life afresh, which was a nice way of saying she’d cut all ties to her uncle’s family. It had either been cutting ties with them or cutting ties with her true self and in the end she’d hadn’t been able to bring herself to that ultimate sacrifice. So, they’d been left to their own devices and she was now left to hers. There could be no going back, although she was certain her uncle would try. She wouldn’t let him discover her. She’d disappear into the earl’s household and her uncle would eventually give up and find another way to fulfil his obligations to the odious Baron Wildeham.

Her resolve firm, Maura raised the carved lion-head knocker and let it fall with a heavy clack against the door. Inside, she could hear the undignified running of feet and a yelp, followed by a giggle, followed by a crash. Maura winced at the sound of something shattering. There was a shrill scream. ‘I’ll get it! It’s my turn to get the door!’ Then chaos spilled out on to the front step.

Maura saw it all happen in slow motion. The door flew open, answered by a man in stockinged feet and dishabille, dark hair ruffled in disarray, shirt-tails flying. He looked like no butler she’d ever seen. But Maura hadn’t the time to appreciate the odd sight. Behind him, two children came barrelling into the corridor. They skidded to a tardy and incomplete halt behind him and … oomph!

Their momentum set off a chain reaction, sending them all down in a heap, Maura at the bottom, looking up over the tangle of arms and legs into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Even with two children heaped higgledy-piggledy on them, she was not immune to the fact that those blue eyes went with an entirely masculine body of hard ridges and muscled planes which, at present, had landed on her in a most indelicate manner.

‘Hello.’ He grinned down at her, walnut-dark hair falling in his face with casual negligence.

‘I’m here about the position,’ Maura managed to get out, but she immediately regretted it. ‘Position’ wasn’t quite the best word to use, although given the situation, she was fortunate to formulate any coherent thoughts with all that well-muscled maleness pressing down on her.

‘I can see that.’ Mischief twinkled in those blue eyes, suggesting he wasn’t oblivious to their unorthodox circumstances, circumstances, she noted, he didn’t seem to mind. Whoever he was, he should be chagrined. No tutor or footman worth his salt would be caught in such raucous behaviour if he valued his post. But it was clear this attractive mess of a man wasn’t the least bit worried. He was laughing, quite possibly at her, as he rose and helped the children up.

Everyone apparently thought the accident a great lark. The children were both talking at once. ‘Did you see the way I came around the corner?’

‘I grabbed hold of the banister post and sling-shotted myself into the hall!’

Slingshotted? Great heavens, was that even a word?

‘You were amazing, William. It was like you were a cannon ball!’ the blue-eyed man put in with an inordinate amount of enthusiasm.

‘We broke Aunt Cressida’s vase!’ The little girl giggled nervously.

The man ruffled her hair. ‘Don’t worry, it was ugly anyway.’

Unbelievable! Had they forgotten about her? Maura was halfway to her feet, struggling with the tangle of her skirts and luggage when a large hand reached down for her. ‘Are you all right?’ The rich baritones of his voice were easy and friendly, further sign he was a man who took nothing too seriously.

‘I shall recover.’ Maura tugged at the fitted jacket of her travelling costume and smoothed her skirts, trying to restore some proper order to the encounter. ‘I am the new governess. Mrs Pendergast assigned me just this morning. I should like to speak with Lord Chatham, please.’ That should get some results.

His eyes twinkled with more mischief, if that was possible. ‘You are speaking with him.’ He gave her a gallant half-bow at odds with his dishabille. ‘The Earl of Chatham at your service.’

‘You’re the earl?’ Maura tried not to gape. Dissolute earls weren’t supposed to be handsome, hard-bodied males who flirted with their eyes.

The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘I believe we’ve established that. Now, what shall we call you?’ He fixed her with a white-toothed smile that probably made most women go weak at the knees. Maura liked to think her knees were weak from having been ploughed over on the doorstep instead. He turned to the children, who were staring up at him with wide eyes full of obvious hero worship. ‘We can’t very well call her “new governess”. That’s no sort of name at all.’ They started to giggle again.

The little girl smiled up at him and clapped her hands. ‘I know! I know! We’ll call her Six.’ The little girl curtsied very prettily. ‘Hello, Six, I’m Cecilia and I’m seven. This is my brother, William. He’s eight.’ She laughed again. ‘Six, seven, eight, we’re all numbers in a row. That’s funny. Uncle Ree, did you get my joke? Six, seven, eight?’

‘I most certainly did, my dear. It was the funniest one yet.’ The earl smiled down at her indulgently and wrapped his hand around her considerably smaller one. The gesture was endearing and it succeeded in doing queer things to Maura’s stomach.

‘Perhaps we should step inside,’ Maura suggested, well aware, even if they weren’t, that their little coterie on the porch was drawing stares from the street.

‘Oh, yes, do forgive me.’ The earl jumped into action and ushered them all indoors to the hall where the remnants of Aunt Cressida’s vase were being swept up by a maid. ‘Now we can have proper introductions and …’ He paused, his brow furrowing as he groped for the right words. ‘And a pot of tea. That will be just the thing. You’ll have to excuse me; I seem to have left my manners on the floor with the vase.’ He pushed a hand through his dark hair, looking entirely likeable.

She’d not been ready for that. She hadn’t planned on liking him, Maura realised as they settled for tea in the drawing room, children included. What she had expected was a middle-aged man with greying side-whiskers, lecherous eyes and wandering hands, a man like her uncle’s crony Baron Wildeham.

Tea came and Maura discreetly looked towards the doorway. ‘Are your wards going to join us?’ There were four tea cups on the tray. Surely the children weren’t staying for tea?

The earl looked at her queerly, gesturing to the children. ‘They’re already here.’ Then he laughed, his mouth breaking into his easy smile. ‘Mrs Pendergast didn’t tell you, did she? That tricky old woman, no wonder she got someone here so quickly.’

Maura sat up straight, feeling defensive. ‘She mentioned the wards were young.’

‘She’d be correct. It’s William and Cecilia I need a governess for,’ the earl explained, motioning that she should pour out.

Maura was glad for something to do, something to occupy her hands while her mind restored order. There’d be no young girls to shepherd into society as she was expecting. Instead, there were two slightly precocious children who slid through the hallways in stockinged feet. She told herself she could manage. She’d helped her aunt with her young cousins, after all. She just needed to readjust her thinking.

‘How do you take your tea, milord?’ Her hand hovered over the sugar and cream.

He dismissed those offerings with a wave of his hand. ‘I take it plain and you can call me Riordan or Mr Barrett if you wish.’ There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice. What had Mrs Pendergast said about the death of his brother? The new earl seemed a reluctant heir. Maura wished she’d listened more closely.

‘Neither is appropriate, as you well know.’ Maura passed his tea cup and tendered a smile, hoping to ease the disagreement. Arguing with one’s employer on the first day was no way to start. ‘I should call you Lord Chatham.’ She smiled again, looking for a better subject of conversation. What had her governesses done on the first day? She sipped her tea and racked her brain for an appropriate next step.

‘Lord Chatham?’ He arched a dark eyebrow in query. The expression drew attention to his eyes, twin-blue flames flickering with life and mischief.

‘I think that would be best, under the circumstances.’ She knew that would be best. He was a dangerous sort of man when it came to a woman’s sensibilities with his good looks and penchant for informality. A half-hour in his company had proven it. He hadn’t even bothered to put his coat on or tuck in his shirt-tails.

To her surprise, he laughed and leaned forwards, smiling wickedly over his tea cup. ‘You weren’t under any circumstances on the porch, you were under me.’

‘Lord Chatham! There are children in the room.’ But the children didn’t seem to mind. They were laughing. They did that a lot, she noticed, no doubt encouraged by the irrepressible audacity of their guardian. Laughter was well and good, but they would have to learn to control it just a bit.

‘So there are.’ He rubbed at his chin in thought for a moment, although she had the distinct impression he was teasing her. ‘If we are to be formal, I’ll need to call you something more than Six.’ He was smiling again, flirting outrageously with his blue, blue eyes while saying nothing technically objectionable at all.

From her perch on a chair, Cecilia looked crestfallen. ‘I want to call her Six. It will ruin the joke if we don’t.’

Lord Chatham quirked another eyebrow in Maura’s direction, a little smile hovering about his lips while he waited for her response. Good heavens, the man was a handsome devil. Cecilia’s lip began to quiver. Maura felt a moment’s panic. She didn’t want to be the governess who made her charge cry within the first half-hour. Her next words came rushing out to forestall any tears. ‘Sex is fine.’

Sex is fine? Maura clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was far too late.

‘Is it? That’s good to know.’ Lord Chatham’s smile widened in good humour.

Maura blushed hotly in mortification. What had happened to her tongue? It had done nothing right since her arrival. ‘Six,’ she stammered. She turned towards Cecilia. Anything was better than looking at him. ‘You may call me Six if you like, Cecilia. It can be our special name.’

Cecilia beamed at her and Maura knew the sweet taste of victory, a taste she’d barely swallowed before Lord Chatham said, ‘And me? Perhaps I should have a special name for you, too. Shall I call you …?’ He let the question hover provocatively, forcing her to interrupt if she didn’t want him to provide an answer. He would say it, too. If the last half-hour had shown her anything of his character, it was that.

‘Miss Caulfield. You should call me Miss Caulfield,’ Maura supplied hastily. The situation was fast spiralling out of control. She should establish her authority before it slid away entirely. She didn’t want Chatham thinking she could be swayed by a simple smile. ‘Cecilia, why don’t you and William go upstairs to play while I settle in? Then we can spend the afternoon getting acquainted over a walk in the park.’

Maura recognised her error immediately. Sending away the children meant she was left on her own with the outrageous Lord Chatham. ‘I must apologise for my slip of tongue.’

‘No need to apologise, Miss Caulfield.’ Lord Chatham leaned back in his chair, his eyes studying her with amusement. ‘In my experience, slipping tongues can be quite entertaining.’

His remark was the final straw. She tried an arched eyebrow of her own. ‘You forget yourself, Lord Chatham. In the past hour I’ve been landed on, flirted with and flustered out of my usually solid wits. I’m starting to see why the other five governesses left.’

‘No, you’re not. You’ve barely scratched the proverbial surface.’ The good humour that floated in his eyes disappeared instantly at her remark. He rose, suddenly an icier, more distant version of himself. ‘The housekeeper will show you your rooms.’

A crash and squeal sounded overhead, followed by a child’s cry of despair. Voices were raised as maids scurried to clean up the latest disaster in what was clearly a long string of disasters of which Aunt Cressida’s vase was only a recent victim. Maura turned her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘It seems, Lord Chatham, you don’t need a governess, you need a miracle.’

He gave a cold chuckle. ‘And Mrs Pendergast sent me you. Welcome to Chatham House, Miss Caulfield.’

Chapter Two

She was late. Riordan glanced towards the mantel clock. The hands showed only a minute had passed since the last time he’d checked. He wished Miss Caulfield would hurry up. He was hungry and he was regretting his harshness with her that afternoon. She couldn’t possibly know what she’d walked into. Still, late was late. He’d been very clear when he’d sent up the invitation that he’d wished to dine at seven o’clock sharp. It was now five minutes past.

Not that he was in the habit of dining with governesses. He wasn’t. He hadn’t dined with the first five. But they hadn’t been young and pretty. Nor had they dominated his thoughts for the duration of the afternoon. They’d been dried-up old sticks who thought far too much about propriety and far too little about living. It was no wonder they hadn’t lasted. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to have fun. He was determined the children would have that, if nothing else, after all they’d been through. On those grounds, he was doing quite well in his new role as a father figure.

He’d be the first to admit he liked children. He just didn’t have a clue about how to bring them up. His brother, Elliott, had been the mature one there. It had been Elliott who’d taken on Cecilia and William four years ago after the children’s father died of a sudden fever. Now Elliott was gone, too. No one had ever imagined the children would be stuck with him and whatever help he could cobble together.

The rustle of skirts at the door told him his latest attempt at acquiring such help had arrived. ‘I apologise for being tardy. I’d expected to dine with the children. The summons was a surprise.’ This last was said with the faintest hint of frost, to suggest he wasn’t quite forgiven for his earlier harshness.

‘The invitation,’ Riordan corrected with a smile in an attempt at melting her glacial greeting. He’d expected as much, especially after his rather cold dismissal this afternoon. He hoped to make it up to her with dinner. He couldn’t afford to have another governess leave. He knew what he meant by offering dinner, but it was clear from her choice of dress she didn’t know what to make of his request. Was this work? Was this a get-to-know-you welcome sort of dinner? She’d clearly opted for the former.

She’d chosen a modestly cut gown of deep-green poplin trimmed in white lace. It was prettily done, nicely suited for tea at the squire’s or an afternoon of shopping in the village, but nowhere near fashionable enough for dinner in London with the town’s leading rogue. The simplicity of the gown and the practicality of its fabric created a stark contrast against his formal evening attire.

‘Are you going out this evening?’ Her eyes swept him briefly, likely trying to gauge the gravity of her mistake. Her mind was easy to read, not because she was transparent, but because she was not afraid to be straightforward. He’d enjoyed her boldness this afternoon even if it had ended on a sour note.

‘Yes, but nothing that demands my attendance with any scheduled rigour. I am free to arrive when I choose.’ Going out had lost much of its allure in the month since his brother’s death. Three months of mourning was the standard for a sibling if the sibling had managed to die conventionally. Elliott had not. As a result, London was happy to let Riordan proceed as usual with his customary social routine after a two-week hiatus to fetch the children from Chatham Court.

Riordan suspected such benevolence had more to do with society’s greed for gossip. If he was left rusticating for three months in grief, there’d be considerably fewer rumours for the scandalmongers to spread regarding his brother’s demise and the Season would be that much duller for it.

The butler announced dinner and he offered Miss Caulfield his arm, secretly pleased she was as discomfited with his show of propriety as she’d been with his earlier impropriety.

‘Such formality,’ she commented, taking the chair Riordan held out for her at the table. ‘I apologise for being under-dressed. I wasn’t sure …’ Her voice trailed off and Riordan imagined her upstairs in her room debating the merits of the green poplin or the one good silk gown she owned. ‘You were right to save the silk for a better occasion,’ he said lightly, taking his own seat.

‘How did you know?’ She shot him a sharp look, her thoughts evident. He’d bet odds of two to three she was imagining peepholes secreted in the walls of her room. It was a fairly worldly thought for a governess, or any young lady, and it did make him wonder.

Riordan dismissed her fears with a laugh. ‘Have no worries, Miss Caulfield. It’s all very simple. To understand women, a man must understand their clothes.’ He’d learned that particular skill a long time ago and it had served him well in the intervening years.

She settled the linen napkin on her lap and gave him a doubtful look that said she didn’t believe him. Riordan leaned back in his chair, letting the footmen serve the soup while he studied the effects of candlelight on Miss Caulfield’s features. This morning, much of her hair had been hidden under her bonnet, but this evening it was pinned up in a pretty twist that hinted at its thickness and length while it exposed the delicate arch of her neck. The effect was enough to make him imagine what it would be like to take all that hair down and sift it through his fingers. ‘The light turns your hair into red-gold; very lovely,’ he commented as the footmen moved away.

‘And what does that tell you about me?’ She shot him another sharp look with her green eyes.

‘You don’t believe me about the clothes, do you?’ Riordan set down his soup spoon, starting to enjoy himself. He was good at this. Observation and subsequent conjecturing had always come easy for him. Most women loved his little ‘fortune telling’ game. ‘Allow me to demonstrate. You wear shades of green often. With your colouring, all that red hair and those emerald-green eyes, it makes sense. Greens would be your best palate. I’m right, am I not?’

‘Yes.’ Even discomfited, her manners were impeccable. She sipped from her soup spoon without spilling a drop. His governess was very well bred indeed.

‘You’re intrigued now. I can see it in the way you’ve subtly leaned forwards.’ Riordan lowered his voice, giving the conversation a private allure.

Her eyes sparked, a good sign. She was warming. ‘All right, if you’re so good, tell me why a governess has a silk gown.’ But any further conversation had to wait a moment while the fish was served.

‘You have more than one,’ Riordan said when the footmen had retreated. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but it seemed right. She was born for fine fabrics and delicate trimmings. Riordan reached for her hand and traced a lazy circle in the palm. ‘Tell me I’m right.’ A woman who wore silk gowns and imagined peepholes in her room was an exciting mystery. ‘You’re not the usual governess.’

She stiffened and withdrew her hand. ‘You’re not the usual earl.’ All her attention went straight to her neglected fish. He’d touched a nerve there. Intriguing, but not surprising. Her clothes were too well made. He’d seen it instantly. Pretty and young with well-made clothes and a bold demeanour with a man she should view as her superior suggested there was more to Miss Caulfield than she let on.

‘I don’t hold it against you, Miss Caulfield. The “usual” has never held much of my attention.’ He would leave it at that. No sense frightening her off. If she thought he guessed at more, she might be compelled to run and that was the last thing he needed. He needed a governess to stay and he was willing to overlook any secrets said governess thought she had.

Miss Caulfield finished her fish without a single faux pas. He always watched women during the fish course at dinner parties. It was the perfect chance to see if they were all they claimed. Miss Caufield was definitely more. Unlike many a pretender, she’d kept a piece of bread in her left hand and the fork in her right, never once reaching for the very taboo knife. Anyone of any true social refinement knew fish juice stained knives if they weren’t silver. It confirmed what he’d noted earlier: she had excellent table manners, as if she ate at candlelit tables complete with china, crystal and the requisite earl every day.

By the time the beef was served, his thoughts had taken a more erotic turn. He found he could not contemplate her manners without also contemplating her delectable mouth with its kissable lower lip, or the column of her throat as she swallowed. This led his eyes lower to her bosom, which the cut of her gown showed to advantage, which gave way to a bevy of illicit thoughts, most of them involving all the ways he could get her out of that gown and on to the table.

‘Is everything to your liking?’ he asked in low tones that were more seductive than solicitous. ‘Would you like some more wine?’ He was flirting deliberately now, his hand provocatively caressing the stem of his own empty wine glass, and wondering if she’d call him on it. She did. It was bravely and boldly done of her. Not every employee would dare. Good for her. He had little use for people without spines.

‘Tell me, Lord Chatham, do you flirt with every woman you meet or just the governesses?’

Riordan reached for the wine and refilled her glass as an excuse to lean close and make some more mischief. ‘I assure you, this is not flirting. If I were flirting with you, Miss Caulfield, you’d know it.’ But of course he was flirting with her, just a little by his standards, and they both knew it.

Riordan laughed and filled his glass. ‘A toast, Miss Caulfield, to our, ah, relationship. Cheers.’

Maura clinked her glass gently against his. It was impossible not to get swept up in Lord Chatham’s bonhomie. He couldn’t help it, she realised. But she could. She could have enough sense for the both of them. He might not be flirting with her by his standards, but society would see it otherwise. No wonder Mrs Pendergast had called him a dissolute rake. Women probably swooned in his wake and he likely didn’t lack for female attention. Handsome, charming and personable, he could have any woman he wanted and not have to work that hard at it.

Well, he couldn’t have her if that’s what he was intending with all this light flirtation. She would make that clear over cheese and fruit as their dinner came to a close. It would be just the right note to end the evening on. Two bites into a sharp cheddar, she began her campaign. ‘I thought the purpose of dinner was to discuss the children. Here we are, at the end, and the children haven’t even been mentioned.’ She couldn’t be more direct than that.

‘What would you like to know about the children?’ He filled his glass again and Maura began to wonder if that was his third or fourth. Wine disappeared from his glass like water.

‘We could start with their schedule and perhaps move on to their education,’ Maura prompted. This was the most extraordinary discussion she’d ever had. She wasn’t supposed to be the one asking the questions. She’d expected to be told.

‘Their schedule?’ Lord Chatham stabbed at his cheese as if the question irritated him. His tone became frosty, as it had been that afternoon. ‘They don’t have a schedule, Miss Caulfield. Their lives have been turned upside down, they’ve lost their trusted guardian, they’ve been through five governesses in as many weeks. They’ve had no stability in their lives since my brother’s death.’

Maura refused to be intimidated. ‘They’ve had you. Surely you have imposed some order on their lives in the absence of a governess.’ Her own parents had been active participants in her life.

‘Some, but I wouldn’t go as far as to call it a schedule.’ Lord Chatham sat back in his chair, wine glass empty again and dangling negligently in his hand. ‘I can see you’re disappointed in me. Perhaps your standards are too high.’ He wasn’t flirting now. His tone had taken on a self-deprecating note. ‘Don’t forget, I’m a bachelor with bachelor ways. If I knew how to raise children, you wouldn’t be here.’

He set down the wine glass and rose. ‘If you’ll excuse me, the hour is later than I anticipated and my presence is required elsewhere, as tardy as it is. Feel free to partake of the cheese and fruit without me.’ He offered a short bow and left. It was quite possibly the most expedient exit she’d ever witnessed and most definitely one of the rudest.

His bachelor ways indeed! Maura fumed up in her room afterwards. Everything he did, everything he said, reminded her of his ‘bachelor ways’. Even his departure from the dinner table had reeked of them. Apparently he was expected at the Rutherfords’ ball and the Duke of Rutland’s fête before meeting up with some fellows at a gambling hell on St James’s. He wouldn’t be back until early morning.

It had been on the tip of her tongue to reprimand him for his less-than-fatherly behaviour, but she’d already angered him once today and she knew he wasn’t the only man who habitually spent the night on the town while leaving his children in the hands of others. That didn’t make it right. Maura didn’t hold with the laissez-faire parenting of the aristocracy. Her own upbringing had run quite counter to the norm and for that she would always be grateful.

She’d also be grateful for her bed. Maura began taking down her hair and stowing the pins carefully in a little trifle box on her bureau. It had been an eventful day and she was beyond tired. She smiled to herself as she went through her evening toilette. Maura pulled a white nightgown over her head and surveyed her room. It was smaller than what she was used to, but it was a nice room on the third floor. There was a window overlooking the garden and it was hung with fresh curtains. The walls were papered with a tiny pink-floral print and the bed was covered in a pink-and-white counterpane. A clothes-press stood in one corner and a small chest of drawers in another. It would do, and after three days on the mail coach it seemed like heaven.

She might not be living the life she’d been born to, but she’d done well today. She’d got a position, navigated the streets of London and met the intriguing Earl of Chatham. Not bad for a gently bred girl from Devonshire. But she would need to tread carefully. The earl might flirt, he might raise his wards with the same benign insouciance with which he lived his life, but that didn’t mean he didn’t see far more than he let on.

The perceptive Lord Chatham had implied correctly that she wasn’t the usual governess. She hadn’t meant to give herself away and yet she had in ways she couldn’t control. Hopefully he had guessed nothing more and was not interested in guessing anything more. As long as she did her job with his wards, she hoped he would look no further. The last thing she needed was for someone to get too curious about her origins.

Maura hopped into bed, revelling in the cool sheets and the fluffy pillow at her head. That was one thing Lord Chatham might have in common with her; she wasn’t the only one with secrets. That was all right with her. He could have his secrets as long as she could have hers.

It had not escaped her notice when she’d stepped down from the mail coach that morning that it was to have been her wedding day. If she’d stayed in Devonshire, she’d have been married to Wildeham by now and subjected to a lifetime of his obscene attentions, a fate certainly worse than throwing in her lot with the Earl of Chatham.

Maura blew out the candle beside her bed and whispered in the darkness, ‘A toast, Lord Chatham. Here’s to our, ah, relationship. Cheers.’

Chapter Three

Acton Humphries, known to most in that part of Devonshire as Baron Wildeham, watched the scene unfold from his favourite position, recumbent on Lucas Harding’s divan, post-dinner brandy in hand. Across the room, Harding fiddled distractedly with the heavy paperweight on his desk. Harding could split the messenger’s head with the leaded-crystal ornament and he was mad enough to do it. The man’s colour was high and it wouldn’t be the first time rage had driven his actions. ‘You mean to tell me that my niece has managed to elude you and disappear entirely?’ Harding ground out when the messenger finished his report.

Acton sat up to join the proceedings. ‘Surely you must understand how improbable it seems. Miss Caulfield is a gently bred young lady who hasn’t been beyond Exeter in her entire life and you gentlemen are trained professionals,’ he drawled lazily, but only a stupid man would be drawn in by his apparent nonchalance. Acton was as angry over this latest development as Harding was. His long-standing relationship with Lucas Harding had developed a certain tension in the last week, ever since it became obvious Harding’s ungrateful niece had simply disappeared a coincidental four days before she was due to become his wife and Baroness Wildeham to boot.

‘I am sorry we don’t have better news.’ The messenger shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, sensing that anger was indeed boiling just beneath the surface in a barely disguised simmer.

‘Better news? You don’t have any news!’ Harding exploded. The explosion was justified, Acton mused. Maura’s disappearance had put her uncle in dire straits and she’d made him look the fool. She was contracted to marry him in exchange for erasing a gambling debt her uncle had rather rashly acquired. Harding had never believed his stallion, Captain, would lose to Acton’s Jupiter. Most fortunately, Acton was willing to take payment in the form of a bride as opposed to cash, especially when that bride was the delectable Maura Harding.

When he’d struck the deal, Harding had had a bride to offer. Now, he had neither bride nor money and the deadline was looming. If Harding didn’t retrieve Maura soon, he’d be destitute. Acton knew very well Harding was a mere knight and his property wasn’t entailed. If he took the house, Harding’s family would be left unsettled: his wife, the young twins and the two older sons. Maura was a fair trade for her uncle’s continued stability. The man had cared for Maura since she was sixteen and this was how she repaid him? Acton would never tolerate such disobedience. It was a woman’s lot in life to serve her family. Marrying him had become Maura’s duty, her service for the four years of living under her uncle’s roof.

‘Find her,’ Harding ground out, his temper cooling a bit. ‘Expand your search. Try the coaching inns again in case anyone remembers her.’ Acton privately disagreed. If she’d gone to a coaching inn, chances of finding her became slimmer. Hundreds of travellers passed through those inns and people’s memories could be dulled as time went on. The Runners could end up chasing false leads. But Acton knew Harding had honestly thought they’d find her in a nearby village or attempting to get work in Exeter. Harding had guessed wrong on that score and her trail was growing cold. Now it was time to do things his way.

‘What about London?’ Wildeham offered. ‘It seems a logical choice if someone wanted to hide and we haven’t tried there yet.’ It had only been a handful of days. By his calculations she would only just have arrived. A trail in London, if there was one, would still be very warm.

Harding shook his head in disagreement. ‘Unlikely, Wildeham. Maura has little to no money that I know of and no skills. Even if she could have afforded coach fare or begged a ride, she’s got nothing to live on once she reaches the city. She’s a gentleman’s daughter. She’s been raised to marry, not to labor.’

Wildeham saw the logic in Harding’s argument. If a girl like Maura thought to find employment in London, she’d be quickly disappointed. The town would devour a girl like her, and that worried him very much. He didn’t want Maura dead. He wanted her alive and penitent, very penitent.

Wildeham shifted in his seat to accommodate the early stirrings of arousal. Penitence conjured up all sorts of images of Maura on her knees before him. If anyone was doing any devouring, it was going to be him. He’d spent quite a few hours imagining the fantasies he’d play out with her once she was his. She would be sorry she’d run. There was nothing like the thrill of laying a rod across the smooth white expanse of untouched buttocks … But he digressed. Wildeham pulled his thoughts back to the situation at hand.

Maura Harding had run and he was more certain with each passing day she’d gone to London. Her uncle only saw a pretty, well-mannered girl. But he’d had the occasion to see much more. Harding and the Runner could talk all they wanted about searching the larger towns of Devonshire, but they’d never seen Maura with her temper up. They’d never seen her try to slap a man after he cornered her in the pantry for a little bit of slap and tickle. They’d never been on the receiving end of her tongue, and not in the French way he preferred. The little vixen had bit him when he’d tried to kiss her, nearly severing his tongue in two. That was all right with him. He liked it rough and he always hit them back. Nothing too hard, mind you, but enough to make his position on the matter clear. The more Maura fought, the more he wanted her, and he was going to have her. It was time to do things his way.

‘Are you two still debating a local search?’ He interrupted Harding and the Runner. He was growing impatient with their theorising, although this ‘treasure hunt of sorts’ could be fun in a tantalising, torture-pleasure scheme of things.

‘It’s what makes the most sense.’ Harding sighed. ‘She can’t have gone far.’

Acton warmed to the game. ‘By all means, continue with your efforts. It’s your coin, after all. I’ve got my own man for odd jobs like this. I’ll send him to London at my expense and see what he turns up. We’ll make it a wager, fifty pounds on the side to whoever finds her first.’

Harding smiled tolerantly as if he wasn’t the one faced with losing something more substantial than fifty pounds if the girl wasn’t retrieved. ‘All right, fifty pounds it is.’

Acton rose from the divan. ‘I will call it an early night, then. I have plans to make. Do give my regards to your wife, Harding.’ It was still early enough to summon Paul Digby, a sturdy ox of a man. Acton had used Digby before for all sorts of dirty work. Digby was a thinker, an unusual quality for a man his size. Digby could find anyone when he set his mind to it. If Maura was in London, she was about to be found.

Maura embraced the morning with a positive attitude and a plan. She’d not expected to be working with children when she’d made her application, but she would adjust. Childhood wasn’t so far behind her that she’d forgotten what it was like to be seven or eight. With that in mind, she’d risen early, arranged for breakfast to be delivered to the nursery and written out an orderly schedule for the day. She ran through that schedule in her mind on the way to the nursery; there would be breakfast, morning lessons, an afternoon walk, she would review manners over tea, there would be play time before dinner. It was all very efficient.

And entirely inappropriate. At the sight of the nursery, all her plans went out the window. The place was a mess. Toys of every sort lay spread on the floor or tucked haphazardly into any available nook. Clothes lay draped over furniture, wrinkled. Maura picked up a discarded shirt and shook it out. She’d not expected this.

Yesterday afternoon, there’d been no time to see the children’s quarters. The children had been ready for her, neatly dressed and pressed. They’d gone walking in the park across the street. The ‘invitation’ to her most unusual dinner with Lord Chatham had been waiting on her return. But she hadn’t worried. She should have. Nothing had prepared her for this. This would demand a re-routing of her carefully laid plans.

‘Six!’ Cecilia poked her head out of her little bedchamber off the nursery’s main room. ‘You’re here early!’ She ran across the hall to William’s room. ‘Will, Will, Six is here!’

‘I thought I’d come up for breakfast and we could continue getting acquainted.’ Maura smiled. She and the children had got off to a decent start yesterday, even if William had been less enthusiastic than Cecilia. William had been very quiet, very reserved on the walk.

‘What are we going to do today?’ Cecilia asked, slipping a hand through hers and swinging her arm.

‘We are going to eat and then we’re going to play a game,’ Maura said cheerily. She tugged on William’s blanket. ‘Now, out of bed, sleepyhead. Breakfast will be here any minute.’

‘Up here?’ William questioned. ‘Uncle Ree just lets us eat in the breakfast room downstairs whenever we want. Breakfast is served until eleven o’clock.’

That was interesting and potentially full of problems. ‘Does your uncle eat with you?’

‘No,’ William said dejectedly. ‘He’s usually in bed until noon.’

‘You eat alone?’ Maura busied herself in the little chamber, straightening here and there so her questions didn’t seem like an interrogation. This was something she needed to know. She didn’t want to upset a family ritual of eating together.

‘Yes,’ Cecilia proclaimed proudly. ‘We fill our own plates and eat as much as we want of whatever we want. The chairs are big, though, and my feet don’t touch the ground.’

Children eating copious amounts of self-selected food unsupervised wasn’t a family ritual; it was a recipe for disaster. The breakfast trays arrived and Maura hurried to clear the round table in the centre of the nursery.

‘Mmm, it smells good.’ Cecilia scampered after her and Maura noticed even William didn’t have to be asked twice to the table as she set out the dishes and removed the covers.

‘What’s that?’ William pointed to the plates arranged with strips of toast alongside an egg cup.

‘These are eggs and soldiers.’ Maura placed a plate in front of each of them and sat down. ‘Have you ever seen it before?’ She’d rather thought they would have. She’d been raised on it.

They shook their heads. ‘Soldiers?’ William asked curiously, poking around at the egg.

‘The toast strips are the soldiers.’ Maura picked up a spoon and tapped the top of the soft-boiled egg. The top broke open, revealing the runny yolk inside. ‘Now, you take a soldier and dip it in the egg.’ She demonstrated and took a bite. ‘Yummy. Try it,’ she urged them.

After the first bite, eggs and soldiers was an immediate success. ‘This is better than the porridge we had with those other governesses.’ Cecilia made a face reflecting her distaste of the porridge. ‘But,’ she proclaimed with a mouth of toast, ‘this is as good as breakfasts with Papa Elliott.’ She paused long enough to swallow. ‘He was Uncle Ree’s brother, but he’s dead now, like our father. I hope Uncle Ree doesn’t die.’ It was said with a child’s innocent carelessness of the facts, but Maura’s heart went out to them. Three father figures in eight years was a lot of change.

‘Why is it called eggs and soldiers?’ William ate his last bite.

Maura leaned forwards. ‘My mother told me eggs and soldiers was the tale of Humpty Dumpty.’ She recited the nursery rhyme to them. ‘The toast strips are all the king’s men and the runny egg is poor old Humpty Dumpty who can’t be put back together again.’ They laughed and Maura gathered up the dishes. ‘Who’s ready for a game?’

‘None of the other governesses played games,’ William said sceptically.

‘Well, Six does and I like her,’ Cecilia put in emphatically, turning blue eyes Maura’s way, a sudden concern mirrored in her eyes. ‘You aren’t going to leave, are you?’

‘No, of course not,’ Maura reassured her. She couldn’t possibly leave, no matter what. Leaving would mean being homeless. It would mean having no way to support herself. The children could put frogs in her bed and she’d have to stay. ‘Who knows what lava is?’

Cecilia had no idea, but William did. ‘It’s the hot stuff that comes out of volcanoes. Papa Elliott told me about Mount Etna in Italy.’ He grinned. ‘It sounds exciting, all that noise and rumbling. I’d like to be an explorer and see one some day. Papa Elliott said the last time Mount Etna erupted a little village almost got destroyed.’

‘The village was called Bronte,’ Maura supplied. ‘We could pretend today that our nursery is that village and we are explorers who have come to rescue the people from the volcano.’ Maura bent over and swept up a rag doll. ‘I got her, she’s safe. Does anyone know this little girl’s name?’

‘That’s Polly,’ Cecilia supplied.

‘Can you take Polly to a safe place on a shelf away from the lava?’ Maura handed the doll over to her. ‘In fact, the whole carpet is lava and we have to pull everyone and everything out and get them to safety. Cecilia, can you be in charge of saving all the dollies? William, you can be in charge of saving the village’s things, like their games, and the soldiers. Step quickly so the lava doesn’t burn your feet, too! I’ll get the books.’

Off they went, all three of them hopping about, grabbing up the ‘villagers’ and getting them resettled. It was a noisy business. Sometimes the rescuers weren’t fast enough and got burnt. Cecilia squealed the most over her imaginary close calls with the lava. Even William got involved, telling them an elaborate story about how his soldiers had come to help, but been cut off by a sudden earthquake that left them stranded on the mountain’s left slope.

It took the better part of an hour, but when the last villager was rescued, the floor was empty and the nursery was tidy.

‘Whew.’ Maura plopped into a child-sized chair at the table. ‘That was hard work. Good job, rescuers. See how nice the nursery looks.’

‘You tricked us.’ William sulked, suddenly suspicious. ‘That wasn’t a game, it was a trick to make us pick up.’

‘Did you have fun?’ Maura challenged good-naturedly.

‘Well, yes, a little bit,’ William confessed. He’d had more than a little bit of fun.

‘Then it was a game,’ came a male voice from the doorway.

‘Uncle Ree!’ The children ran to him, pelting him with hugs. Maura rose, pushing at a loose strand of hair, conscious of her appearance after an energetic game of ‘Save the Villagers’. She looked rather mussed compared to Lord Chatham’s immaculate toilette. He was turned out for driving in tan breeches and boots and a dark-blue coat that emphasised his eyes.

‘I heard all the commotion and thought I’d come up to see what was going on.’ Lord Chatham looked a question over the children’s heads.

‘I’m sorry if we were too loud,’ Maura apologised hastily.

‘Not too loud, just too early.’ He did look a bit pale and there were traces of bags under his very blue eyes.

‘Uncle Ree stays up late and sleeps in,’ William said. ‘I want to be like him. That’s why I stay in bed,’ he announced proudly. Maura could think of better behaviours to emulate. She could well imagine what had kept Lord Chatham out until all hours of the morning. After drawing circles on her hand at dinner, he’d likely moved on to actresses and courtesans.

‘We were rescuing villagers from the volcano.’ Cecilia hopped up and down on one foot. ‘We saved Polly first. And we had eggs and soldiers for breakfast.’

Lord Chatham grinned at her, looking entirely irresistible. ‘It sounds like a very productive morning.’ He glanced out the window. ‘The sun is out and since I’m up, who wants to go to the park? Will, get your boat, the new one I got you, and we’ll try it out. Cecilia, get your hoops and the little kite. There should be enough of a breeze to fly it.’ The children went wild with excitement and scurried about the room, gathering their things.

She was coming to hate when he did that. How dare he be likeable after just reminding her how unlikeable he should be. He’d been out carousing all night, a behaviour that boded ill, and now he was offering to play the doting father figure and take the children to the park. With hardly a care for your own plans, her defences reminded. Are you going to let him walk in here and disrupt your day?

Maura stepped forward. An outing to the park wasn’t quite what she had in mind. ‘Lord Chatham, the offer is most generous and I’m sure well meant. However, I must politely protest. We haven’t done our lessons yet.’ She kept her voice low. ‘Yesterday, you and I talked of the necessity for a schedule.’

Lord Chatham shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Lessons can wait. A day of good English sunshine cannot. One never knows when we’ll see the sun again. We must take advantage of such days when they present themselves.’ He gave her a wink. ‘You should hurry along, too, Miss Caulfield. You’re not ready to go.’ Then added conspiratorially, ‘Lessons will take care of themselves, you’ll see.’

She understood implicitly there was to be no further discussion. Maura knew how to argue. Her uncle was famous for his blusters and tirades. She could stand her ground in the face of such debate. But Lord Chatham’s tactics were nothing like her uncle’s and she’d been ill prepared for them this first time. Unlike her uncle, Chatham was not a man who shouted to get what he wanted. He simply charmed. He might have put off discussion of the children’s schedule for the moment, but discussion would have to come. Children needed a schedule.

There would be little she could do about it if he made a habit of impromptu excursions whenever he happened to wake up early. Having a schedule ensured her safety, too. She couldn’t make a habit of being about town too much, at least for a while. If anyone was looking for her, she didn’t want to be caught unawares. Today could be the exception. It was too early for anyone to have tracked her this far. She was counting on her uncle’s limited thinking to keep his search rooted to the area closer to home.

It was immediately clear this was to be no usual sojourn. Maura had thought they’d go to the park in the square across the street with the other neighbours. She’d walked there yesterday with the children. But the sight of Lord Chatham’s open barouche with two matched greys champing at the bit in front of the town house soon disabused her of the notion.

‘William, come sit beside me,’ Lord Chatham instructed, getting them all settled with his ever-present charm. ‘A gentleman always sits with his back to the driver and the ladies always sit facing forwards.’

Maura experienced some relief over that arrangement. She far preferred sitting next to Cecilia. There would be no accidental jostling of thighs or other contact when the carriage hit a bump in the road. She’d feared for a moment she’d have to sit next to him. Not because he repulsed her—quite the opposite, and the attraction was unseemly for one in her position. He was her employer and a rogue of a fellow, too, if Mrs Pendergast was to be believed. His behaviour at dinner had proved as much. He was not averse to flirting with the hired governess and whatever else he could get away with.

She took her seat next to Cecilia and realised this was worse. Sitting across from him ensured she had to look at him, at his blue eyes, at his broad shoulders, at his long legs, which were booted and crossed at the ankles and dangerously close to hers when they stretched out across the carriage as they were doing now. So much for avoiding any casual contact.

‘Where are we going?’ The carriage pulled out into the traffic and Maura couldn’t deny she wasn’t just a little bit excited. This would be her first trip about London. Yesterday in the hired hackney, her mind had been too occupied to look around and the window had been too small to see much of the view even if she had been inclined.

‘Regent’s Park. It’s open to the public today, Miss Caulfield. We couldn’t waste the sunshine and the park, especially when it’s only open two days a week. It’s far too great of a treat to pass up, isn’t it?’ Lord Chatham’s blue eyes were twinkling. He knew, drat him. He knew this was as big of a treat for her as it was for the children.

Chapter Four

‘You’re very good with a kite, Miss Caulfield,’ Riordan called out from the boat pond where he and William were sailing the boy’s new model schooner. Miss Caulfield and Cecilia had opted to take advantage of the breezes and it did his heart good to see the little girl running on the green, hoisting the kite into the air on command. He’d half-expected the kite to break, as much else did that Cecilia touched. Riordan supposed it was the nature of being seven and inquisitive. If it had, he’d have bought her a new one, but to his pleasant surprise, the kite had stayed up, ably piloted by Miss Caulfield.

Riordan smiled, watching Miss Caulfield manoeuvre the kite away from a grove of trees. She’d been a pleasant surprise herself this morning, romping with the children in the nursery. She’d not assigned the task and then stood idly by, ordering the children about like governess Number Three. From the look of her, she’d joined in the game whole-heartedly. She’d been delightfully mussed with her hair coming down and the faintest of smudges on her cheek. It had made him wonder what she’d look like more thoroughly mussed and by a man who knew how—a most arousing mental exercise, to be sure.

She was certainly a lot prettier than Number Four, Old Pruneface. She was wearing green again, this time an apple-green walking dress with a wide-brimmed hat to match—a hat, he noted, that had been discarded since their arrival. Ah, Miss Caulfield, Riordan thought with a smile, you are more impetuous than you let on.

The wind changed and the kite took a dive. Cecilia squealed a warning. Miss Caulfield tugged on the twine, but the kite continued to fall. Riordan gauged its trajectory. It was headed for the boating lake. Riordan sprinted towards Miss Caulfield, who was losing the battle. Beside her, Cecilia jumped up and down, frantic.

‘Allow me, Miss Caulfield.’ He took over the string and reeled it in, tugging every so often until the kite stabilised. ‘There, Cecilia,’ he assured the little girl, ‘everything’s fine now.’ But he was reluctant to turn the kite over. It had been ages since he’d flown one. He and Elliott had flown plenty of kites, built plenty of kites in their childhood. Miss Caulfield was eyeing him with barely disguised impatience. Apparently she, too, was something of a secret kite aficionado.

Riordan couldn’t resist showing off, just a little. He waited until he had the kite in a controlled stall before he let the line go slack, then he tugged, turning the kite on its belly in a flat rotation: a smooth, graceful move that mimicked the gentle glide of a bird.

Cecilia clapped and William was impressed enough to come up from the pond with his boat. ‘Do it again, Uncle Ree!’ He did it several more times, casually lecturing William and Cecilia on the aerodynamics of lift until their interest was satisfied and they ran back to the pond.

Riordan continued to fly the kite, aware of Miss Caulfield’s eyes on him, studying, wondering. ‘How do you do that?’ Miss Caulfield asked at last. ‘Will you tell me how?’

Riordan grinned. ‘Better than that, I’ll show you.’ He passed her the spindle of twine and sat down on the grass. ‘All right, here’s lesson number one. Do exactly as I tell you. The first step to an axel turn is a controlled stall. Let the kite hover in the air. Good.’ He leaned back on his elbows, watching the sun turn her hair the colour of burnished copper. The faintest hints of freckles were making an appearance on the bridge of her nose, a small penance for going without her hat.

His new governess was pretty, slightly mysterious with a dash of impetuosity thrown in—three traits he appreciated in his women. The question was how far could he pursue this? She was in his employ but did that mean he couldn’t flirt a little, especially if she was amenable? She might be. There’d been times at dinner when she’d forgotten she shouldn’t be interested in him. Coaxing her to forget a little more could be fun.

‘Now, pull at the twine to turn the nose away from you. Let the line go slack. Wait until one wing drops a little lower than the other and then tug. No.’ Riordan winced as the kite dipped dangerously low in an out-of-control dive. She tried again with no better results.

Riordan levered himself up off the ground. It was time to intervene. He came up behind her, sliding his hands over hers on the spindle. ‘It’s more of an intuition. You have to feel the moment when the one wing dips.’ She smelled wonderful, light and fresh like honeysuckle and lilac in the spring, but her body was tense. Such close proximity made her self-conscious, as it had in the barouche. If he had to guess, it was because it excited her. ‘Relax, Miss Caulfield. I can hardly ravish you in a public park,’ he whispered playfully against her ear. It wasn’t entirely true. He and Mrs Lennox had proven that claim decidedly false in Green Park last summer. He and Lady Granville had confirmed those findings just a couple of weeks ago, but Miss Caulfield didn’t need to know that.

Riordan steadied the kite, feeling Miss Caulfield’s tension ease as the kite trick demanded more of her attention. He kept his voice low. ‘Do you feel the slack? Now, wait for it—no, don’t go too soon.’ His hands tightened over hers. ‘Wait for the last possible moment … and … now!’ They tugged together and the kite flat-turned effortlessly.

‘It’s like a bird in flight,’ Miss Caulfield breathed.

‘Is that the best you can do?’ Riordan teased her. The description seemed far too tame for such a smooth, elegant move. Surely the woman who recklessly took off her hat in the park and imagined a nursery to be the burning town of Bronte just to get it tidied up could do better than that?

‘It’s apt,’ Miss Caulfield replied, taking umbrage. ‘What do you think it’s like?’

He stepped closer to her, his hands tightening gently over hers as he guided the kite into another graceful flat turn. ‘I think it’s like making love to a woman.’ He put his mouth close to her ear, breathing in the freshness of her. ‘A good lover cultivates patience; a good lover knows how to wait until the most final of moments to …’

‘Lord Chatham, that is quite enough.’ Miss Caulfield dipped and slipped under the circle of his arms. ‘You are really a most audacious man.’ Her face was flushed, but it wasn’t all from embarrassment.

Riordan laughed good-naturedly at the return of her self-consciousness. ‘Maybe I am, a little.’ He executed a few more tricks he remembered from childhood while Miss Caulfield watched, one hand shading her eyes as she looked into the sky, a very convenient alternative to looking at him.

‘Growing up, my brother and I would spend winters in the attics building kites.’ Riordan did a back spin with the kite. ‘Come spring, we’d fly them every chance we got. We had fabulous competitions.’ He hadn’t thought of those days for a long time. ‘We started when we weren’t much older than William.’ Their fascination with kites had lasted quite a while. Even when Elliott had gone away to school, they’d flown kites when he came home on holiday.

‘You miss your brother,’ Miss Caulfield said softly. ‘You were close. His death must be a terrible blow for you.’

‘Yes, Miss Caulfield. It is,’ he said tersely, thankful she wasn’t looking at him. He gave all his attention and then some to the kite, willing the moment of vulnerability to pass. He had not missed the present-tense reference. Everyone said his brother’s death had been a terrible blow, as if it was something he’d got over and relegated to the past. But it wasn’t like that. He missed Elliott every day. He missed knowing that Elliott was out there, somewhere, keeping order and doing good.

Miss Caufield allowed him to fly in silence, standing quietly beside him. It was a smart woman who knew when to give a man his space. After a while, Riordan began reeling the kite in. ‘Why don’t you get the children and we’ll go to Gunter’s for ices?’ He watched her pick up her hat and head down to the boat pond. He wasn’t sure why he’d told that story about building kites. She was a virtual stranger. Maybe he’d told her in apology for his inappropriate comment about making love to a woman. Maybe he’d told her because he didn’t want her to think he was an entirely graceless cad.

‘Is it always this busy?’ Maura looked about her in delighted amazement from the barouche. They were parked across the street from Gunter’s Confectionary with other carriages of the fashionable who’d come to take advantage of the good weather. Busy waiters ran from the store to the carriages, delivering ices and other treats. She marvelled at the waiters managed to stay clear of horses. Any moment, Maura expected there to be an accident.

‘It’s always this busy. Do you know why?’ Lord Chatham leaned forwards with a smile. He was going to tease her. Maura was fast coming to recognise that smile. She braced herself.

‘It’s the one place a young woman may be seen alone with a man without the presence of a chaperon.’

‘Of course. It has nothing to do with the quality of the merchandise,’ Maura replied drily, but she did look around to test his hypothesis. Young men lounged against carriage doors sharing ices with young ladies. ‘It looks fairly harmless.’ Not nearly as wicked as Lord Chatham’s low tones had implied.

Lord Chatham shrugged as if he found her comment debatable. ‘I suppose it depends on who you’re eating ices with.’

A waiter came to take their orders and Maura knew a second’s panic. What to choose? There’d been ices occasionally at her uncle’s home, but never this array of flavours to pick from. The children chose strawberry. Lord Chatham chose burnt filbert. Maura hesitated a fraction too long.

‘Chocolate crème, if you please, for the lady,’ Lord Chatham supplied with a wink. ‘It’s positively decadent.’

Maura flushed. A gentleman had ordered for her, had treated her like a real lady for the first time. She understood it meant nothing beyond good manners—she was a practical girl, after all. He’d been doing his duty. Still, it had felt nice. No one had ever felt compelled to his duty on her behalf before.

The chocolate crème was decadent, Maura decided after the first bite. She let the cool richness slide down her throat, taking care to savour it, aware that Lord Chatham was watching her.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked, although he must have known the answer already. ‘We can set up an order for the house. You can have ice cream delivered every day.’

‘Every day?’ Maura raised an eyebrow. ‘That sounds like the height of luxurious living.’

Lord Chatham took a bite of his ice cream. ‘The Italians eat it every day. Florence is full of gelaterias. Their ice cream is gelati,’ he explained to the children who were hanging on his every word. ‘The flavours would astound you; all types of chocolates, vanilla, strawberry, almonds—almost any flavor you can think of.’

‘I want to live there,’ Cecilia put in. ‘I would eat ice cream every day.’

Lord Chatham waggled his dark brows and gave Cecilia a mock-serious look. ‘I did live there and I did eat ice cream every day. It was one of the best parts of being in Italy.’

‘What were the other best parts?’ William ventured, taking a break from his ice cream. ‘The volcanoes? Mount Etna is in Italy.’

‘As is Mount Vesuvius. One day, I climbed that mountain …’

The rest of the afternoon, Lord Chatham regaled the children with tales of his time abroad. They listened enrapt. Maura listened, too. It was easy to get caught up in the stories. The earl was an excellent storyteller and the topic was captivating. She’d never known anyone who’d travelled as extensively as Lord Chatham. How wonderful it must be to travel like that. Lord Chatham had clearly enjoyed his time abroad. His face took on a softness, his eyes were far away as he recalled narrow streets and hill towns, rich wines and foods eaten in villas that caught the afternoon breezes. Her own world seemed very small. The furthest she’d ever travelled had been her flight from Exeter to London. That hardly counted as a trip. It had been an escape.

Cecilia’s head lolled against her and Maura moved an arm about the sleepy child. ‘Perhaps we should go home.’ The ice creams were eaten and both children were pleasantly drowsy from their exciting day.

The drive home was slow and the noise of late-afternoon traffic made conversation difficult. Maura stayed busy with her own thoughts, most of them occupied by the man sitting across from her. He was proving to be quite the conundrum: fun-loving and stern by turn; easy-going and yet vulnerable; handsome and flirtatious by nature. Her employer presented a most tempting attraction, an attraction that must be resisted. Her post depended on it. She must not even think it, no matter how much the temptation beckoned, no matter how often he lured her with his smiles and bold words designed to spark her passions and curiosities.

Maura scolded herself for the momentary lapse. He would flirt with anything, that much was clear. But she couldn’t afford to be his next conquest. It boded ill that she was thinking such thoughts after only a day in his employ. Perhaps this was why the other governesses had left. Perhaps they had been made of sterner stuff.

‘A penny for your thoughts.’ Lord Chatham stretched his legs. The traffic noise had died down the closer they got to Portland Square and the quieter, elite streets. ‘Or are they worth more than that?’

‘I was wondering why the other governesses left.’ It made little sense. The children were decent children, even if they were a bit unruly at times from a lack of structure. The home was in a good neighborhood, the work no more onerous than any other a governess might expect. In short, there was nothing wrong with the posting, technically. But Mrs Pendergast had made it clear the situation was intolerable.

‘I suspect, Miss Caulfield, they didn’t like me.’ The hint of a mischievous grin hovered on his lips.

‘I find that hard to believe.’ They probably had liked him too much.

‘Is there a compliment in that somewhere?’ He laughed it off and then sobered. ‘I assure you, Old Pruneface—that was Number Four—didn’t like me one bit. I interrupted her lessons far too often. She told me if I interrupted one more time she was leaving. So I did and she left.’

‘Maybe it was calling her Old Pruneface.’ But Maura did not miss the secondary message. Was there a warning for her in it? He would continue to interrupt as he had done today when and where he pleased? ‘About the schedule, Lord Chatham—’ Maura began.

‘Didn’t you like our lessons?’ he broke in with a soft, melting smile.

‘Lessons?’

‘I told you the lessons would take care of themselves and they did. We had etiquette about how to ride in a carriage, we had science about wind and lift and some about the water, too, when William and I were at the pond. We had history and geography, Italy and volcanoes.’

‘So we did,’ Maura conceded with a modicum of surprise. He’d been thoughtful and inventive about the day’s interruption. She’d not known many men like that. Indeed, she’d not known any until today.

He gave her one of his playful winks. ‘You are not the only one, Miss Caulfield, who can turn fun into more noble ends.’

‘Today was lovely, but there is also merit in structure.’ Maura stood her ground. ‘We can plan outings. We can set aside a certain day of the week for them,’ Maura cajoled. ‘I’m not saying we can’t have outings. I believe in them wholeheartedly.’

The carriage pulled up to the town house, effectively curbing further conversation. All she managed to wring from Lord Chatham by way of closure was a lukewarm ‘we’ll see’ before they began the process of getting the children inside. She helped William into the house while Lord Chatham carried a sleeping Cecilia up the steps, looking more like a father than an earl. It was a heart-warming sight that would have made it all too easy to forgive him his myriad sins: the indifference that led to children eating breakfast alone, a messy nursery, the anarchy by which he ran his town house and the rakishness that led him to flirt unashamedly.

Surely a man who was so good with children wasn’t all bad, which made it that much worse for her. It would be better if he were an irredeemable dissolute like Wildeham. Then she’d know what to make of him, how to manage him.

The butler, Fielding, met them in the foyer with a stern look. ‘Milord, your solicitor is waiting to see you. He’s been here since two o’clock.’ Maura sensed it was as close to a reprimand as the butler would dare. Except for a slight tightening of his jaw, Chatham looked unperturbed over the development.

‘Miss Caulfield, if you could take Cecilia?’ Lord Chatham deposited the child in her arms. ‘It seems I have forgotten the appointment. Fielding, show Mr Browning to my study. I will see him immediately.’

Maura climbed the stairs with her bundle, William trailing beside her. She was starting to see reasons for the earl’s indifference. No wonder he wasn’t interested in the children’s schedule and ignored the importance of structure. Lord Chatham couldn’t even keep his own.

Chapter Five

‘Well?’ Riordan took his seat behind the large walnut desk and fixed the solicitor with a stare he hoped would qualify as ‘imperious’.

‘It’s not good news,’ Mr Browning began, giving the glasses on his nose a push with his middle finger, a gesture Riordan found singularly annoying.

‘Of course it isn’t.’ Mr Browning never managed to bring good news.

‘Lady Cressida Vale and her husband, the viscount, want custody of the children.’ At least Mr Browning wasn’t sugar-coating anything but that didn’t stop a cold stab of fear from settling in Riordan’s stomach.

‘You mean they want custody of the trust funds.’ Riordan held his temper, but just barely. He’d expected this. Lady Vale had intimated as much at the funeral.

Mr Browning gave Riordan a censorious look over the rims of his glasses for speaking so baldly. ‘There is no proof of such motivation.’

‘She is a maternal cousin of their father and I am a paternal cousin. When it comes to next of kin, we are equal, except that my family stepped forwards to care for the children when her side had the chance and did not.’ Riordan remembered very well Elliott swooping in to save the day four years ago when the children had become penniless orphans.

‘Things are different now.’ Mr Browning was prevaricating this time. It could only mean there was more bad news.

Riordan leaned back in the chair and steepled his hands. ‘Naturally things are different. Elliott left the children well provided for. Ishmael, their father, left them nothing but a mouldering estate.’ No one had wanted to take on the burden of two young children with no prospects.

‘The guardianship is different now, too,’ Mr Browning pressed on uncomfortably. He pushed a paper forwards in explanation. ‘The former earl was deemed a proper guardian.’

‘Are you suggesting I am not?’ Anger started to simmer.

‘I’m not. They are.’ Browning nodded towards the paper, urging him to read it.

Riordan scanned it, his anger boiling at the list of sins enumerated against him: an improper lifestyle of womanising and gambling, no structure for the children, an incoherent education—the list went on. All of which could be remedied by the presence of a motherly figure in the household, presumably Lady Vale. The thought was laughable. Lady Vale was about as maternal as … well, no apt comparison came to mind, to borrow Miss Caulfield’s word from earlier in the day.

‘The children will have their structure. Tell the Vales that.’ Riordan pushed the paper back across the desk with a sense of satisfaction. ‘I have a governess.’ Ha, the Vales could try to trump that. The Vales argued for structure—well, he had it. Miss Caulfield and her appreciation for such structure would feel vindicated.

Browning coughed and fidgeted. ‘With all due respect, milord, you’ve had five governesses.’

‘I haven’t exactly “had” five governesses.’

Browning coughed at the vulgarity. ‘Hired. You’ve hired five governesses in an unseemly short period of time.’

‘And the point is?’ If that skinny ferret of a solicitor was going to agree with the opposition, Riordan would make damn sure he had to come out and do it blatantly.

‘Well, five, milord, seems to undermine your case rather than help it.’

‘That’s your opinion.’ Riordan skewered Browning with a hard look. ‘My brother left those children to me. He did not leave them to the Vales and for good reason. The Vales can disagree with me all they like, but Elliott’s will is uncontested.’ He was relying on the immovable bulwark of English law to hold firm.

Mr Browning was silent and Riordan felt the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. ‘Mr Browning, say something,’ Riordan said quietly.

‘I am sorry for the loss, milord. I liked the earl a great deal.’ Meaning that he didn’t care for the current earl nearly as much. Riordan was used to it. It wasn’t the first time he had been measured against the perfect standard of Elliott and come up lacking. ‘The nature of the earl’s death does call into question the sanctity of his will.’

‘Put that in plain English for the rest of us.’

‘The Vales could argue the earl was mentally unstable.’

Riordan studied his hands. ‘Would they win?’

‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’ Mr Browning offered astutely.

It wouldn’t. It was the scandal of it all coming out that mattered. Elliott’s memory would be besmirched. Riordan would put a stop to that if he could. His brother had been an upstanding saint of a man who’d met with a mysterious end. He didn’t deserve to have his life publicly examined and criticised.

Riordan reached for the paper again. He stared hard at the words itemising his fall: womaniser, no home structure, lack of a motherly presence for the children. Browning was most regrettably right. A governess would not plug the dyke. He tapped a finger on the polished surface of the desk, thinking. A governess might not, but a wife most certainly would.

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