His Grace obliged, and then—knowing it was folly—gave his wife the benefit of his thinking regarding the entire campaign to see the younger sons wed.

“You know, Pembroke may yet have more children. We needn’t be hasty with Percival and Tony, and might regret forcing their hands.”

Her Grace paused in mid-chew and raised her head, like a grazing animal scenting an intruder in its grassy paddock. “That useless twit Pembroke married will produce nothing but girls, Moreland. What use are girls, tell me?”

You were a girl once. I had rather more use for you then, and you for me.

“Girls provide the Crown an opportunity to modify the letters patent, to entertain the notion of special remainders, the viscountcy—”

“The Morefield viscountcy can be preserved through the female line, but why, why on earth, should this family revert to a lesser title when, for nearly two hundred years, a dukedom has been ours to command?”

Oh, woe to the duke who provoked Her Grace on the subject of “our” dukedom. While her eggs grew cold and His Grace’s digestion became tentative, Her Grace prosed on for a good five minutes about duty, chits, twits, and sons who ought to accept the guidance of a mother devoted—dee-voted, I tell you!—to nothing but their lifelong happiness.

“So,” she concluded with a stab of the butter knife toward her husband, “I’d prefer the Pankhurst girl, though the Needham heiress as a contingency plan will do nicely.”

A concerned father had to ask, regardless of the risks involved. “And what about Tony? Is he to have the contingency plan for his bride if Percy can win the Pankhurst girl?”

“Of course not.” Her Grace tore off a bite of scone and eyed it like a hawk might eye a lame mouse. “Gladys Holsopple has had two seasons, she has eight strapping brothers, and her mama assures me the girl is a very high stickler and well dowered too. She’ll do for Tony, though convincing him to take on a young lady so enamored of propriety will involve effort. I expect your support in this, Moreland.”

She popped the bite of scone into her maw and started chewing like a squirrel.

His Grace did not by word or deed give away certain information brought to his ears privately by loyal staff. “Somehow, my dear, I will convince Tony that a woman of unimpeachable character holds his best hope for marital happiness.”

“See that you do, and pass the butter, if you please.”

His Grace sent up yet one more prayer for the happiness of his younger sons and passed his duchess the butter.

A week in purgatory was a very long time, particularly when Michael was more enamored of the card room than any of the young ladies present. Esther told herself he was biding his time, waiting for the allure of Quimbey, Lord Tony, and Lord Percival to fade.

Which ought to occur in no less than three decades at the latest, provided each man developed a tendency to flatulence.

“Lady Zephora believes her bellpull is not working correctly.” Esther put as much apology into her tone as she could when she addressed the Morrisette butler. “I’m on my way to the kitchen to bring up another tea tray, for the young ladies have assembled in her drawing room this morning.”

Hayes did not roll his eyes. He smiled beneficently, maybe even consolingly. “These things do happen, Miss Himmelfarb. I’ll see to it and have a tea tray sent along posthaste.”

The bellpull was not broken, and they both knew it.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble the kitchen staff unnecessarily, Mr. Hayes. I’m on my way there, as it happens, and will cheerfully retrieve a tray for Lady Zephora.”

The smile lurking in his eyes disappeared, because now they both knew the object of Zephora’s complaint had been not only to criticize the house staff for a slow response to incessant demands, but also to force Esther to fetch and carry like a servant.

“If you say so, miss.” He gave her a deliberate formal bow and let her hustle along the corridor. Was it lying if the other party knew the falsehood for what it was? Esther hoped not, because another day—another hour—in purgatory would have her…

What had Lord Percival said? Howling like a wolf and wearing his wig backward.

She brushed aside the memory while she waited for the scullery maid—Patricia—to put together the tea tray. Percival Windham hadn’t so much as smiled at her in the past three days. He’d smiled at everyone else—servants, horses, dogs, debutantes, they all merited his smiles—while Esther had earned only a few brooding glances.

And she hadn’t set one slippered toe in the kitchen garden after dark. As the full moon waned, so had the glow of that encounter with Lord Percival.

Esther picked up the tray—the blasted thing was heavy—and headed for the maid’s stairs.

“Miss.” Patricia’s voice had Esther pausing. “Not them stairs.”

The front stairs, the ones used by family on their rare sorties to the lower regions of the house, would be longer, though Esther understood Patricia’s point: the maid’s stairs were for the help.

The damned tray was heavy. Esther shook her head and started for the maid’s stairs, only to understand halfway up that Patricia’s warning hadn’t been about appearances and self-respect, or not only about those things.

“Miss Himmelfarb.” Jasper Layton lounged on the first landing, elbows propped on the banister as he gazed down at her. “What on earth could cause a proper young lady to lurk on the back stairs so early in the day?”

Noon approached, but it was early by Sir Jasper’s standards. Without paint and powder, his appearance improved somewhat, though late nights in the card room had left dark circles beneath his eyes. Regardless of his toilet, he was still inclined to have his conversations with the tops of Esther’s breasts.

“Sir Jasper. If you’ll excuse me, Lady Zephora will not want her tea cooling. I’ll wish you good day.”

He shifted, lazily, just enough to trap Esther two steps beneath the landing. The superior position clearly appealed to him, too, so Esther let him enjoy it for a moment while she dropped her gaze to the tea tray.

He stepped aside, allowing her to pass, and then she realized why. With the tray in her hands, she faced a closed door on the far side of the landing. Her choices were to wait for Sir Jasper to open the door, to try to balance the tray on her hip and open the door herself, or to set the tray on the floor, open the door, and then pick the tray up.

While Sir Jasper ogled her backside, of course.

“A small dilemma,” Sir Jasper observed from much too close behind her. “You study the dilemma, while I study the opportunities it presents.”

A male hand slid around Esther’s waist. She closed her eyes and discarded options: she could scream, which would result in her being compromised if anybody heard her; she could stomp on the blighted man’s foot, which would anger him and not solve the problem; she could dump hot tea on his falls, which was social suicide though a nice thought to contemplate; or she could endure this small detour into hell.

A second hand joined the first, easing up over Esther’s ribs. “Instead of playing chambermaid to those ninnies in hair bows, you might consider more pleasant diversions with me, you know. I can be very considerate and quite discreet.”

He could also manage a fair impression of ants crawling over Esther’s skin. While he brushed his thumbs over the tops of her breasts and pushed his hips against her backside—thank God for her bustle—Esther sighed breathily.

“Lady Zephora has no patience, sir. To delay for even a moment will guarantee her enmity.”

“I can placate Lady Zephora.” His breath, reeking of the previous night’s overindulgence, came hot against Esther’s neck.

It was time to end this.

“Lady Morrisette has asked me to join her as soon as I’ve seen to the young ladies. If you’d get the door, sir. Please.”