Clearly, Ethan was making an enemy. The man’s eyes narrowed, his expression closed, and his gaze went to where Miller was turning the pony out with Lightning, who bucked and cantered up to his mate in welcome.

“I understand ye clear enough.” In a cavalier display of rudeness, Thatcher spat his words, turned his back on his employer, and stomped off. Which confirmed to Ethan he should have fired the man, plain and simple. He’d have Miller find a pretext for doing same, but leave it in his stable master’s hands. Some of the joy of the morning was tarnished, but not all.

He could find Alice and interrogate her regarding Latin primers and whatever else she’d been prosing on about before more important matters had come under discussion.

He smiled as he turned back toward the house, but paused before the peach tree, not intending to grab a snack but merely to assess the ripening crop. As he stood in the tree’s shade, he spied Alice walking hand in hand with a tall, dark-haired man in riding attire. It wasn’t anybody Ethan recognized, and Alice was a fair distance from the house. As he debated intruding—a gentleman did not spy—Alice stopped and wrapped her arms around the man, holding him in a fiercely close embrace.

Ethan left his chambers for the lower floors of the house, his toilet repaired sufficiently for the noonday meal.

His mood, however, was not in good repair at all. He caught the eye of the footman at the end of the corridor. Tall, blond, handsome—like Nick, of course. “It’s Davey, isn’t it?”

The fellow smiled, revealing surprisingly good teeth. “That would be me, Mr. Grey.”

“Be warned. The boys like you.” Ethan hurried off, stomach growling, mood deteriorating apace. If Alice Portman had a gentleman caller, she would in nowise be hanging about Tydings for even her probationary period. No woman in her right mind chose governessing over matrimony.

Where was Ethan supposed to find another governess, and how was he supposed to explain it to the boys?

“Mr. Grey?” Mrs. Buxton stopped him at the foot of the steps. “We’ve set lunch in the dining room. Miss Portman said there’s to be a gentleman for company. She’s in the family parlor with the gentleman, and she asked the boys to join the adults at table.”

Ethan’s eyebrows rose, as this was presumption upon presumption. “She did?”

“She certainly did,” Mrs. Buxton nodded, sails filling with righteousness.

“Then she must have had good reasons,” Ethan said before the housekeeper could launch her first volley. “You will tell the kitchen I’m sure lunch will be exemplary, particularly the vegetable dishes.”

“Aye, sir.” Mrs. Buxton looked confused, but bobbed her curtsy and disappeared, no doubt to inform the kitchen they were in Ethan’s crosshairs.

His mood sank further when he heard genuine, hearty laughter as he approached the family parlor. Alice’s suitor was apparently a charming bastard, making Ethan realize he hadn’t heard her laugh yet—not like that. Alice Portman was overstepping, and—to take a maliciously appropriate leaf from her own book—she could have done Ethan the courtesy of asking.

He swept into the family parlor without knocking, as it was his goddamned house, and Alice was practically sitting in the man’s lap.

“Miss Portman.” Ethan barely nodded. “I see you have an unanticipated guest.”

“Grey.” The man rose, and Ethan saw his face for the first time. “A pleasure to see you again. My sister has said only nice things about you, so I know you’re hiding something.”

God above. Ethan stuck out his hand on reflex, as he did indeed know the man.

“Alice is your sister?” Ethan managed, mental gears whizzing. If Benjamin Hazlit was Alice Portman’s brother, then why weren’t their last names the same? By God, if Alice were married. His mood halted mid-plunge and reversed itself: she might be widowed…

“My younger sister.” Hazlit’s smile was faintly mocking. “I am reporting for inspection, because we haven’t seen each other for some weeks. My apologies for not sending word in advance, but I was in the neighborhood. You have a lovely estate, at least what I’ve seen of it, and Alice says the house is just as pretty.”

“My thanks,” Ethan said, recovering a few of his wits. “Has Al—Miss Portman offered you something to drink?”

Alice smiled at him, and this Alice—who laughed, who welcomed a brother much respected in Polite Society—bore little resemblance to the woman who’d clung to Ethan beneath the maple tree.

“We were waiting for you, Mr. Grey,” she said. “I apologize for not warning you, but Benjamin tends to show up for an unannounced call whenever I change positions. It’s always a pleasant surprise to see him.”

There was a plea in her smile, for forbearance, maybe. She hadn’t invited her brother here and probably wasn’t entirely glad to see the man. And for Alice—Ethan knew this about her—there would always be something unpleasant about any surprise.

“Family should always be welcome,” Ethan said. “Let me ring for drinks. Something chilled might do. Lemonade?”

He could be a creditable host, and he slipped into the role by dint of will. Lunch passed pleasantly, with Hazlit quizzing the boys as if Alice were the charge and they the supervisors.

Joshua grinned at his governess. “If you forget our story, Miss Portman, we’ll make you go to bed without supper.”

“If you send her to bed without supper,” Hazlit said, “she might be cranky the next day. Out of sorts, grouchy—you know what I mean?”

“Miss Portman is never out of sorts,” Jeremiah said, all seriousness. “She says moods and vapors do not become a lady whose task is as important as hers.”

“And that important task would be?” Ethan gestured to the footman to top off everyone’s glass of lemonade.

“Keeping us out of trouble,” Joshua said. “It’s a lot of work, Papa.”

“I can imagine. Shall we take our drinks to the terrace so the kitchen can get to the work of tidying up?”

“It’s my turn!” Joshua bumped his brother aside with a stout application of a pointy little elbow to a fraternal rib, and stood behind Alice’s chair. She rose and waited while Joshua wrestled the chair back.

When the boys had departed for the next installment of Waterloo, the adults enjoyed the shaded end of the terrace.

“I think I’ll go fetch a hat,” Alice said. “I might want to see this famous battle site, but the sun is quite fierce.” The men stood, and Ethan turned to see Hazlit regarding him with the same speculation Ethan was aiming at his guest.

Ethan arched an eyebrow. “The point of your sortie wasn’t to fawn over your sister, though you get marks for being a good brother. What do you want to know?”

Hazlit saluted with his drink. “You share your brother’s gift for plain speaking, which suits me far better than pettifogging inanities. Alice seems happy here.”

“Provided she looks after my children, there is no reason why she can’t be happy here. But we are not addressing your primary concern, are we?”

“We are not,” Hazlit conceded. “Alice may rejoin us at any time, so let me be blunt.” When Ethan said nothing, Hazlit’s near-smile made another fleeting appearance. “It’s like this, Grey. None of us, save my sister Avis, who rusticates in Cumbria, uses our actual family name. Hazlit and Portman hang somewhere nearby on the family tree, but several branches back.”

“And you resort to this subterfuge, why?” Ethan took a slow sip of his drink, not sure he wanted an honest answer but damned certain he’d extract one.

“My sisters were involved in a scandal some twelve years ago,” Hazlit said. “They were not to blame, and they’ve lived exemplary lives ever since. Avis adjusted by burying herself at the family seat and becoming what Wilhelm and I call an instant spinster, though she was quite young at the time. Alice, who was even younger, adjusted by becoming utterly independent. She will not take one penny of her family money, and believe me, there is ample.”