Leah eyed Nick up and down. “I bid you good day, my lord.”

For the benefit of the footman, Nick adopted the same polite tones.

“Good day to you as well, Lady Leah.” He bowed correctly over her hand. “And my regards to your dear sister.”

He appropriated the bench again and watched until she’d left the park, footman in tow. The ducks set up another squawking, and Nick glanced over to see his little scrapper swimming hell-bent for the next offering of crumbs tossed forth from the hand of another pretty young lady.

Scrappers, he reminded himself, were sometimes not fussy enough about how they gained their ends; and eating just any old handout could leave a fellow with a mighty sorry bellyache.

The solicitor’s spectacled gaze put Wilton in mind of a rabbit tracking the location of a fox at the watering hole.

“We have yet to receive any indication Lord Hellerington’s intentions are sincere, my lord. There’s been no subtle inquiry, no overt interest, no draft documents sent over by mistake, if you take my meaning.”

Wilton knew a spike of murderous frustration, because Hellerington’s innuendo had become flagrant—and now this coy behavior. The man intended to offer for the trollop masquerading as Wilton’s oldest daughter; he’d all but announced it at his club.

“You’ve canvassed his clerks?”

“We have, my lord. We were particularly encouraged when there was an indication of general interest in your situation, but it came from the wrong firm.”

“Explain yourself.” Wilton rose to pace, knowing that leaving the solicitor seated would irk the man no end. Petty, self-important little thieves they were, but necessary if business was to be done in a businesslike manner.

“A junior clerk in the firm is related to some fellow in the offices around the corner,” the solicitor began, “and they occasionally share a pint and so forth.”

Wilton glowered at the man, lest the roundaboutation go on all morning.

“A Lord Reston is sniffing about.”

Wilton paused in his pacing. “Bellefonte’s heir?”

“Nicholas Haddonfield.” The solicitor shifted in his seat, keeping the earl in his line of sight. “The old earl is rumored to be in poor health.”

“How poor?”

“He is not expected to last out the year, my lord. Perhaps not even the month.”

“Interesting.” Wilton tried to keep his pleasure from showing on his face. This was the same callow swain who’d been sniffing around little Emily’s skirts this past week. “You’re dismissed.”

The solicitor rose and bowed without comment. In the solitude of his study, Wilton sat back in his cushioned chair and considered Reston’s inquiries. He’d have to see what this Reston fellow was made of. An earl’s younger son was about as high as Emily could hope to reach, but for her to become a countess…

It was fitting, Wilton decided, a rare smile twisting his lips. Emily was the product of rape, though legally a man could not rape his wife. Still, Wilton had forced himself on his errant wife, as brutally and as often as it had taken to get the arrogant bitch pregnant—and it had taken years. He’d relished her resistance, and relished even more the measures taken to impose himself on her. Full of fight, she’d been, and then she’d been full of his child.

Having made his point, however, he’d turned from his countess, unwilling to risk the child in further displays of marital discipline.

If Emily could be married off this year, without the fuss and bother of a Season, it would be her husband’s family who bore responsibility for presenting her at court and to Society as a whole.

And if Hellerington wiggled off the hook, then other arrangements could be made for Emily’s older sibling. Leah was used goods, and oddly enough, the market for used goods was more brisk than the market for their virtuous sisters. On that thought, Wilton rang for his carriage to be brought around, as a celebratory visit to the fair—and routinely vicious—Monique was in order.

“Who in their right mind has a ball on a Wednesday night? I thought Wednesday was for suppers and theatre outings.” Nick directed his grumbling at Valentine, with whom he was speeding through Town in the Bellefonte coach.

“Why exactly did we jaunt out to Kent yesterday?” Val asked.

Nick smiled at his friend. “To check on my holdings, to have dinner with David and Letty, and to admire their wee addition.”

Val gave a shudder Nick thought only partly feigned. “To me, a child that young does look wee, but then I think a woman must actually birth that small person, and suddenly…”

“You wonder why we’re not all only children,” Nick concluded the thought. “One must attribute to fathers of multiple children a certain irresistible charm, I suppose.”

“Or insatiability in their spouses. You’re going to make a wonderful father.”

Not this again. “On the contrary, I am not going to make any kind of father at all.”

“You?” Val snorted. “If anybody enjoys the activities that lead to conception, it’s you. And I’ve yet to see the child who doesn’t love you on sight.”

“And yet there are no baby Nicks underfoot, are there?”

“Don’t suppose you had measles?”

“I have restraint,” Nick shot back. “Not as contagious, but equally effective. So how many of your sisters are we meeting tonight?”

“Probably the three youngest.” Val shifted into a more upright posture on his upholstered seat. “They are the most enthusiastic about this sort of thing.”

“I like your sisters,” Nick said, donning his hat as the coach slowed. “They are tall, but for Lady Eve, and smarter than they want you to think they are.”

“You might consider wiping that look of martyred resignation off your face,” Val suggested gently. “Rather defeats the purpose of coming.”

“I wish there were another way to do this.” Nick looked out at the street on a sigh. “Why can’t a man simply take an ad in the newspaper: prospective earl looking for a duty-countess who will forget he ever married her?”

In the first hour of dancing, Nick stood up with three wallflowers, each chosen for her height and lack of partners, before he ducked out onto the well-lit terraces for a breath of fresh air. The weather was moderate, which meant the ballroom was quickly heating up, and the well-spaced urns of hothouse flowers were losing their battle with the scent of overheated, overperfumed, underwashed humans.

“We seem destined to hide in the same places.” Leah’s voice drifted out of the gloom to Nick’s left, and he felt a lightening of both body and mood.

“My lady.” He bowed over her hand, covertly assessing her appearance in the subdued light. “At least we both hide in pleasant, well-ventilated places. How fare you?”

“Honestly?” Leah peered up at him. “I was getting slightly nauseated in there. I lost Darius after the first set and thought perhaps to find him out here.”

Darius being one of her two brothers whom Nick was quietly having investigated. “Darius should not have lost you. Shall I search the gentlemen’s rooms for you?”

“Not yet,” she said as he led her to a bench several dark yards off the well-lit terrace. “Dare lets me slip the leash on purpose. I see no evidence of Hellerington tonight, so Darius has relaxed his guard. You should not have sent flowers, by the way.”

“You must not say such things, for I will send twice as many tomorrow.”

“What do they mean?” she asked after a time. “The flowers you sent?”

“The snowdrop is for hope,” Nick said, pleased she would ask. He’d chosen the bouquet carefully and visited more than one shop in the process. “The little sprig of wood sorrel is for joy, the wallflowers are for fidelity in adversity, and the lilies of the valley, as you know, are for a return to happiness.”

“There was a very pretty blue flower as well.” Beside him, she took a deep breath of the night air. “It reminded me of your eyes.”