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Chapter One

No stranger to adversity and scandal, Miss Claresta Huntington knew a marriage of convenience--the sort she'd decided to pursue--would involve both. But with only two months to fulfill her obligations, what choice did she have?

"I must find a husband, Nan."

The robust housekeeper snorted, as was her penchant to do more often than not when expressing disapproval. She pounded life back into the feather pillow Claresta had slept on and said, "'Tis a pity you can't see fit to go about acquiring one in the traditional fashion."

"Yes, it is a pity," Claresta mumbled. Sometimes her housekeeper's honesty took on the form of impertinence.

While her dresser, Lizette, twisted her strawberry blonde hair into a coronet about her head, Claresta contemplated how to go about her mission. For certain she could not go into the dockside taverns alone. She would need Nan to accompany her to find a ne'er-do-well suitable for her purposes. But to get the woman to go along with the plan, Claresta first had to convince her of the necessity to take such a drastic measure. Over the years, she had come to rely on Nan for advice. She was more than a servant. She was family--a distant country cousin on her mother's side, but still family. Nan wasn't required to perform the duties of housekeeper, but she insisted she must earn her keep. Since the age of seven, Claresta had had no other mother figure to turn to.

"I have to do what is necessary to keep my inheritance. And, even you must admit that marrying up to salvage my tarnished reputation is no longer a possibility."

"What of your cousin, Lord Westhaven?" Nan asked as she smoothed down the linen pillowcase.

"That toad-eating imbecile! At Vauxhall the other evening, he called me a sorceress."

To the first Nan could find no argument, to the latter she said, "Uh-huh."

"I tell you, he fell into that fountain on his own. I never laid a finger on him."

Nan lifted her nose as if to emit another disapproving sound. Instead, she said, "Well, you are not to be faulted for having clumsy suitors. Young bucks these days fall into fountains, stumble down stairs, and overturn carriages all the time." Nan tsked. "And, who could have known Lady Chelsworth's brother had a bad heart?"

"Enough, Nan." Claresta didn't like to remember the elderly gentleman's head plopping like a stone into his bowl of soup at Garraway's. She had been able to overlook the unlucky events that had squelched her other marriageable prospects, but none had ended with such finality as that of Sir Pedigrew.

"Well, 'tis none of it your fault," Nan insisted. "If not for the Morning Post quoting Sir Pedigrew's sister when she called you Calamity Claresta--"

"I said enough, Nan. Now, are you going to help me carry out my scheme to find a husband or not? Edwin said if I caught the lot before they became too deep in their cups, I may find one man in a dozen worth a farthing."

"I cannot believe your cousin would encourage one of your antics," Nan mumbled. "He always seemed so much more dependable and levelheaded than his brother."

Edwin had given her information on the best time of the day to catch a quarry only after she had made it clear she was determined go through with her scheme, with or without anyone's help. To point out her younger cousin's better qualities in comparison to that of Lord Westhaven's would be easy as comparing daylight to dark.

However, if she went off on a tangent of defending Edwin they could be here all day. She signaled the maid to quit fussing over the few strands of her hair that defied confinement and said, "Lay out the yellow gown, Lizette, and then you may go for now."

After Lizette closed the door behind her, Nan picked up the yellow frock and exchanged it for a gray crepe from the wardrobe. Then, no doubt, she hoped a guilty conscience would work where disapproval had not. "Mr. Huntington, God rest his weary soul, would not have been pleased by what you're thinking to do."

Claresta lifted herself from the dresser chair in a towering passion. "If not for my dear papa's final decree, I should not be in need of a husband to begin with!"

* * *

Drake Lockwood walked unsteadily down the gangplank. As he stepped onto the London wharf, he was fairly tempted to drop on his shaking knees and kiss the firm, unmoving structure. He was thankful the crisp morning air kept the combined odors of spices and gutted fish to a bare minimum.

The red-bearded captain of the Black Eagle, walking beside him, chuckled. "Aye, that greenish tint ye've been sporting since we left America is beginning to wane a mite."

Drake grunted. Just because he was major stockholder in a shipping company didn't mean he liked sailing. He was a land lover at heart in more ways than one. This would be the first time since his father passed away ten years ago that he wouldn't be around to oversee spring planting at Oakcrest.

"Are you sure you want to be settling on English soil permanently, your lordship?"

Drake gave the barrel-chested captain a scathing look. "I've asked you at least a dozen times, Captain Mercer, not to call me that."

"Aye, but as the new Earl of Norwood, it's a title you best get used to, my lord." Mercer emphasized the title and smiled broadly. "You'll like as not be addressed as Lord Norwood by these English noddies."

Drake made no comment to this. Egard for his title had already been made evident to him from his own family. Ever since Druscilla learned of his entitlement, she'd had her heart set on snaring a member of the peerage for her only daughter. Not that he minded much. It was time he repaid his stepmother for her many kindnesses to him over the years. He doubted it would take much more than a season to marry Franny off, anyway. His half-sister was almost as pretty as her mother.

"I'll look over the Norwood holdings and see what is what before deciding whether to stay on here for good. In any event, by the time the Season ends, Mitch will have reached his majority. I'll need to return to Oakcrest then and tidy up the accounts with him."

Already he missed the clean scent of freshly plowed ground. It was hard to remember sometimes that Oakcrest belonged to his younger bother. Drake had no little resentment toward his dead father because of it, either.

Lord Norwood. He tumbled the title around in his mind. Mercer was right; he'd have to become accustomed to being addressed in such a manner. As for respect, he'd worked long and hard for that back home. Being a member of the peerage should make things easier here. When his father was alive, he'd made sure nothing came easy to his eldest son.

Drake shook the sudden reminder of his father's hatred from his mind. He thought instead of the vast lands of his own he would soon possess. As he understood it there were over ten thousand acres at Norwood Manor. That was three times the size of Oakcrest. If a thing were possible, Quentin Lockwood would suffer apoplexy from his grave if he knew all Drake had inherited as his descendent.

"Let's hope it is a long Season, yer lordship." Mercer's eyes twinkled with mischief. "I don't expect your constitution will take another voyage too soon."

Inclined to agree, but reluctant to admit his weakness, Drake kept his counsel. He still felt a bit feeble from his continual bout of mal de mer while on the high seas. Making the return trip wasn't something he wanted to dwell on at the moment.

"Well, go on with you now," Captain Mercer said. "I'll see your trunks get delivered to the Clarendon. I'll be shoving off to Oporto within the hour to pick up them casks of wine you ordered. Should be back here in about a week for that batch of chamomile you insisted I haggle from that green-eared agent this morn'."

Mercer shook his head. "Can't see as why you'd want to invest in such a missish drink myself. Course, that sample you was carrying around did seem to work wonders on your stomach, didn't it now?"

Drake remained silent, not willing to be baited by the captain's teasing. Instead, he directed his attention toward a street urchin who looked to be no older than six or seven running toward them. Drake withdrew a coin from his waistcoat.

Mercer followed his line of vision and cautioned, "Remember what I told you. London's full of beggars and misfits. You cannot be a bleeding heart for every single one of 'em."

"Don't worry, Captain. Druscilla made out a whole list of do's and don'ts and I'm sure that charity is listed on the don't side." Not that he intended to follow every one of his stepmother's suggestions.

Drake was well known back home for being soft for a sad tale. Ignoring the poor had been the only form of social propriety he'd never understood, or adhered to. And rarely had he regretted helping those in unfortunate circumstance through no fault of their own, especially children.

His stepmother's list crinkled when Drake patted his right pocket. He also checked his other pocket to assure himself he'd not left the packet of important paperwork behind. He'd need the money draft from his American bank and the introduction to the London solicitor handling the transfer of the Norwood titles and estates inherited from a great-uncle. He'd never known of the late Earl of Norwood since his father had never spoken of his English relatives.

The urchin approached with his hand extended. He wore a threadbare frieze coat, knee breeches, and hole-riddled stockings that left most of his legs exposed to the elements. "Spare a sixpence for a loaf o' bread, gov'ner?"

Drake's stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't kept down a solid meal in several days. He held a coin just out of the boy's eager reach. "How would you like the chance to earn this, young fellow?"

"Earn?" The ragamuffin glanced at the coin, and his brows beetled into a dubious expression.

Drake thought the poor lad must never have been given the opportunity to work for his keep. "Nothing too strenuous, mind you. Just direct me to a nearby inn. If the place is clean and serves decent fare, there could be another shilling in it for you."

The captain cleared his throat. "Lord Norwood, I think you'll find the food at the Clarendon much more to your liking."

"Nonsense, Captain. Surely a local would know the best place to breakfast." Drake looked around at the fog that, in spite of dawn being more than an hour past, still hung low over the dock area. He didn't know how far it was to the hotel. And traveling in this thick stew would be slow going at best. "Besides, I need nourishment now."

A crooked smile split the boy's dirty face. He cast a smug look toward the captain, then boasted loudly, "The Boar Bristle's the best feed around, yer lordship. I'll take ye there meself."

"What's your name, lad?" Drake asked.

"Charlie--uh, Charles Farrell, m'lord."

Drake handed over the coin, and the boy bit on it to make sure it was genuine. Then his eyes followed Drake's hands as he carefully replaced his money pouch inside his left coat pocket.

"You said you would see to my bags, Captain?" Drake asked.

"Aye." Mercer gave the dock-waif a sidelong glance and endeavored to warn Lord Norwood again. "But do be careful, sir."

"I'm sure I'm in good hands, Captain Mercer." Drake winked at the boy. "Very well, Charles Farrell. Lead on."

When they arrived at the Boar Bristle Inn, Drake flipped the other coin to the boy. Charlie grabbed it deftly out of mid-air and tested its authenticity as he had the first coin. After shoving the money into his pocket, the boy sniffed the air filled with the scent of fresh baked bread and rubbed his stomach. The child looked more emaciated than Drake did now in his loose fitting cloths. He had lost several pounds during the lengthy sea voyage. "I never did care for dining alone, Charles. I wonder if you'd like to join me?"

"Blimey, if I wouldna, gov'ner, uh, ye lordship." The boy's eyes sparkled, and then he looked downcast and struck his foot against the cobblestones. "But don't rightly see as how I can accept yer kind offer. Not wid me own dear sister going nigh on two days wid nary a bite."

Drake chuckled. The little urchin was a veritable flimflammer. It reminded him of the days before Druscilla married his father and took him in hand. Feeding two scrawny children would be no strain on his purse. "Fetch her along then and be quick about it."

While Drake waited, he contemplated the choices the buxom barmaid rattled off to him in a singsong voice. He ordered a tankard of ale and said he'd wait until his friends joined him.

As the barmaid placed the tankard in front of him, the door to the inn swung open. The malnourished little girl he'd expected turned out to be a dark-headed young miss nearer his sister's age. She stepped cautiously into the room behind Charlie and searched every corner of the room until her eyes landed on Drake, and then she lowered her lashes.

He'd seen courtesans use more subtlety. As the girl moved saucily toward him, he barely held back a chuckle. The child looked more entertaining than provocative.

He stood and waited for the pair to join him. As the young woman came closer, he noticed--with the exception of a few red blotches here and there--her skin held a jaundiced pallor. Obviously, she was recovering from some sort of illness, and he feared his generosity might prove to be as foolhardy as Mercer had hinted.

"This is me sister, Juny," Charlie said.

"Juny, I'm pleased you could join us." Drake bowed politely, and the girl's eyes widened in surprise. He couldn't help but note the frailty of her body beneath the worn blue dress and knew he did not have the heart to turn them away.

"Pleased to make your acquaintanceship, m'lord." No gentleman ever did the pretty for Juny. She curtsied in return and attempted another seductive smile as she slid onto the bench beside her brother.

The barmaid backed up a step or two as if she feared whatever ailed the girl might be catching. Drake overcame a similar inclination and took his seat on the opposite side of the table.

"We'll start with a bowl of porridge and some of that delicious smelling bread," Drake told the barmaid, sensing the pale thing across from him couldn't handle anything heavier at first.

"Porridge?" Charlie sniffed.

Drake chuckled. He'd forgotten the amount of vittles a boy of Charlie's age could manage. "Perhaps a rasher of ham and some eggs, also, for my young friend here."

Charlie beamed with approval. Juny placed her hand suggestively over his lordship's, then imitated the speech of the fine ladies she'd seen coming from the opera houses late at night. "Thank you, yore lordship."

Drake smiled ruefully and slid his hand from beneath the girl's. He gave her a fatherly pat. At first, she looked aghast, then her eyes narrowed. "What will you be wanting in return for this fine breakfast, sir?"

Just then, the barmaid came back with their meal. She sat the girl's bowl down next to Drake's, leaving it to him to slide the steaming concoction in front of Juny. It saddened him to see so much suspicion reflected in her young eyes over such a small kindness. "You can repay me by not letting your food go to waste, young lady. Now eat up and don't fritter away your time asking silly questions."

At that, a wide sparkling smile more befitting her age lit up Juny's face. Once again Drake was reminded of his little sister. Except on the few occasions when Franny was in a sulk for not getting her way, she bubbled with happiness. Thankfully, his little sister had never had to go without food or anything else her heart desired.

"You really are a bloomin' gentleman, ain't you?" the girl said, dropping her restrained dialect.

"Did I not tell ye it was so?" Charlie piped around a mouthful of eggs.

After that the two sprites dug into their food with gusto. Apparently the girl's constitution wasn't as delicate as Drake thought. The porridge had quite satisfied his appetite for the moment, but after the girl downed hers, she ate half the rasher of ham, over Charlie's virulent objections.

Drake felt another tug of homesickness as he remembered his own siblings' frequent quarreling. He settled the argument by ordering another helping, plus more eggs, bread and two tankards of ale to wash it down. All of this the brother and sister gulped as if they'd never had food before.

He was pleased to note the girl's coloring had taken on a much healthier glow by the time she wiped her plate with the last crumb of bread. Then Juny sat staring moon-eyed at Lord Norwood until Charlie kicked her shin beneath the table.

"Ouch!"

"Well, 'tis best we be on our way, right, Juny?"

Drake puzzled over the beseeching look she gave her brother, but anxious to be about his own business, he pushed back his bench and stood. Bowing graciously, he said, "It was an honor dining in such pleasant company."

Unexpectedly, Juny threw her arms around Lord Norwood and gave him a fierce hug. He felt uncomfortable by the display of appreciation but could do little but bear it. With a feeble grunt, he acknowledged her "thank you" and patted the girl on the back until she decided to let go.

"I swear I'll pay you back someday, your lordship," Juny said, and thumped his chest with more fervor than Drake felt his kindness afforded. Then she and Charlie sailed past two well-dressed ladies and a stoical gent who'd just entered the inn. When the boy stopped to gawk at the younger woman dressed in gray, Juny gave him a shove out the front door.

Only after Drake sat back down and prepared to pay the barmaid for their meal, did he realize his pockets had been picked clean.

* * *

"Disgraceful," Nan snorted.

"It looked like an innocent gesture to me, wouldn't you say so, Shipley?" Claresta asked, bending her neck to look up at the tall, slender butler.

Shipley, a protective and devoted servant, formerly valet to Claresta's grandfather and then her father, last year accepted the position of butler rather than being pensioned off. Even at his age, he was a gallant fellow; tall erect posture, thick gray hair, and similarly colored eyes that were always drawn into a narrow, discerning squint.

Maintaining his usual reserve, he barely nodded, making no comment one way or the other to Claresta's question. Once he'd learned her destination, she could not get out of the house without him. Of course, if Nan hadn't been denouncing her mission so vehemently as they came below stairs, Shipley might never have known where they were going. As it was, the whole household seemed to have been aware of what Claresta had in mind to do. The small staff even followed them out onto the stoop, with varying degrees of anxiety marring their faces, until she assured them all would be well.

"Innocent, my eye," Nan huffed. "No gentleman entertains a pretty young'un in a tavern without ulterior motives."

Claresta looked around the room. She hadn't considered how few patrons would be about this early in the morning. The only marital candidate to be seen was the one trying to explain to the proprietor why he couldn't pay his tab. It was the same man who'd been entertaining the 'pretty young'un', as Nan had put it. "I came looking for a husband, Nan, not a gentleman," Claresta said.

When the dark-haired man offered to flip for the meal with the proprietor's own coin, she thought the innkeeper would have apoplexy, his face grew so red.

A gambler. Who else would be willing to take a chance on Calamity Claresta? She smiled hopefully and started forward.

"Claresta Huntington, you stop right there!" Nan grabbed her arm. Her companion could be quite forceful when she set her mind to it. "I don't like the looks of that one, I tell you. The way he's carrying on, he's bound to be nothing but a rapscallion. From the looks of things, he is a freeloader to boot. And look at those clothes he's wearing. They don't appear to have been tailored for his frame. Stolen right off some unsuspecting gentleman's back, most likely."

Claresta bit her lower lip and tried to view the man in the same light as Nan did. He stood at least a head taller than the innkeeper. An intriguing strand of dark hair popped back over his forehead regardless of the numerous swipes he made at it with his wide palm. Dark circles etched half-moons beneath his eyes but hardly detracted from the rest of his handsome features. A hawk-like nose, high cheekbones and square jaw adorned his face with such masculine ease Claresta's breath caught at the sight of the full view when his head swiveled in her direction.

It was the barmaid he was looking at though. When the woman took his part, a rakish, lopsided grin lifted the corners of his firm lips. A ripple of butterflies danced inside Claresta's stomach--the result of skipping breakfast, she decided.

The barmaid's entreaty made little impact on the innkeeper. He accused the gel of being loose in the haft, then he turned on the "scaff and raff" and told him he'd best come up with payment for his fare or the magistrate would be sent for straightway.

Although the man's clothes did hang rather loosely, he still had a rather regal look about him, and his shoulders lifted in a commanding way as he argued his trustworthiness. His skin, though a bit drawn, looked well bronzed as though he'd spent a lot of time outdoors.

A soldier or sailor perhaps. Neither of which would have much interest in the business world, Claresta deduced. Mayhap he was not so inarticulate as expected from one of the lower orders, for he presented a persuasive story about a pair of urchins picking his pockets. Although, the tavern owner still seemed unimpressed with the man's drawling speech.

Claresta would hold her own judgment until she spoke to the man. She didn't care about looks, even if she did find him very pleasant to gaze upon. If clothes were what made a man, she could deck him out in the finest money could buy. Right now, he was in trouble, obviously without funds, and that could work well to her advantage.

No matter Nan's objections, Claresta was determined to get her situation settled before the noon hour. She still had columns of figures to tally, merchandise to inventory, and a meeting with a buyer to attend.

"He's perfect," she declared and marched across the room.

Nan lifted her eyes toward heaven and gave a silent prayer, then followed helplessly. The only way she could restrain Claresta now would be to tie her down with a rope. Oh, but had she only thought to snatch the tassels off the bed hangings before leaving Gilbert House.

Shipley trailed sedately after them.

As Claresta approached the arguing pair she pulled her change purse from her reticule. "My dear, how fortunate I caught up with you so soon."

The proprietor and Drake turned abruptly toward the feminine intrusion.

"Here," the pretty woman said and pushed a small pouch at Drake. The article may conceivably have been taken as a masculine article had it not been made of pink silk and lace. He cast a quizzing glance from the purse to the lady. She, however, offered no explanation but bespoke a close acquaintanceship by saying sweetly, "Really, dear, you're not usually so careless. You went off this morning without your pocket change."

Drake couldn't help staring at the female who clearly needed spectacles. But he duly noted the innkeeper suddenly changed from a screaming banshee to a grinning possum. Drake wasn't certain whether the man's brightened expression was achieved by the prospect of being paid, or from seeing a grown man who dared carry his money about in such a frilly geegaw.

Drake knew his mouth was still hanging at half-mast, but he couldn't seem to come up with anything to counter the lady's claim without placing them both in a worse predicament than he already found himself. He had no choice but to go along with her ridiculous claim and accept the purse.

As he did so, the older woman standing beside her snorted, and an imperceptible gleam flashed from the narrowed eyes of the tall, white-haired gentleman flanking her other side.

"Pay the man, dear," the pretty urged. "We'll be late for our appointment if we don't hurry."

Drake yanked open the purse and paid the man.

Chapter Two

What sort of God-forsaken country had he stepped into? Drake wondered. Only here for two hours and already he'd been fleeced by children and rescued by a damsel who had cobwebs on the brain.

He'd been left no choice but to step into the enclosed carriage with the two women, for the proprietor had followed and stood in front of the inn with his eyes trained on them until they drove away. Perhaps the befuddled man couldn't believe what had just happened any more than Drake could.

The stoical old gent who accompanied the women had climbed atop the coach with the driver, leaving Drake feeling like a freak at a Raree Show under the steady stare of the pair of women seated across from him. The older one obviously had some sort of malady with her nose. She kept lifting it obtrusively and emitting a less than subtle sound.

The young lady, although a trifle odd, seemed the essence of prim. Only a few wayward strands of hair the color of fading firelight were visible. The rest were tucked beneath her gray bonnet trimmed in ruching the palest of pink--possibly lavender, he realized upon closer examination--the same shade as that of the change purse and that which beribboned her reticule. Her dress of a somber gray hue held no adornment, except the black Norwich shawl that lay loosely across her shoulders.

It was the amber eyes that radiated more warmth, more friendliness and maybe even a mite more spark than he would ever have expected from a lady of proper English upbringing. She hadn't stopped smiling at him since he first laid eyes on her. Which only proved his original theory that the lady was a trifle odd.

However, he knew he ought to show his gratitude for her timely intervention. The tavern owner had been about to send for the magistrate when she stepped forward and gave him the purse to pay his tab. But thank yous were words that never came easy to the son of a tyrant.

Lord Norwood cleared his throat and handed over the ridiculous feminine purse. "If you would not mind instructing your coachman to take me to my solicitor on Lombard Street, ma'am, I'll see that you're reimbursed for your troubles."

The old lady snorted again, and the young one leaned forward and patted his hand condescendingly. "Do not trouble yourself so for it, sir. Once we have you settled into comfortable quarters, we'll discuss repayment."

To this the old lady said, "Rubbish. You might as well tell him what you want and be done with it."

Drake frowned. How would he ever get on in a place where everyone talked in circles? "There's no need for that, ma'am--uh, miss--"

"I believe introductions are in order," the young one said cheerfully. "My name is Miss Claresta Huntington and this is my third cousin and devoted companion, Miss Nancy Edwards."

"Drake Lockwood, ma'am." He did the pretty as best he could in the confines of the squab seating with skirts flanking him on each side of his knees.

"Why, you're an American, aren't you?" Claresta couldn't be happier. She had heard about the bumpkins and spendthrifts that abounded in the Colonies. Well, she understood it was called the United States of America now, but her grandpapa had never allowed any of his family to acknowledge that fact. Her lips curved in remembrance of the old reprobate. He would find it quite amusing how she intended to make use of a descendant of England's former nemesis.

"As I was about to say, Miss Huntington, I have a room reserved at the Clarendon--"

"The Clarendon?"

"Yep," Drake said, wondering what he'd done to wipe that smile off her lovely face..

"And you have a solicitor?"

"A Mr. Denton on Lombard Street, ma'am."

"Perhaps, sir," the older woman said, waving at his attire, "you should tell us how you came to such low circumstance."

Drake felt heat rise along his neck. Suddenly conscious of his less than dapper appearance, he rubbed a hand over his bearded chin. Too weary to care before leaving the Black Eagle, he'd not shaved. His clothes looked as if he'd slept in them, which he recalled he had, and he knew after a quick glance in a mirror this morning that he still carried a rather gaunt look about him. He'd intended to check into the Clarendon and make himself more presentable before seeing the solicitor, but that couldn't be helped now.

Not since the day Druscilla arrived at Oakcrest when he was little more than Charlie's age had Drake cause to be embarrassed by an unkempt appearance. He wasn't the sort to make excuses, however, nor did he feel he owed any now.

"Driver, stop the carriage!" Then to the startle-faced young miss, he said, "I've imposed on your kindness long enough. If you will give me your address, ma'am, I shall send around a voucher."

"You cannot leave--I mean..." Claresta babbled as she tried to think of a way to detain him. Obviously, even derelicts had a proud streak. He seemed to want her to believe in his respectability. Perhaps if she allowed him to carry out his farce to the end, he'd be more susceptible to her offer when she made it. "I see no reason we should not see you to your destination. Lombard Street, you say?"

Claresta relaxed when he eased back into his seat and nodded. His eyes narrowed on her, and she noted their breathtaking blue color.

Drake was unable to avert his gaze. Her eyes, an unusual amber hue, reflected tiny yellow sparks when she smiled.

They must have been perusing each other for some time, for the old lady leaned forward and slapped him on the wrist. Having effectively broken the mysterious spell, she sat back and made that disdainful sound with her nose again. "If someone doesn't instruct poor Waverly soon, I fear we'll be sitting here all day."

"Waverly," Miss Huntington said, as a pretty pink flush crept up her neck, "set the carriage about to Lombard Street. A Mr. Denton's office, if you please."

As they got underway, Drake found it impossible to avert his gaze from Miss Huntington. She was the vibrant sort one did not ignore easily. Her amber eyes glowed with tiny sparks of gold, and her lips were parted slightly with Mona Lisa secretiveness. What man could resist such a lovely picture?

If he were enraptured, she seemed captivated, possibly out of a curiosity she was too polite to indulge. Her companion had questioned Drake's lowered circumstance, but although Miss Huntington must have a hundred questions about him, she kept them to herself. Or had she already made up her mind that he was nothing more than the scaff and raff the innkeeper had called him?

Drake could think of no way to defend his appearance, or his financial setback, without making things worse. Tossing one's accounts over the side of the Black Eagle for three weeks, and being outwitted by a pair of urchins could only make him sound like an infirm cluck. He looked forward to proving himself worthy of her regard. It was an effort he'd not had to make in a very long time. Taking visual measure of each other, they rode in silence until they reached Lombard.

The companion's snuffling announcement, "We're here," brought Drake out of his reverie.

"I-I shall go with you." Miss Huntington snapped her fan open and waved it rapidly before her face. "Uh, the carriage is a bit confining, is it not?"

"As you wish." Drake suspected her wish to accompany him was due to her worry he might not pay the debt he owed her. He reasoned that the English were a suspicious lot and remembered the incredulous look the innkeeper had given him when he'd promised to return later with money for his breakfast tab. Back home a man's word was his bond.

When he asked if Miss Edwards wished to escape the confining coach, the lady snorted. Drake took that as a no and escorted Miss Huntington inside the brownstone building without her companion.

They approached a bespectacled man sitting at the front desk, and Drake said for the first time with pride, "I'm the heir of Norwood, here to speak to Mr. John F. Denton."

He reveled in the shocked gasp from Miss Huntington.

"Lord Norwood. We've been expecting you for several..." The man's voice slowed as he lifted his wire-rimmed frames up his nose and eyed Drake with disbelief.

Claresta didn't know which befuddled her most, the fact Drake Lockwood claimed to be a titled gentleman, or that the clerk staring at him with such scorn happened to be her father's former warehouse manager. She'd fired the man just over a year ago after he could not explain the discrepancies in the company ledgers. All forthcoming applicants for the position gave the same dire prophecy for the company that Baines had the day she'd discharged him and he'd stomped out of her library in a huff. She'd taken over the reins herself and proved them all wrong.

"I had a bit of a delay. Rough weather, you know." Drake wasn't about to admit he'd been holed up on the Black Eagle for the previous day and night recovering from the ill effects of his sea voyage.

He smiled down at Miss Huntington when she squeezed his arm. She said to the clerk, "Well, do not keep Lord Norwood waiting, sir."

"Of course, uh..." the long-necked man squinted at her. "Miss Huntington. I thought I recognized you."

"I should think so, Mr. Baines. A year hence you were in my father's employ. How fortunate for you to have found another clerking position."

"'Tis temporary, I assure you," he said, clearly happy to relate his good fortune. "I'm eating my terms with the King's Counsel in the Court of Chancery. In a short time I shall be called to the bar and afterwards will enter partnership with Mr. Denton."

"Well, one would wonder how one comes into such a fortunate circumstance." Claresta knew he understood her meaning when a ruddy cast lit his narrow cheekbones. She could not prove Baines had embezzled from Gilbert and Huntington, but she would lay a month's profit it were so.

"Should I say his lordship is accompanied by his, uh, fiancée?" Baines asked pungently.

How humiliating, Claresta thought. The miscreant apparently knew of her current plight. No doubt she was being pointed out on street corners as the disparate ape-leader without the good sense to accept her fate.

When Viscount Langley, her escort to Vauxhall last week, refused her proposal, she'd suddenly realized the most impoverished rake of London had been her last hope of finding a husband among the gentry.

Now, if things didn't work out with the American, perhaps she would have to accept Westhaven's proposal or lose all. She pulled her shawl about her shoulders to ward off the sudden chill that ran through her.

Lord Norwood noticed a paleness seep into the young lady's lovely face. He wondered if the clerk caused it. He caught the fellow peering over the thin wire rim of his spectacles and raking Miss Huntington with a gimlet eye. It was enough to tempt Drake to take a poke at Baines. And how did the lout jump to such ridiculous conclusions about the lady? Fiancée, indeed!

Drake drew up his six feet plus frame and glared down at the rude rascal. Even in his deteriorated condition, he stood a head taller and outweighed Baines by at least forty or fifty pounds. "You may say," Drake said, measuring the words in an even slower drawl than was normal, "the heir to Norwood Estates is here, and be quick about it. We don't have all day to dawdle."

The lank fellow, perceiving the air of menace in the American's voice, nearly stumbled over his own feet in his haste to present Lord Norwood to his employer. Within moments he reappeared and said nervously, "R-right this way, my lord."

Claresta began to have some doubts about the man she'd befriended. Could he really be the heir to an earldom that everyone in London knew had gone unclaimed for the past five years? If she were not so curious, she'd return to her carriage and renew her search for another marital prospect without delay.

Denton rose hesitantly from his chair and circled his overflowing desk. A short man, quite round in the middle, he appeared rather frivolous wearing a black coat with a garish yellow waistcoat beneath. His cravat had been starched so stiffly the points stuck out like armor around his cheekbones. His dove gray stockings had large clock designs on them. He greeted Claresta with a negligible bow before extending his flaccid hand to Drake.

Drake wasn't used to doing business with such fops, but he would withhold judgment of Denton's abilities until he knew him better.

"So glad you arrived safely, my lord," Denton said. "I did not know you had friends in London." His attention returning to Claresta he added, "We haven't met before, Miss Huntington, but your reputation has become quite well known in the, uh, district."

"I shall take that as a compliment, sir."

"As it was intended, I assure you. Do have a seat." Denton indicated the high-backed crimson chairs in front of his desk. He took his chair behind the desk and said to Drake, "I must say, I'd about given up hope that you would claim your inheritance a'tall, my lord. Your great-uncle has been dead neigh on five years now. Funds have been quite depleted due to maintenance of the properties, you see."

"Could we just get on with it, sir?"

Denton pushed his spectacles up his bulbous nose. "Yes, yes, of course. I can see you've not had a chance to freshen up, so you must be very anxious to have done with the formalities."

Drake was getting tired of everyone referring to his poor state of dress. He was eager to remedy the situation as soon as possible and hoped his trunks would be at the Clarendon by the time he arrived. He couldn't help wondering if Miss Huntington might be experiencing some embarrassment by his appearance. Something had caused her lovely smile to disappear since entering Denton's office.

The solicitor asked, "I assume you've brought your paperwork with you, my lord."

Drake patted his pockets and came up with a sheaf of papers he handed over to Mr. Denton. The solicitor unfolded the communiqué and after a pregnant pause, he read aloud, "Find a reputable valet. Order a carriage--"

Drake snatched the instructions compiled by his stepmother from Denton's hands. "Sorry, wrong paper."

Claresta's good humor returned when her future husband--for she was determined now it was to be so--was unable to produce the papers in question. He put on a good show of searching, but she suspected it had been for her benefit. Apparently the fellow had heard about this Earl of Norwood's inheritance and, not realizing the extent of legal verification required, decided to lay claim to the estates.

"Perhaps your lordship left the papers in your trunks, or you could have dropped them somewhere. At the inn perhaps," she suggested with raised brow.

He looked at her as if she'd grown horns atop her head and mumbled, "Those blasted children!"

* * *

As the gentleman escorted Claresta to her carriage, she dismissed the forlorn expression on his face as part of his act. She expected that next he would ask her for a loan for room and board until he could find these mysterious papers--a loan she would be happy to advance him, once he agreed to her conditions.

"Do not worry, sir, for 'tis but a minor setback."

"Minor setback," he repeated with a heavy breath. "I fear it may take several weeks to requisition a replacement of the paperwork Denton requires."

Claresta truly gloated inside, but she managed a sympathetic smile.

"Since the only funds I brought were stolen as well, I'm afraid I shall be hard pressed to repay your kindness any time soon, Miss Huntington," Drake said ruefully.

"Fret not, sir. You have a room at the Clarendon, you say?" No doubt the American had heard of the famous hotel and threw it out randomly while trying to impress her with his position. She had not enjoyed such entertainment since she was a child and played such hooks and crooks on her father and his friends.

"Yes. But, I shall not impose on you further." Drake tipped his hat. "Until we meet again."

"Wait!" Claresta gripped his loose coat sleeve. This was not going as she had envisioned, but surely he was bluffing. "There's no need for you to walk, sir. My companion and I would be happy to drop you at the Clarendon on our way home."

"No need, ma'am. I might ask you to point me in the right direction, however. Walking is the best way I know to clear a body's head, and mine is more than a bit muddled at the moment."

"But-but," Claresta stammered, trying to think of a way to detain her prospective fiancée. "You may have trouble getting your accommodations approved without money for a deposit, or--or proof of who you are. Sir, if that be the case, I'm acquainted with the manager at the Clarendon and am certain he would accept my recommendation."

Drake narrowed his eyes on the comely chit. It hadn't passed his notice that she referred to him as sir now instead of my lord. Obviously she didn't believe him the heir to the Norwood title anymore than Denton had. The solicitor had practically tossed him from his office.

Either Miss Huntington was a fool or the most generous human being he'd ever met. He opted to believe the latter, for he remembered her act of kindness before he'd ever told her about his inheritance.

"There is no need to worry about me, my dear." He lifted her gloved hand briefly to his lips. Finding her delicate fragrance appealing, he lingered over her hand longer than he should. " If the Clarendon won't take me in, then I'll find accommodations elsewhere. I'm not unused to sleeping beneath the stars when necessary."

The trek into town from Oakcrest was a long one, and there were no inns along the way, but he did not think Miss Huntington would understand such rustic living. Drake knew he was right when her eyes clouded up. He cursed his ill-bred manners for causing the worry lines that appeared across her beautiful forehead. A strange desire to kiss more than her hand almost overwhelmed him. He stepped back, hoping the distance would curb his other more sinful reactions, and said, "I fear I've caused you undue concern, Miss Huntington. Knowing Druscilla, I imagine she stuffed some extra coins into my luggage, and there shall be nothing to worry about."

Instead of reassuring the lovely, the frown furrowing her brow deepened. She swallowed, and Drake found it difficult to tear his eyes away from the delicate movement of her slender throat.

"Druscilla? Your wife?" she squeaked.

The old lady who'd been quietly waiting near the carriage snorted loudly.

Drake would have laughed, but it would be very ill mannered, and he did not wish to embarrass the sweet flower standing before him. He realized now why she had helped him. He'd attracted the opposite sex many times before, but most of the society women were more subtle in letting him know it. Perhaps things worked differently with the English.

"Druscilla is my step-mother."

"Your step-mother?" Claresta felt enormous relief, for she had not thought of the possibility that Drake Lockwood was already married. It would be extremely inconvenient if she had to begin her search for a husband all over again. She wouldn't be likely to find another from the dock area with such impeccable manners and so agreeable to look upon. She shivered inside at the tingling sensation remaining on the back of her gloved hand from his brief kiss.

"My step-mother," he repeated. "I only just thought of it, but she often treats me like the ten year old I was when she first married my father. In this case I reckon I ought to be grateful."

"But you are not?"

"Let's just say I'm capable of taking care of myself. But if Druscilla has held true to form, then I will be grateful in this one instance, for I'll be able to see that you are reimbursed sooner than I could have hoped otherwise."

"Then you will come to Gilbert House for dinner tomorrow evening. If your step-mother did not leave things as you expect, we can discuss particulars on another way you can repay me."

Drake lifted a dark brow.

Claresta blushed, realizing how inappropriate her proposition sounded without explanation. He seemed to ignore another nasal titter from her circumspect companion and turned to gather directions to the hotel from her coachman.

She watched anxiously as Drake Lockwood strolled away and wondered if he were really going to the Clarendon. How would she maintain contact if she couldn't find him again? Then she remembered Denton read "valet" from the list presented to him by mistake.

"Shipley," she said as she extracted several guineas from her purse. "The gentleman needs a valet. I wish you to offer your services to Lockwood. Make certain he's properly registered at the Clarendon and see to any other of his needs."

"I daresay, he doesn't seem the sort to accept such generosity, miss." The butler dubiously scrutinized the coins she held in her open palm.

"Yes, yes, of course you're right," Claresta said, thinking Shipley meant the man would balk at accepting the money from a servant. "He did seem to relish a proud streak, didn't he? But, I believe he's in need of assistance. And he may be our last hope, Shipley. Pray, do what you can to appease his proud streak and I'll see to the rest."

"Very well, miss." Shipley turned and followed the unsuspecting bridegroom without taking Miss Huntington's coins.

"Well, if that don't beat all," Nan sniffed as she watched the reserved butler disappear around the corner. "'Tis the most words that man's spoken in years."

Chapter Three

Alone, Reginald Huntington, Baron Westhaven, paced Claresta's office. He hoped she would not still be so angry with him that she would refuse to frank him enough for a game or two of piquet at Lord Marchand's card party tonight. Things would be so much easier if he had access to the company safe, he thought, eyeing the locked apparatus in the corner of the warehouse office. He observed the untidy desk and wondered if perhaps his cousin had left a guinea or two lying about the disorganized stacks of papers.

He moved closer to examine the desktop and uncovered a small cask that appeared to have possibilities. An acrid smell snaked out and set him to wheezing and sneezing.

Reginald covered his offended nose with his handkerchief and suddenly wished he'd waited until his cousin returned home later in the day instead of coming to this odorous and disagreeable haunt of hers. But, blast it, Claresta had not answered his three missives pleading with her to visit him and his mother in Grosvenor Square where their business could be conducted in private. His creditors were becoming impatient, and he, quite desperate.

Damn his cousin and her clutchfisted ways. It was quite humbling to have to plead with her for an advance on his quarterly allotment. She even had the audacity to lecture him about the results of constant gaming. Although she did not speak it aloud, he knew she was thinking of his own father's disgrace. He plopped down in the chair behind the large desk. If he were to be forced to wait, he might as well make good use of his time. One at a time, he jerked open the desk drawers and rummaged around inside for any loose coins Claresta might have hoarded there. Finding nothing but more dusty papers, he slammed the last drawer closed. He stood up and looked about for another source to pry into. But, his eyes began to burn again, and he had to wipe them to see clearly.

* * *

Claresta swung the door to her office open and came to a standstill when she saw Reggie standing behind her desk. She wondered that the gamboge yellow coat and orange breeches he wore did not strike her blind.

He dropped the handkerchief away from his face and greeted her with an innocent, ready smile that was diluted somewhat by the moisture accumulating around his eyes. The air was filled with a pungent odor Claresta recognized as coming from the sample cask of asafetida.

Reggie moved from behind her desk, dabbing at his eyes as he greeted her. "My dear, cousin. How lovely you look today."

Claresta arched a suspicious brow, for Reggie's compliments usually preceded a petition for money. She gave him a negligible nod and said, "I daresay, you should have sent word you were coming, my lord. I'm expecting a client at any moment and am a bit pressed for time."

Reggie lifted his lace handkerchief to abort another sneeze when she fanned a stack of papers from the desk and sent a waft of dust and incense flying into the air. "Good Lord, Claresta, this dwelling is hideous. Don't you ever have it cleaned?"

She did, but she thought it a waste of time explaining how impossible the task due to the openness and constant traffic in and out of the office from the warehouse. Dirt also flew in from the windows, the only ventilation and relief from the sometimes overwhelming scents of spices and other aromatic merchandise.

She recapped the small cask of asafetida, then set about straightening the clutter of paperwork. She wished Reggie would go about his business as quickly as possible. When the warehouse clock chimed the noon hour, she prompted, "It must have been a pressing matter for you to come out at such an early hour, Lord Westhaven."

Her cut went over Reginald's head as he preened at her use of his title. She rarely showed him such respect, usually referring to him by the nickname she'd attached to him in their youth instead.

"Pressing, indeed, Claresta. I have come to make amends for our little tiff the other evening. You must know my concern was only for your regard by the Beau Monde. Being seen alone at such entertainment as Vauxhall with the disreputable Viscount Langley could only damage your reputation."

"My reputation?" Claresta almost laughed at the ridiculous attempt Reggie made to inveigle his way into her good graces. "Was it not you who recently informed me I'd already blackened my book beyond repair?"

"Lud, 'twas just a warning, Claresta. 'Tis not too late, with my guidance, of course, to salvage your good name. I spoke to a gentleman recommended to me recently about taking over the affairs of Gilbert and Huntington, and I believe he can be depended upon to put things to rights. I cannot have my wife's name bruited about in such a fashion."

Claresta picked up a receiving bill and pretended to skim the contents. She was becoming quite tired of Lord Westhaven's ongoing crusade. "You are attics to let, Reggie, if you still have illusions that you and I will wed." She lifted her gaze toward him and added with a dash of agitation, "And what right have you to discuss my affairs with anyone?"

Her thick-witted cousin only gloated when she lost her temper, evidenced now by his sly, self-satisfied smile and suddenly superior air when he said, "You are the one holding to illusions, Claresta. Why don't you quit making a cake of yourself and come about? You cannot doubt that I hold your own interests at heart. I have only two more months to wait and the inheritance will fall to me anyway."

"I shall find a husband before then."

"Never!" Westhaven declared and guffawed.

"We shall see." Claresta's confident smile seemed to fluster Reginald and leave his mouth hanging in mid-laugh. A knock sounded at the door, and she eagerly called, "Enter."

Edwin stepped into the office. The brothers shared similar features; high forehead, long angular nose, and dimpled chin, but the resemblance ended there. Edwin stood a few inches taller than his brother but was much thinner through the shoulders. Claresta knew a few more years of maturing would take care of that slight. Reggie's raking scrutiny of the young man indicated his disdain of Edwin's somber gray suit and limp shirt points.

Edwin cast his brother a discerning nod, then smiled amiably at his employer. "Claresta, the dye merchant has arrived. He is inspecting the shipment of indigo, but I instructed Martin to show him to the office when he is finished. Should I tell him you're available?"

"Yes, do." She then said to Reggie, "You will excuse me, my lord?"

Lord Westhaven didn't take well to being dismissed in favor of a merchant. He swiped his beaver hat off the rack so quickly he lost his grasp and dropped it to the floor. He whipped around and saw the glitter of amusement his cousin and brother exchanged. The blood rushed to his head as he picked up the hat, but he maintained his composure and said to Claresta, "Our discussion is not ended."

"Yes, Reggie, it is quite ended."

He remembered his immediate needs and sputtered, "But I wish to discuss--"

"The answer is no, Reggie." Claresta knew he was about to ask for another advance, and she'd already warned him she'd not allow him to overextend his quarter allowance again. "Now if you will excuse me, I have a client waiting."

In an angry flush, Westhaven flung open the door and in his haste to exit he bounced off Martin Shore's hard frame. Like a pebble hitting cobblestone, he greeted the floor with a hard bounce.

"Help me to my feet, you, uh..." looking up at the simpleton Claresta employed for heavy labor, Reginald rethought the insult that was about to pass his lips. The man stood at least seven feet tall. His arms crossed over his chest put his lordship in mind of ancient cudgels used for battle.

Edwin rushed to his brother's assistance, but Lord Westhaven suffered another indignity when a sharp ripping sound indicated his tight pantaloons had split a seam. He decided he could lay blame for his misfortune to Claresta's abominable curse.

He straightened his long coat, hoping it covered the backside exposure. The giant still hovered over him, and Reggie backed away a few steps before recollecting his much higher rank. Cautiously he informed the dullard, "Step aside, my good man. Can't you see I'm in a rush?"

Claresta gave her cousin points for ignoring the merchant's muffled chuckle as he passed him. She greeted her client. "Mr. Frazier, you are punctual, as usual. Do come in. Edwin, I'll need you to join us."

The merchant waited for Claresta to take the seat behind the desk, then being a busy man himself, he immediately got to the business at hand. Once a price for the indigo was settled, he entreated her to store the merchandise until he was ready for it to be processed. Edwin, seated in the other chair facing the desk, piped in with, "Space in the warehouse is quite precious at this season."

"Of course, I'd be more than willing to pay for storage," Frazier said.

Edwin winked at Claresta when the dye merchant agreed to his request for a very generous sum for storage. Someday soon she suspected that Edwin would be more adept at running the business than she.

She sat by quietly and allowed him to work out the details of the arrangement with the dye maker. When Edwin glanced at her with a proud gleam in his eyes, she realized her younger cousin was the only Huntington relation that she truly adored.

The dear boy had offered to marry her himself, but she valued his friendship too much to hobble him to an arrangement he would feel honor bound to uphold for the rest of his life. Besides, she did not want to cause an even larger rift between he and his family.

Aunt Ester and Reggie were already furious with Edwin for defying their wishes and taking the position of Claresta's much depended upon assistant. They attributed his conduct to the youthful air of cynicism that surely no gentleman of the peerage would fault him for. "My dear, Edwin," she said, looking up at her lank-framed cousin after the client departed, "I'm quite proud of you. I never would have expected Mr. Frazier to offer such a generous storage fee."

"You never know what you can get until you ask!" An amber twinkle, very much an imitation of her own, appeared in his eyes.

"And did you talk to the agent aboard the Black Eagle about the chamomile?"

"Yes, and he purchased the entire stock."

"Market price?"

"Just below." Edwin shook his head gravely and quoted the exact amount.

"Well don't fret so about it, Edwin. You did manage to rid us of the entire lot and since we paid far below market, we still made a nice profit." She knew Edwin expected every deal to yield large gains, and he took his failures to bring about such to heart. She'd experienced similar pangs when she first took over the business. "Never know what you can get until you ask, indeed," Claresta mocked, for it was a motto she'd repeated quite often during Edwin's earlier apprenticeship. "How very resourceful of you to throw my words back at me, my boy."

"Speaking of resourceful, how did you fare on your early morning commission?" Edwin's humor returned quickly once he knew Claresta wasn't disappointed in him.

"Quite well, I believe. The gentleman professes to be the Earl of Norwood, but methinks he's pulling a sham." Her brow furrowed as she contemplated the uncertainty of his background. Drake Lockwood, or whatever his name was, appeared to conduct himself like a gentleman, but then a scapegrace was supposed to be convincing. "He's an American. And I believe he came to London hoping to better his circumstance. I should know more after I speak with him at dinner."

"You invited a perfect stranger to dine with you? A barbarian from the Colonies? Alone? I must say, I don't like that above half, Claresta."

"Well, I dare say, he is quite refined for a Colonial. Anyway, we won't be alone. Mr. Thurmond will be present to explain the details of the proposed arrangement."

"Your solicitor is hardly a creditable chaperone," Edwin said with disapproval.

Claresta almost laughed at her cousin's protective streak. Besides Nan, he was the only person she allowed to remonstrate with her over her lax decorum. "Then, my friend, I shall rely upon your presence to put things to rights. I'm certain Mr. Thurmond can use a witness to validate the agreement, should the gentleman not be opposed to the idea."

"And if he is?" Edwin arched one tawny brow.

"Then I shall have to convince him otherwise. Everyone has a price, my innocent. I just have to find Drake Lockwood's."

* * *

Though sufficiently awed by Shipley's expertise at turning a rustic into a Gentleman of Fashion, Drake was unused to anyone dressing him. Neither was he accustomed to wearing his waistcoats quite so snug nor a collar that stood with such high stiffness. Miss Huntington had gone a bit far by sending her butler to serve as his valet. Had the poor devil not looked so out of frame when Drake tried to refuse his services, Drake would not have relented and let him stay.

Acquiring a valet may have been first on his stepmother's list, but Drake had already mentally crossed off the item as an unnecessary expense. But, it was of no consequence to allow the man to attend him, since the old fellow seemed to have his heart set on doing so.

A tailor was not top among his own priorities either, but Shipley had coerced him into attending one that afternoon for clothing more suitable to "his new station in life." Since Drake did not want a repeat of the gawks and gapes of those he met yesterday, he relented to his valet's better judgment. Several articles of clothing to tide Drake over until his new wardrobe would be ready were also selected. The merchant assured him that payment at a later date was standard procedure among the nobles. Drake had never owed anyone before and felt uneasy at the prospect, but under the circumstances, credit was a necessity, he supposed, to survive the forthcoming week until Captain Mercer sailed back to London Harbour.

"The lady will stare, my lord."

Drake tried to cast a discreet look at himself in the mirror. He didn't want to hurt the old gent's feelings, but if people were going to stare... Blast it all! He had to turn his entire body every time he wanted to look in another direction. He twisted at the snow-white cravat tied with a knot any hangman would be proud of.

Shipley cleared his throat and shook his head.

"Well," Drake said, dropping his hand and taking another stiff-neck, objective view in the cheval mirror, "I suppose Druscilla would be happy if she could see me dressed, uh...to the nines."

"You look very smart, my lord."

Drake eyed the man acting as his valet suspiciously. Unlike the man's mistress, the butler didn't seem to have any doubt of Drake's heritage.

He stepped back when Shipley came towards him with a flashy sapphire stickpin. "That isn't mine," he protested.

"Of course 'tisn't. Miss Huntington sent 'round her father's jewelry case for you to partake of as you so desire."

"Well I don't desire, so please return it." Drake tugged at the cravat until he could breathe easier. He appreciated the lady's generous spirit--he may have wound up in the gaol without her help--but confound it if he was going to become a charity case for her.

If his stepmother had held true to form, he'd not be standing upon the generosity of Miss Huntington now. Thankfully, he would not have to remain obliged to the lady for more than a fortnight. He'd also need to write a message to his man of business in America and give it to Mercer so another set of verification papers and a letter of introduction could be dispatched posthaste. He was anxious to begin overseeing his new country estate, and if the Norwood estates were as depleted as Denton had said, he may have to withdraw more funds than anticipated to put things in order.

"Very well, my lord." Shipley saw no point in arguing. If his lordship would quit rearranging his attire, he'd cut quite a figure without any adornments. He ignored the gentleman's pointed glare as he brushed imaginary lint off his new master's shoulders, then slid his hands down to straighten the cravat to a nicety, he hoped, for the last time. A tap came at the door and Shipley went to answer it.

He returned momentarily to the dressing room and informed his lordship that Miss Huntington's coachman had arrived to take him to Gilbert House.

Drake caught himself just in time to keep his hand from twisting at the cravat again, and Shipley emitted an audible sigh of relief. He wondered if Miss Huntington would be as impressed with his appearance as her butler seemed to be.

Shipley said, "Your cape, my lord. It's rather chilly in London in the evenings."

Drake allowed the valet to drape the garment over his shoulders. He was reminded of the discomfort he felt the first time Druscilla insisted on bundling him up before he went out in the snow. She'd knitted him a fine scarf, but he never told her he liked it. Instead, he'd ranted at her to stop trying to act his mother. He'd realized how much he must have sounded like his disagreeable father, but he'd been eight years without the touch of a loving hand. Thankfully, it wasn't long before she had Mitchell to fuss over, and Drake had escaped the brunt of her molly-coddling ways.

"Perhaps, Shipley," Drake said, turning stiffly, "I should take along the jewelry case and return it to Miss Huntington myself."

Shipley almost smiled. At least, Drake thought the eyes cloaked mostly by the squint turned a more vibrant hue.

The valet was quite pleased with his lordship's decision. In spite of the gentleman's reduced state of affairs, he fought to do the right thing. If Lord Norwood did not allow his pride to rule his head, he would be a perfect match for Miss Huntington. Shipley handed over the jewelry case and said, "To be sure, 'tis an ethical gesture. But, considering your circumstances, sir, I pray you shall give other settlements the lady offers more practical consideration."

"Settlements?"

The coachman, waiting to escort Drake to his conveyance, cleared his throat. Shipley bowed and turned back into the suite, leaving Drake to wonder if all English valets were such eccentric prattle-boxes. Nothing the man had said made the least bit of sense.

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