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      ‘I think not. Ellie is not right for the character you will be playing in this little drama. Eleanor is serious, a little mournful. You will drift wistfully about under your floating black veils, the victim of nameless sadness...’

      So what is Ellie?

      She did not dare ask—he would probably be happy to explain in unflattering detail.

      ‘Tell me, Cousin Blake, do you make a habit of reading Minerva Press novels or do you have a natural bent for the Gothic yourself?’

      ‘The latter, Cousin Eleanor. Definitely the latter. Dark closets, skeletons...’ There was no amusement in his eyes.

      ‘Will you not wait for tea?’ She rose, gestured towards the door.

      ‘I think not.’

      He caught her hand in his and lifted it to his lips, his breath warm as he did not quite touch his mouth to her fingers, which were rigid in his light grip.

      The door opened and Polly edged in, a tea tray balanced against one hip.

      ‘Lord Hainford is just leaving, Polly. Put the tray down and see him out, if you please.’

      And leave me to recover from having my hand almost kissed and from the knowledge that I am about to spend several days in the company of such a very dangerous man.

      She would be quite safe, she told herself. Polly would be with her, would sleep in her room every night, and an earl would stop at respectable inns—inns with locks on the bedchamber doors.

      The problem was, he was not the danger—she was. Or rather her foolish imagination, which yearned for what, quite obviously, she could never have.

      * * *

      Ellie stood at the foot of the stairs and regarded the sum total of her personal belongings. One trunk with clothes and books, one hat box containing two hats, one valise with overnight necessities, one portable writing slope. And one umbrella. Nothing so frivolous as a parasol.

      Polly had almost as much luggage.

      Somewhere upstairs an auctioneer was going round with Mr Rampion, making an inventory and sorting the furniture into lots. The solicitor had managed to locate enough money and small items of value to discharge the debts and the legacies to old servants, which was a weight off her mind, but she would get no recompense from the sale for her losses.

      The new baronet was inheriting nothing more than a title.

      Polly was peering through one of the sidelights framing the door. ‘He is here, Miss Lytton. The Earl, I mean.’

      ‘I guessed that was who you meant,’ Ellie said wryly, and took a firm hold on the umbrella, feeling like a medieval knight arming himself for battle.

      What did she know about this man? That he spent a great deal of money on his clothing and his boots, his horses and his entertainment. And most of the entertainment, she gathered, was hedonistic and self-indulgent but not, as a perusal of the gossip columns had told her, undisciplined.

      Lord Hainford might enjoy gaming, racing...all matters of sport. He might be seen at every fashionable event and he might enjoy himself very well in other ways, as sly references to ‘Lord H’ and ‘renowned beauty Lady X’ being ‘seen together as we have come to expect’ betrayed, but there were never any reports of riotous parties, scandals at the opera or heavy gaming losses. He was not married, betrothed or linked to any respectable lady who might have expectations—which was interesting as he was now twenty-eight and had his inheritance to consider.

      And when he smiled she thought there was something behind the amusement—as though he could not quite bring himself to surrender to it. Her imagination, no doubt...

      Polly opened the door a fraction before the groom’s knock. ‘All these,’ she said pertly to the man, with a wave of her hand to the small pile of luggage.

      ‘It will go in the baggage carriage,’ the groom said, and Ellie saw there was a second, plainer vehicle behind the Earl’s glossy travelling coach with his coat of arms on the door. ‘Is there anything you would like to keep with you, Miss Lytton?’

      ‘Thank you, no.’ She had her reticule, holding her money, her notebooks, a pencil and a handkerchief. ‘Polly, run upstairs and tell Mr Rampion that we are about to leave.’

      By the time the solicitor had come down Lord Hainford was out of the carriage and the luggage was loaded. She shook hands with the solicitor, took the letter he handed her with details of the house that would be her new home, and gave him, in return, the keys of the London house.

      She had lived there for more than five years, and yet she could feel no particular sadness at leaving it. The companionship of her friends, the bookshops, the libraries—yes, she was sorry to lose those. But in this place she had been no more than a glorified housekeeper, the poor relation. At least now she would be mistress of her own house.

      My own hovel, more likely.

      All it would take was the willingness to endure the company of the Earl of Hainford for a few days.

      He stood waiting to hand her into the carriage and she balked on the doorstep, the reality of being in such an enclosed space with a man making her stumble. She gripped the railing and limped down to the pavement, exaggerating the hitch in her gait to account for that moment of recoil.

      Courage, she chided herself. She was not going to allow the past to rule her present, her future. And this man was the bridge to that future—whatever it held.

      * * *

      ‘Miss Lytton, may I introduce my confidential secretary, Jonathan Wilton?’

      Jon got to his feet, stooping under the roof of the carriage. ‘I do beg your pardon for not getting out to greet you, Miss Lytton. I did not realise you were ready to join us.’

      Blake noticed the fractional recoil before she held out her hand, and the sudden loss of colour in her cheeks, and yet she was perfectly composed as she greeted Jon. Was she simply unused to the company of men? He supposed that might be the case, if she had not made her debut and had led a somewhat isolated existence. Then, as she sat and looked up, seeing Jon’s face properly for the first time, he saw her surprise, carefully but not perfectly masked.

      ‘We are half-brothers,’ he said, settling himself next to her, opposite Jon.

      The little maid scrambled up and sat opposite her mistress, a battered dressing case clutched on her knee.

      ‘It is something recognised but not spoken about. With the typical hypocrisy of Society Mr Wilton, my secretary, is perfectly acceptable, whereas Jonathan, my somewhat irregular brother, is not.’

      ‘Which can be amusing, considering how alike we are.’ Jonathan, three inches shorter, brown-haired and blue-eyed, grinned. ‘Acceptable as in a suitable extra dinner guest in emergencies, but not as a potential husband for a young lady of the ton, you understand.’

      ‘Yes, I quite see.’ Eleanor Lytton nodded. ‘One day everyone will be judged only on character and ability, but I fear that is a long way off.’

      ‘Are you a radical, Miss Lytton?’ Blake asked as the carriage moved off. He noticed that she took no notice of their leaving, and did not send so much as a fleeting last glance at her old home.

      ‘Cousin Eleanor, is it not?’ she reminded him. ‘I suppose I might be a radical—although I would not want change to be driven by violence. Too many innocents suffer when that happens.’

      Blake was intrigued. There was plenty of room on the carriage seat and he shifted a little so he could study her expression. Most ladies, other than the great political hostesses and the wives of politicians, would be appalled at the suggestion that they might have an opinion on politics, and even those who did would be obediently mouthing their husband’s line.

      To have radical leanings was quite beyond the pale, and indicated that she both read about such matters and thought about them

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