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would throw something at him, she swore, but Avery kept a perfectly straight face as he crossed the room and looked out.

      ‘The coast is clear.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Laura said with awful sarcasm as she swept past him. And then, as she glanced back over her shoulder, he did smile.

      * * *

      A cool bath was certainly helpful. Avery dripped onto the bath mat afterwards and wondered whether he was bewitched or merely besotted. What was it about this infuriating, dangerous, flawed woman that attracted him so, against all prudence? It had attracted Piers, too, but his cousin had the excuse of being younger and a romantic. Now, on top of everything else, not only was she here, but she was expecting Alice to lie about her. He scrubbed his wet body dry, shrugged into his banyan and went to finish reading his correspondence while Darke set the dressing room to rights.

      ‘Will you require me to shave you, my lord?’

      ‘Hmm? Yes.’ His concentration was all over the place, he’d probably end up cutting his own throat at this rate.

      ‘Miss Blackstock said she would bring Miss Alice down to say goodnight early, my lord, at half past five. We understand that Lady Birtwell is holding a gathering before dinner to give the guests an opportunity to mingle.’

      In other words, to enable her to parade her selection of young ladies before him, like fillies going down to the starting gate. ‘You had better shave me now then and I’ll get changed before Miss Alice arrives. She is capable of wrecking havoc with my attempts to tie a respectable neckcloth.’

      ‘Quite, my lord,’ Darke observed with some feeling. ‘The hot water is ready.’

      Avery sat back and closed his eyes as the razor scraped through the soap and the bristles of his evening beard. What the devil had his godmother been thinking of, to invite Lady Laura? She didn’t know the truth, of course, but Laura’s reputation was smudged enough as it was, even without the scandal of Alice’s birth. Perhaps she had included her to throw the ladylike deportment of the other young women into relief by contrast.

      It occurred to him that Blackie and Darke had both seen ‘Mrs Jordan’ at Westerwood. ‘Darke, when Miss Blackwood brings Miss Alice, I would like you to remain for a few moments. There is something I must tell you both.’

      * * *

      Alice arrived as he was sliding his arms into the swallowtail evening coat with the assistance of Darke. She bounced into the room. ‘Poor Darke is going red in the face, Papa,’ she informed him.

      ‘So would you, if you had to stuff me into this coat.’ Avery tugged down his cuffs, added his watch, chain and fobs, stuck in a cameo tie pin and decided he was as fancy as he was prepared to make himself for the purposes of wife-hunting. ‘Miss Blackstock, Darke, a moment please.’

      Alice pouted. ‘I wanted to tell you a secret, Papa.’

      ‘Is it anything to do with Mrs Jordan?’

      She stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘How did you know?’ She glanced from side to side at the servants. ‘She said I was to tell you, Papa, but perhaps I shouldn’t tell Blackie or Darke.’

      ‘She told you to tell me?’

      Alice nodded. That was a surprise. He had not expected Laura to do that. He had misjudged her. ‘Miss Blackwell, Mrs Jordan, who visited while we were in Hertfordshire, is actually Lady Laura Campion. She has had a personal problem that required her to conceal her identity.’

      ‘She said she was running away from a bad man,’ Alice explained, her face serious with the responsibility of the big secret. ‘It is very exciting and we must not betray her.’

      Avery grimaced at his two expressionless staff. ‘A man she wished to avoid,’ he explained. ‘It would be best if you give no indication that you have ever encountered her under any other name.’

      ‘Of course, my lord.’ Darke gathered up the discarded banyan and removed himself to the dressing room.

      Blackie shot a look at Alice, who was busy straightening the fob that hung from Avery’s watch chain. ‘If Lady Laura should approach Miss Alice...’

      ‘Treat her the same as any of the other guests,’ Avery said and stooped to pick Alice up, making her squeal with laughter. ‘You are not to be naughty and disturb the grown-ups, puss. But if you behave nicely I expect the ladies will want to talk with you.’

      And if they avoided her, or made any derogatory remark, then they would be crossed off his list at once. Whoever he married must accept Alice without reservation.

      ‘Off with you to your supper now.’ He set her on her feet, noticing that she had grown since the last time she had worn that dress. Before he knew it, she would be a young lady. How would he cope when she was the age the girls downstairs were now and men were courting her? He would be forever sharpening a rapier or cleaning his shotgun. But before then he would have a wife to look after her, one who loved the child as much as he did. He just had to go and choose her.

       Chapter Twelve

      This was nothing like he had expected it to be. Avery, his features schooled into the expression that worked for sensitive, yet boring, diplomatic parties, circulated the room, displaying an outer confidence while he fought an inner sensation that was something akin to panic.

      Young women swirled around him like so many birds in an aviary, charming in their pastels and frills, smiling and flirting and chattering. Previously he would have been civil to the plain ones and the dull ones—not that Godmama had invited anyone who fitted those descriptions—and then admired the pretty ones with an appreciative male eye for their physical features.

      Which was just what he would be guarding Alice against when she was their age—men like him. Shaken, Avery kept his eyes firmly raised above collarbone level and set himself to assess character, not curves. There were ten eligible misses assembled for him, the mix leavened—or perhaps the better word was disguised—by three married couples in their early thirties, eight bachelors of his age and younger, a couple of older widowers and a handful of widows of Lady Birtwell’s age. And Lady Laura Campion who was, he decided, neither fish, fowl nor good red herring.

      ‘Lord Wykeham?’ Lady Amelia Woodstock looked up at him through wide blue eyes, delightfully fringed by darker lashes. ‘Is something amiss?’

      ‘Am I scowling?’ he enquired. ‘I do apologise.’

      ‘No, not scowling, merely looking a trifle thoughtful and severe. No doubt matters of state are weighing on your mind.’ Her lips quirked into a confiding smile which managed to convey that she was hugely impressed by his importance, but also recognised that he was a man who might be charmed. By the right woman.

      ‘To be frank, they are not.’ Avery lowered his voice and leaned towards her. With a twinkle Lady Amelia inclined her head for him to divulge the secret. ‘I was wondering what a red herring was and why, precisely, it is always referred to as good red herring.’

      ‘Or why it is the term for a deceptive clue.’ Lady Amelia pursed her lips in thought. Full, kissable lips, Avery noted. ‘Perhaps Dr Johnson’s Dictionary would tell us.’

      Us, not you. A clever little trick to increase the intimacy of the conversation. Not only a lovely young lady, but a bright one, as well. Not that he was ready to go off to the library and snuggle up on the sofa with only a massive tome as chaperon. Not quite yet, not with the first promising candidate.

      He glanced up and saw Laura watching him. No, watching Lady Amelia and with an expression he could not read on her face. It was not approval. Jealousy? After that kiss in his bedchamber any other woman would be expecting either a declaration or a carte blanche, but Laura knew full well why he would never offer either of those. The only kind of relationship they might ever have was a flaming and very short-lived affaire characterised by lust on both sides

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