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  “I am unable to see how my obtaining the best price for my estate benefits him,” she said.

  D’Avenant’s voice gentled. “Will he be paid a percentage commission for the sale, My Lady?”

  She put a hand to her mouth. She knew so little about business. Her ignorance was being used against her. She felt small suddenly, and stupid. Pathetically out of her depth. She didn’t even know which seat to take to claim her place in a room.

  D’Avenant turned away and busied himself refilling his snifter.

  While his back was turned, she dug her linen kerchief out of her bag and dabbed crossly at her tears. Enough self-pity. I have children to think of.

  D’Avenant turned, and took a swallow of the cognac. “Have we reached an impasse?”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t afford an impasse. It was unreasonable to expect miracles but she needed one, and soon. There was no option left except to make the best possible sale she could, and the man who would pay the best price was standing across the room from her. “Have you a suggestion?”

  “Rid yourself of Grenville.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She was tired of being caught in their quarrel. “As you must well imagine, Lord D’Avenant,” she said sternly, “I am not in a position to exercise choice on this point—nor, may I add, am I certain that I need to, simply on account of your… churlishness… with my solicitor.”

  D’Avenant pressed the side of his index finger against his lips.

  “I amuse you.”

  “No! No, My Lady. Please. Accept my apologies. Sincèrement, Comtesse. I’m merely glad that I am not Elizabeth, Edward, or Megan on the wrong side of an adventure.”

  A chill ran through her. He knows the children’s names! If he knew such an intimate detail as that—what else did he know? Her heart sank. She was facing the poor house. He probably knew. A man like D’Avenant didn’t negotiate blindly. Heat spread across her face. “You’ve probed my private life.”

  “In order to arrange financing with lenders, I have had Skylark appraised by two separate assessors. The property is not worth anything near the price Grenville has you hoping for.”

  She turned her linen kerchief in her hands, wondering what to do. She had no experience with legal affairs, but she was a mother. Elizabeth, Edward, and Megan—they mattered above all. And they depended on her alone now for their care. “Well, then,” she said. “There is but one thing to do. I shall make a trip to Skylark and assess it at first hand. Once I see it, I’ll… I’ll have a better sense of things.”

  D’Avenant nodded. “A good decision.”

  She got up to leave. She didn’t want to say the meeting had been a pleasure, because it hadn’t been. It had been unnerving and humbling. That said, she also had to acknowledge deep gratitude, for D’Avenant had ensured she was not set to one side. She picked up her reticule from the little table next to the chair.

  D’Avenant retrieved her wrap and held it while she turned into it. With a single deft move, he draped it perfectly onto her shoulders.

  “Good day, Lord D’Avenant,” she said, and walked to the door.

  “Lady Wyndham?”

  She turned, her fingers on the door handle.

  “There is only one inn near Skylark, and it is a crude place. I wonder if you would be my guest at Edgemere while you reacquaint yourself with the property? The children are welcome, too.”

  She tipped her head, surprised. “Curious,” she said. “I heard Edgemere has been closed to guests since your return from France.”

  For the first time since he had entered the room, D’Avenant faltered. “Evidently, I am not the only one who probes private lives.”

  An hour later, D’Avenant’s carriage drew up in front of his London town house at 14 Grosvenor, and he alit. The house was modest, with the usual library, dining, and sitting rooms, but only four bedchambers, servants quarters, and a small outdoor garden. He kept it mainly as a pied à terre for when he came into London to conduct his business affairs.

  His young housekeeper, Annie, opened the door for him and took his coat. “Early dinner tonight, My Lord?”

  “Yes, please.” He was finished with this day.

  He stepped into the library. A sweet-faced, bright-eyed old woman waited for him near the crackling fire, a robe resting across her lap.

  "Bonsoir, Maman."

  "Chère." She smiled.

  D’Avenant slumped into the chair across from her and rubbed his forehead.

  “How was the meeting?”

  “Grenville was there.”

  “Roland Grenville?”

  He nodded.

  “When you left, I thought—”

  “Me, too,” he said. “He has convinced Skylark’s owner, a countess, Lady Maryam Wyndham, that she can get six thousand pounds for it.”

  “Sacrebleu!”

  “Oui. Sacrebleu,” he said. “She attended the meeting. She thought Grenville was tending the property, but I fear she is just lately discovering his chicanery. He continues his scurrilous practice of stripping his clients of their assets.”

  “Quel dommage.”

  “Yes. A pity.”

  “And now? Do we return to Edgemere as planned, or remain here to try something else?"

  "We return.” He hesitated. ‘Maman, I... I did something. Impulsively, stupidly.”

  “What, chère?” she asked, caution in her voice.

  “I invited Lady Maryam to stay at Edgemere when she comes out to see Skylark.”

  The old woman clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, mon dieu.”

  D’Avenant groaned. What idiocy. He got up, irritated with himself, too uncomfortable to sit still. He started unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  "Are you very uncomfortable?"

  He nodded.

  The old woman folded her lap robe to one side, took her cane, and struggled to her feet.

  He removed his vest, rucked his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers and bent forward, hands spread apart on the desk.

  Maman slipped soft arthritic hands beneath his shirt, fumbling to untie the ribbons of the corset he wore. The contraption was released and she pulled it out from beneath his shirt. And with that, the ‘Lord Julien D’Avenant’ disguise fell away.

  Julianne D’Avenant’s breasts floated free.

  2. Arrival

  “This is it, Milady! Last stop before home!”

  Inside the coach, Lady Maryam felt D’Avenant’s luxurious carriage roll to a smooth stop. She looked out. They were up on a ridge under a tree canopy. Between the tree branches she saw a valley below them.

  The coach driver who had just called out to her, Normand, set the brake and leapt lithely to the ground. He came to her window. “Lord D’Avenant told me to stop here so you could see Skylark,” he said. “It’s the bird’s-eye view from here.”

  Behind Normand, she saw the two armed coachmen scanning the woods for any signs of trouble. Like her, they all had to be tired and ready to be back home.

  She had been riding for more than two days and was chafing from the long confinement nearly as much as the children were, despite the frequent stops to get out and stretch their legs. She was grateful that she had accepted D’Avenant’s offer to send his private coach for her trip to Edgemere. Her first impulse had been to decline his suggestion on the grounds it would make her indebted to him and put her at a disadvantage in negotiations over Skylark. But once on the road, seeing how packed the mail coaches were, which would have been her alternative, and seeing how chaotic the coach inns were, she was deeply grateful for D’Avenant’s hospitality.

  And bless him, too for sending along the energetic red-haired Irish nanny, Brigid, laden with entertainments for the little ones.

  Normand opened the door.

  Her son Edward, who was five, leapt across her, treading on her toes before jumping to the ground. Elizabeth, seven, stepped past her mother with more care but no less excitement. Megan,
two, squirmed off Brigid’s lap and toddled toward the door.

  “Oh, bejasus! It’s under the horses she’ll be!” Brigid lunged unceremoniously past Maryam, captured the tot and jumped to the ground with her in one fluid motion.

  Accepting Normand’s proffered hand, Maryam stepped out of the coach into the sunshine. She straightened, hand on her aching hip, drawing the country air into her lungs. She’d always preferred the sound of birdsong, the smell of the earth, the openness of the sky, over the din and stench of the city.

  Normand walked ahead of her across the rutted road to the edge of the ridge. Holding tree branches aside, he pointed. “Right there. That’s Skylark.”

  The softly undulating hills of the valley below them were beautiful, a living patchwork quilt of cultivated fields—some fallow and brown, others just greening, a few still yellow with last winter’s straw stubble. Tree lines surrounded many of the fields, giving them the finished look of a dark green border. In the middle of the neat patchwork, however, stood one large scruffy square, with a stone manor squatting dead centre in it.

  “Where is Edgemere from here?”

  The driver pointed into the distance beyond Skylark to a manor set on a hill. “You can just see the manor between the trees. As far as the land holdings, what you see in any direction from here—that’s Edgemere.”

  Maryam blanched. Duchess Clarissa Hollingsworth, her childhood friend and confidante, had told her D’Avenant was well off. She hadn’t said he owned half the county.

  Clarissa was one of London’s foremost hostesses. As such, she was privy to a tremendous traffic in gossip—though never a purveyor of it. Only with the choicest few, Maryam being one of them, did she privately share her insights about other peoples’ lives.

  Her assessment of Maryam’s trip to Edgemere had been blunt. “Depending on the weather and the children,” her friend said, “It will take you two to three days to get there. At the end you will be delivered to a remote estate, at the mercy of a man you have known for less than an hour. A man, I might add, about whom very little is known.”

  If Maryam’s circumstances had not been so pressing she would have reconsidered. But caution was a luxury given to women who had alternatives. Clarissa did not know about Maryam’s financial straits nor was she aware that her impending marriage to Maryam’s cousin the Duke of Kent would effectively leave Maryam and her children homeless.

  “We will be fine,” Maryam had assured her friend, unwilling to confess she was gambling her own safety and the safety of her children on the fact that Lord D’Avenant had pulled a chair across from hers during the awful meeting at Abercrombies. A chair did not constitute proof of character any more than his beguiling smile did. Yet both of these acts had convinced her that beneath his brusque exterior D’Avenant was a man of good nature. Now—looking at D’Avenant’s considerable holdings—doubt crept in. Could a man accumulate this much wealth without being ruthless?

  Half hour later, a lanky, leather-skinned gatekeeper whom Normand greeted as Leonard, swung open Edgemere’s black and gold wrought iron gates and waved the coach under the gateway. As the coach drove through, Leonard began swinging a sonorous bell.

  “Why’s he ringing that?” Edward asked.

  “To let the big house know we’re here,” said Brigid.

  The coach rode comfortably down the tree-lined gravel avenue. Edgemere Manor came into view atop the furthest rise of rolling green parkland. Made of red brick and accented by stone, it stood four stories high and seven window bays across. Dutch-style gables accented its classically-proportioned length, breadth, and height and reminded her of the architecture of Inigo Jones. Edgemere was a home to be admired. However, it was neither palatial nor ostentatious. It felt welcoming.

  “Is this it Mama?” Elizabeth asked. She and Edward stuck their faces out the window. “Have we arrived? Can we get out and run?”

  Even the horses picked up the pace. Maryam heard Normand murmuring to them, felt the coach steady as he held them back.

  Brigid circled the children’s waists with her arms, holding them securely, smiling as happily as they were. “In a moment we can get out.”

  A different, cheerful bell rang from the rooftop as they got closer.

  Edward turned an excited face to Brigid. “Yes, my cherub. Letting everyone know we’re here.”

  The coach rolled to a halt before the main entrance. Between her bobbing children Maryam saw a middle-aged woman and two young maids come out the front doors, straightening their aprons, faces alight with smiles. The ‘everyone’ Brigid had referred to was a very small staff, not the numbers of servants she would normally expect to greet an arrival at a manor of this size.

  Normand opened the door. Edward and Elizabeth jumped out.

  Above her, the coachmen started pulling luggage off the roof.

  The two blonde maids, petite identical twins, came down the stairs to the coach and peered inside like curious children. “Ooh, Minnie,” one chittered, a trace of a French accent in her speech. “Look at the little one!”

  Megan, burrowed snugly against Maryam’s breast, lay blissfully asleep.

  “Mo, shh!” replied her sister, her accent identical. “You’ll wake her.”

  “Excuse me, girls.” Normand said. The maids stepped back.

  “Let me help you out, Milady.” Guided by Normand’s hand but unable to take it, Maryam stepped out, clumsily unbalanced by the weight of the tot and the sudden discovery that she was not able to straighten up. Megan’s fingers, laced through a tendril of her hair, yanked askew Maryam’s carefully arranged hair and the hat pinned to it.

  In that awkward instant, Lord D’Avenant appeared at the top of the stairs. In his impeccable ebony suit and crisp white shirt, he looked as composed as she felt disarrayed. His blue eyes journeyed over her, dropped to her bosom.

  Maryam looked down. Her travelling jacket was tugged sideways off her breast, her blouse soggy with drool seeping from the little ‘O’ of Megan’s mouth. Maryam muttered an inward prayer for composure. Motherhood and estate management, it appeared, did not go well together.

  “Sophie,” D’Avenant called.

  The middle-aged woman shaped like a barrel on legs came to his side.

  D’Avenant leaned toward her, not taking his eyes off Maryam, and muttered into her ear.

  The matron nodded, and bustled industriously down the stairs. Guiding the others with her hands and polite orders, she herded the tumultuous gathering inside with the efficiency of a border collie collecting sheep.

  With the luggage now indoors and the passengers all discharged, the coach rolled away.

  Maryam, Megan, and D’Avenant stood alone.

  D’Avenant descended the steps. He was taller than she remembered, his broken face more shocking in full daylight. “Shall I take the hat or the child?”

  “Would you mind taking the child? The hat is still connected.”

  D’Avenant gently untwined Maryam’s hair from the child’s tiny fingers. Hair and hat both tumbled down her neck.

  Maryam eased Megan’s supple body into D’Avenant’s arms.

  Receiving her, D’Avenant soundlessly sighed, as if the ineffable pleasure of holding a baby were flowing through him. His eyes pored over her, taking in the exquisite detail of her rosy mouth, her dimpled fingers, her curly cap of dark reddish hair. “Oh, my,” he whispered.

  Watching him, Maryam forgot her hair. And her hat.

  “She looks so much like you,” he said. “So beautiful. Are her eyes green like yours?”

  Maryam felt her cheeks get warm. D’Avenant was so caught up in the child, he didn’t notice his unintended compliment. She stirred herself, deftly pinned her hair into a simple chignon, and picked up her fallen hat. “I can take her now,” she said.

  “Yes, of course.” He handed Megan back. “Let’s go on in. Maman is waiting to meet you.”

  The main entrance doors opened to a high-ceilinged hall fl
ooded by natural light. The floor was light marble, inlaid in complex fanlike patterns. The walls were painted the colour of gypsum and their soft powdery finish embraced the sunlight, lending the hall a quality of open-air freshness she had never before seen indoors.

  “Brief introductions first,” D’Avenant said. “Then I’ll have you shown to your rooms.” He strode across the gleaming marble to a set of open mahogany doors. He held out a hand, indicating she should precede him in.

  She stepped into a bright library, its walls the colour of sage, its ceilings vaulted, and the trim around the ceiling-to-floor windows at the far side of the room intricately carved. Bookshelves lined all but the windowed wall.

  An older woman with wispy grey hair and sparkling brown eyes sat with a blanket across her lap in a comfortable chair that was part of a sociable cluster of seats arranged near the fireplace. She gave Maryam the impression of a warm-hearted but no-nonsense grandmother.

  D’Avenant stepped forward, gesturing toward Megan. “Regardez, Ma–Madame. Elle est belle, non?”

  The old woman looked at Maryam first, then Megan. “Le deux sont belle,” she said. “They are both beautiful. To which one are you referring?”

  Her English was thickly accented, and her French bore no resemblance to D’Avenant’s. It was earthy, a flavor of the language that sounded more at home with black bread and beer than the grandeur of Edgemere. She was not a woman Maryam expected D’Avenant to have ensconced in his library when he spoke of ‘Maman.’ Maryam smiled. Whatever the elder’s provenance she obviously held a place of respect in the household.

  “Countess Maryam Wyndham, may I present Madame Madeleine Delacroix?”

  Madame rose with difficulty. “Forgive me, My Lady, for not meeting you outside. I am not so flexible as I once was.”