The Earl's Forbidden Ward

The Earl's Forbidden Ward Bronwyn Scott Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesShe was his one temptation… Innocent debutante Tessa Branscombe senses that underneath her handsome guardian’s cool demeanour there is an intensely passionate nature. The arrogant Earl infuriates her – yet makes her want to explore those hidden depths…Peyton Ramsden, Earl of Dursley, has no time for girls – especially those who are suddenly given over to his care! Miss Tessa Branscombe, in particular, is trouble.She tempts this very proper Earl to misbehave – and forbidden fruit always tastes that much sweeter… ? Tessa stood up. ‘Do not mistakeone kiss in an alcove for more thanit was. ‘It does not grant you permission to pry into my life. My business is mine alone. I am capable of taking care of myself and my sisters.’ Peyton Ramsden rose to meet her, his own temper rising with her. Lord, the woman was stubborn beyond all good sense. He knew instinctively that she would argue ad nauseam. He could think of nothing else to do except take his friend’s advice and kiss her. ‘One kiss might not qualify, but perhaps two will.’ Tension sparked between them. Thank providence the Ramsden brothers counted kissing among their many accomplishments… Author Note I hope you enjoy THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD and watching Peyton fall in love. It was great fun designing a heroine who would challenge him. This story was the perfect chance to do something with Russian history. I had the opportunity to study in Russia, right outside St Petersburg, a few years ago, and I’ve been wanting to do a story with some Russian history in it ever since. Giving Tessa the background of being a diplomat’s daughter was a great opportunity to do that. It was also interesting and a bit tricky doing some of the research about the location of the Russian embassy in London at that time, since the embassy moved from its original location to Kensington and even went through a non-active period during the Napoleonic wars. A third point of interest is the scene set at the Academy. The recollection Peyton has about the John Turner painting is all true. I found a short but great article that talked about the Academy art show that year and I just had to use it. The final challenge with this book was stepping out of the regular tonnish neighbourhoods. I knew Tessa wouldn’t have a home in Mayfair, so it was fun researching the Bloomsbury population of the 1830s. I had a chance to walk through Bloomsbury on a recent research trip to London, which helped me describe Tessa’s neighbourhood more thoroughly. For more about Bloomsbury, the Academy art show or embassies, check out my website at www.bronwynnscott.com and keep reading! Bronwyn Scott is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers. Recent novels from Bronwyn Scott: PICKPOCKET COUNTESS NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD Bronwyn Scott www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) For my niece, Rachel, who wanted to knowhow wars got started and actually listenedwhen I explained it to her. Chapter One London—Spring 1832 Peyton Ramsden, fourth Earl of Dursley, was doing what he did best—technically superior, emotionally removed sex with his mistress of two years. Certain of her fulfilment, he gave a final thrust and efficiently withdrew to make a gentleman’s finish in the sheets. His mistress, the elegant Lydia Staunton, raised herself up on one arm, letting the white satin of the sheet slide provocatively down her hip. ‘So, you’re giving me my cong?,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Yes, I am,’ Peyton answered evenly. There was no need to dress up the conversation, although he’d planned to bring up the issue after he’d got out of bed. For a man who liked to keep his life organised into neat compartments, there was something inherently wrong about discussing business so soon after coupling, even if it was the business of sex. ‘How did you know?’ He hadn’t spoken of it or dropped the slightest hint at ending their arrangement since he’d come up to town three days ago, although he’d made it plain at the beginning of their association that he had no intentions of sustaining their relationship beyond two years. ‘It was worse than usual tonight.’ Lydia could always be counted on to speak her mind. Peyton fixed her with an arrogant stare, one eyebrow raised in challenge. ‘I highly doubt that, madame.’ If there was one area the Ramsden brothers excelled at, it was in the bedroom arts. They’d been schooled at an early age about how to please a woman, part of their father’s training regimen for a gentleman. Lydia fell back on the pillows, ennui punctuating her words. ‘It’s not that. It’s never that. You know you’re exquisite in the bedroom, Dursley. You don’t need me to tell you your skills are unsurpassed.’ Dursley. He hated being a title to everyone, especially someone he’d shared conjugal relations with. Peyton rolled out of bed in a single fluid motion and strode across the room to the chair where his clothes waited. He picked up his shirt to put on. Perhaps he’d demand his next mistress call him ‘Peyton’. And perhaps not. Forced intimacy wasn’t true intimacy and he required honesty above all else. ‘Well, thank goodness. For a moment I was starting to doubt.’ His tone conveyed the exact opposite. There was no misunderstanding the real message. The Earl of Dursley did not doubt himself in the least, in any aspect of his life. Lydia sighed. ‘Skills aren’t everything, Dursley. It takes more than prowess in bed to be a good lover. Some day, you’re going to have to feel something.’ This was an old discussion. Lydia had accused him of being detached more than once during their association. Tonight, Peyton chose to ignore the comment. Arguing at the end of their association would resolve nothing. He pulled on his trousers and shrugged into his coat. He walked to Lydia’s dressing table and pulled a slim box from the inside pocket of his coat. He didn’t need to tell Lydia what it was. She was experienced enough in these dealings to know the box contained an expensive parting gift; something she could choose to flaunt or sell, depending on her circumstances. He placed a calling card on top of the box. ‘Peter Pennington, Viscount Wyndham, has suggested he is in the market. I offered him the lease to this house if you’re amenable.’ Lydia would know exactly what that meant. He’d found her another protector. Her financial security would not lapse in the wake of his exit. ‘Bravo, very nice, Dursley. You’ve wrapped up all the loose ends in two sentences.’ Lydia got out of bed and slipped her long arms into a silk robe, one of his many gifts to her over the years. She belted it at the waist. ‘Tell me, do you ever get tired of being in control?’ The words were not kind. Ah, the usually unflappable Lydia was piqued. Peyton sensed it was time to make an expedient exit before a quarrel cast a pall over their parting. He understood her discontent. For all the physical pleasure he gave her, Lydia wanted something more from him, something he was unwilling to give. ‘I know what you want, Lydia. Wyndham is better suited to give you the illusion of romance than I am.’ He made a short bow in her direction. ‘I wish you the best. Goodnight, my dear. I have other business to attend to before my evening is through. I will show myself out.’ Once outside in the cold evening, Peyton sent his coach home, choosing to walk instead. The night air was bracing and he suddenly found himself in possession of a burst of energy begging to be spent. It was just as well—a walk would give him time to think and there was plenty to think about. Giving Lydia her cong? was only one of the situations he’d come up to town to resolve. The other item involved a summons from an old friend at Whitehall regarding a colleague who had recently passed away. Peyton reached for his pocket watch and flipped it open. Nine a.m. That gave him a half an hour to make his nine-thirty meeting with Lord Brimley. It was Whitehall business they were to discuss. Brimley had made that clear in his letter. But they would discuss it at White’s in a private room. He had plenty of time to travel the few streets to St James’s and White’s Gentlemen’s Club, but his pace increased none the less. There was a certain excitement in the prospect of the upcoming meeting and he’d acknowledged weeks ago he needed something to keep him occupied. His youngest brother, Paine, and Paine’s wife, Julia, had taken up residence at the family seat, deep in the idyllic heart of the Cotswolds, to await the birth of their first child not quite a year after their marriage. He was, of course, thrilled to have his brother under his roof. But the birth of Paine’s son four weeks ago had made Peyton restless in a most uncomfortable way. He adored his new nephew without question, having been shamelessly caught on numerous occasions in the nursery with the infant in his arms—a sight most of London would have been shocked to see, given his reputation towards sombre decorum. Yet, watching Paine and Julia together with their new son had filled him with disquiet and a sense that his life, for all his accomplishments, was incomplete in his thirty-eighth year. Logically, the assumption that his life lacked something was ludicrous. He’d come into his title at the young age of twenty-three when he had years ahead of him to maximise the earldom’s prosperity and take advantage of all the technological advances open to agriculture. Maximise them he had. While others struggled with outmoded notions of estate management and agricultural depression, Dursley thrived. It was no small thing to accept responsibility for the Dursley holdings and the people attached to them. His successes were their successes. Additionally, he did his duty in Parliament, coming up to town when sessions needed him to lend his voice on weighty matters. And his devotion to country and king didn’t end there. During the years following the Napoleonic Wars, he’d done his duty as a discreet diplomatic courier to Vienna when tensions over the future of the Balkans arose. He’d become a regular face in the drawing rooms of the New Europe in those days as nations negotiated new political boundaries and privileges. Oh, no, although he was not one to need public acclaim for his efforts, he could personally acknowledge that his efforts had borne worthwhile fruits. His life had not been spent in idle pursuits of no account, but in the pursuit of building an empire that would far outlast his years on earth. A man could take pride in such achievement. Indeed, a man should take pride in such a life. Which was why the internal unrest he’d suffered from lately was so distressing. It had sprung from nowhere and for no reason. Such an appearance was all the more disconcerting for a man of his ilk, who exerted control over all aspects of his life—demanded it, in fact. Imbalance was not a common or tolerated occurrence within his domain. The fa?ade of White’s loomed across the street. Redemption waited inside. Soon, he’d appease the errant devils that plagued him and get his life back to normal. He was expected. A footman whisked away his hat and outerwear while another one smartly led him upstairs to the private rooms. Brimley was already there. Peyton’s anticipation grew. Brimley’s early arrival suggested the man was anxious about the meeting. Such concern seemed out of character for the context of the meeting. In his note to Peyton, Brimley had indicated simply that there were a few details to wrap up with Branscombe’s passing. The only oddity was that Brimley had summoned him at all. He could count the times he’d met Sir Ralph Branscombe on one hand and still have fingers left over. If he remembered correctly, Branscombe had primarily been stationed in St Petersburg. The footman opened the door to the luxuriously appointed room with its thick carpet and carved marble mantelpiece. The room would have done any grand home in Mayfair proud. But Peyton had scarcely a glance for the stately elegance of the d?cor. Brimley rose from his chair by the fire and came forward to greet him. ‘Dursley, so good of you to come. What’s it been? Two years, now?’ Peyton nodded. Brimley looked tired and careworn beyond his fifty years, but his memory was clearly still sharp if he could recall the last time Peyton had worked for him. ‘Nearly two years,’ Peyton affirmed, taking time to carefully study Brimley’s features, searching for a reason for the weariness that plagued him. Brimley seemed to sense Peyton’s scrutiny. He waved a hand. ‘Come and sit, Dursley. You’re a lucky man to have missed the last two years, after all.’ Brimley pushed a hand through his greying hair. ‘I was disappointed to see you go, but I understood you had estates to run. You couldn’t be hotfooting it off to Vienna or wherever else at my beck and call. Now, I wonder if I shouldn’t have bowed out, too. The Balkans and the Eastern Question are enough to drive any man insane. One wonders what we really won when Napoleon was defeated—a pile of war debt here at home and a handful of cocksure pocket-tyrants in the Far East stealing access to waterways.’ Peyton gave a short laugh. ‘You don’t fool me for a minute, Brimley. You love the intrigue of this new world.’ He settled in his chair, relaxing into its depths. Ahhh. White’s knew the value of a comfortable chair. Brimley opened the humidor on the table next to him and selected a cheroot. He offered the cherry-wood box to Peyton. Peyton declined with a mild wave. ‘Well, I suppose I do like some of the game,’ Brimley admitted, taking a long draw on the cheroot. ‘But I don’t like loose ends and that’s what I’ve got with Branscombe’s fiasco.’ ‘Fiasco?’ Peyton felt his body tense. He certainly hadn’t got that impression from Brimley’s note. But then, Brimley was a master diplomat, never letting out more than he wanted anyone to know before he wanted them to know it. ‘Branscombe had the bad taste to die while in possession of a list of Russian insurgents deemed dangerous by the Czar. Unfortunately, since his death, the list has not come to light. Our sources in St Petersburg are certain that the Russians have not found it. There’s been no report of arrests or suspicious disappearances. However, we have not found it either.’ Brimley gave a heavy sigh. Peyton steepled his hands and studied the fire, digesting Brimley’s news. He’d always known there was a fine line between espionage and diplomacy. Not every diplomat was a spy, of course. But some were. It seemed the mild-mannered Branscombe had crossed that line. And why not? Diplomats had very little accountability to any authority once they were at their posts. Accounts of their deeds or decisions would take months to reach England, if at all. Often there was no time to waste in waiting for responses from home regarding how to proceed. One simply had to rely on instinct and do what one felt was best. Peyton certainly understood the ease with which diplomacy and espionage could be mixed. What he didn’t understand was why this particular list had Brimley edgy. He doubted Brimley was all that concerned about preserving the identity of Russian revolutionaries. ‘What makes the list so important to us?’ Peyton asked. Brimley eyed him for a while. Peyton knew the man was weighing him up, assessing what could be told and what could be left out. ‘This is strictly confidential, Dursley.’ Peyton smiled. Most of their conversations over the years had included that phrase. ‘I assumed it would be.’ Brimley grimaced. ‘An unstable Russia weakens Russia’s power to influence Turkey and that’s good for us. We need the waterway for our Indian trade routes.’ He was talking about the Dardanelle Straits, which Turkey controlled. A conquered Turkey, a Russian-controlled Turkey, would be an intolerable situation for Britain. Passage through the Dardanelles made it possible to cut weeks off the trip between London and Bombay, making passage around the dangerous African Horn unnecessary. But this explanation would be commonplace to a man who’d been keeping up on current events. There was nothing confidential here. Such information was bandied about the House of Lords daily. Peyton shook his head. ‘That’s not good enough, Brimley. I know all that already. How does the list influence Russia?’ Brimley seemed to concede. ‘All right. It has come to my attention that Branscombe compiled the list on behalf of some ambitious and wealthy businessmen who would be glad to fund an internal rebellion to overthrow the Czar. In exchange, they are asking for guarantees from the new government to leave Turkey, and the Dardanelles, especially, alone.’ Peyton let out a low whistle. Foreign involvement in plotting revolution was serious business. He didn’t need to be told Branscombe had been well paid by these men to make the necessary connections and compile the list. Even after the disastrous 1825 December uprising in Russia, secret revolutionary societies still abounded. The promise of cash for weapons and munitions probably appealed to the most organised groups. But where there were secrets, there were traitors. The 1825 Decembrists had been betrayed to the Czar at the last minute and apparently Branscombe’s intentions had met with the same fate. A suspicion crossed Peyton’s mind. ‘How did Branscombe die? I don’t think you mentioned it.’ ‘For all intents and purposes, it was a natural death. He passed quietly in his sleep,’ Brimley hedged. ‘But you don’t believe that, do you, old man?’ Peyton pressed, not willing to be fobbed off. He didn’t understand yet what his role in all this was to be, but he certainly wasn’t going to commit himself without knowing all the details. ‘Well, I only know what the doctors tell me. He was a thousand miles away in another country, after all. At this distance, I am heavily dependent on second-hand information,’ Brimley prevaricated. ‘I don’t doubt the doctors told you exactly what you told me. But you suspect otherwise?’ ‘I only know the Russians knew he had made a list and what he intended to do with it. Which gave them a motive to put their best assassins on the case.’ Peyton recognised he wasn’t going to get anything further from Brimley on that account. ‘All right. We can leave his demise at that. The more burning question for me is what can I do here? I am not clear at all as to why you’ve contacted me. I hardly knew the man and I’ve only met him a few times.’ ‘The list is not in Russia. It’s not at the British embassy in St Petersburg. If it’s anywhere, it’s in England.’ Peyton raised his eyebrows, encouraging Brimley to be more forthcoming. ‘Yes?’ ‘The list is in England. As of today, a highly alert delegation from Russia is also on British soil.’ ‘So, we search the man’s residences quickly.’ ‘We’ve tried that, but we’ve run into several stumbling blocks.’ Brimley seemed discomfited. The man shifted in his chair. ‘Precisely, four stumbling blocks in the form of Branscombe’s daughters. The biggest stumbling block is his eldest daughter, Miss Tessa Branscombe.’ Peyton found the room had grown hot. His cravat seemed extraordinarily noose-like. Brimley’s discomfiture was contagious and for good reason. He had his suspicions about where this conversation was headed. ‘I want you to get close to the girls, Miss Branscombe particularly. I’ve arranged for a codicil to Branscombe’s will to be drawn up regarding your ability to act as a guardian for the girls. With the exception of Miss Branscombe, the other three are all under eighteen. But they will all be under your guardianship. Once you’ve established the girls under your protection, you’ll have access to the house. You can search it at will and in broad daylight without arousing their distrust.’ Peyton spread his hands out before him as if he were warding off an unseen blight. ‘No, I will not play nursemaid to four silly females. What do I know about young girls in the schoolroom? I raised brothers. The condition of my unwed state alone would make the arrangement unseemly. I am a bachelor.’ What Brimley suggested was not diplomacy at all, but babysitting in disguise. ‘A bachelor with an impeccable reputation for honour and responsibility,’ Brimley reminded him. ‘Not to mention a formidable aunt in the Dowager Duchess Bridgerton.’ Brimley meant Peyton’s father’s sister, Lily. ‘Lady Bridgerton will be the perfect guide to help Miss Branscombe through the Season,’ Brimley said, beaming over his thorough plan. ‘And you’ll be the perfect escort.’ Peyton gripped the arms of his chair. ‘Wait, this is a new development. Why does Miss Branscombe need a Season?’ He had no intention of doing the pretty. When he’d come up to London, he hadn’t meant to stay longer than was necessary to take care of this ‘small’ issue with Brimley and settle things with Lydia. He was eager to return to his family in the country and his new nephew. ‘Escorting her around town will give you a chance to gain her confidence. The more time you spend together, the more willing she might be to confide in you.’ Brimley appeared untroubled about the breach of ethics the scheme demanded. Peyton did not share the man’s detachment. This was becoming more unpalatable all the time—a forged codicil to create an imaginary guardianship, and a veiled request to seduce the father’s secrets from the daughter, smacked of dishonesty and double dealing. Peyton got up from his chair and walked to the sideboard holding an array of brandies. He poured himself a glass and turned back to face Brimley. ‘I won’t do it merely to support the pockets of self-serving businessmen. You should have known I was the wrong man for the job.’ He took a long sip of brandy, spearing Brimley with his eyes, letting him see the disdain in which he held Brimley’s proposal. ‘You’ll be well paid,’ Brimley said obtusely. ‘I don’t ask you to do this without reward.’ Peyton set the heavy tumbler down hard. ‘There is no sum of gold that would entice me to flirt with an innocent young girl under false pretences and to betray her sisters at a vulnerable time in their lives.’ Brimley rose. ‘I am not offering you gold, Dursley. We all know you’ve got more blunt than the rest of us. I am offering you lives.’ Brimley took a folded sheet of paper out of his coat pocket. ‘Read it. British intelligence reports that the Russian army is preparing to mobilise against Turkey. It will be war by this time next year and British boys will be on the front lines. Internal instability in Mother Russia would be a powerful piece of leverage for our diplomats in St Petersburg to negotiate with. With the right persuasion, our diplomats will be able to halt the war before it begins.’ Peyton scanned the letter, weighing his options. But that was the irony—there were no options to weigh. He could not countenance the discomfort of four young girls against the lives of hundreds of soldiers. Neither could he countenance his own discontentment at escorting Sir Ralph Branscombe’s daughter through the Season when it would prevent British soldiers from enduring far worse discomforts on the battlefield. Peyton Ramsden, fourth Earl of Dursley, lifted his glass in a toast. ‘Well, then, here’s to king and country.’ He drank a large swallow. It had been a hell of a night. Chapter Two Tessa Branscombe was doing what she did best: flouting convention intentionally and in some ways unintentionally as she ushered her three sisters through the busy markets of London. A basket hung from her arm full of prizes wrested from merchants who’d been cowed by her shrewd negotiations. To Tessa’s way of thinking, there was nothing inappropriate about the conduct of the outing. All four of them were dressed conservatively in sombre colours, although the period of half-mourning for their father had passed. Furthermore, they were escorted by the gallant Sergei Androvich, newly arrived from the Russian embassy. If there was a glaring oddity about the outing, it concerned the place she’d chosen to take her sisters. She’d taken them to obtain greens and other foodstuffs that were usually obtained by a cook or housekeeper in a common marketplace. Tessa acknowledged this was not an errand polite society deemed appropriate for a lady of her station, and certainly not an appropriate outing for impressionable young girls. But while she acknowledged English society’s outlook, she staunchly disagreed with it. In Tessa’s opinion, a tradition that prevented a girl from learning the intricacies of providing for a household’s meals wasn’t a very useful tradition and, thus, not deserving of her attention. So, here she was, a basket full of vegetables, a string of high-spirited sisters trailing behind her and the handsome delegate from the Russian embassy and old friend from St Petersburg, Sergei, beside her. All in all, the little entourage made a strange picture in a marketplace not used to seeing a lady of quality amongst its customers, bargaining over prices with the tenacity of a fishwife on the docks. If merchants’ jaws dropped in amazement as the little group passed, that was their problem. Tessa had a faultless escort in Sergei Androvich and that was as far as she was willing to bend for tradition’s sake. They passed a flower girl selling violets. Sergei tossed the girl a coin and snatched a bouquet, which he promptly presented to Tessa. He sketched an elegant leg in a playful, elaborate fashion that made her laugh. Her sisters gathered about her, giggling and clapping. Sergei dug out some more coins and presented each of them with their own posies of violets, to their great delight. Tessa pressed her nose to the gay bouquet and smiled. ‘Thank you.’ ‘It is my pleasure. It’s been too long since you smiled, Tess,’ Sergei said softly in his perfect, but accented, English. ‘I know.’ Tessa met his blue gaze with her own, exchanging much with him in that moment. It had been a long nine months since her father’s death. There had been the enormous effort of leaving St Petersburg, a place that had been their home for fourteen years. She’d grown up there and had left many friends behind. Then there had been the work of setting up a home in her father’s little-used residence in London, a place Tessa had not seen since she was eight and her mother had been alive. ‘I am so glad you’re here, Sergei,’ Tessa said sincerely. Sergei had arrived yesterday with the Russian delegation and she was glad of his company. London was foreign to her. She missed the familiar faces and pace of life in St Petersburg. ‘How long will you be in London?’ ‘I am not sure, but at least until September,’ Sergei replied. ‘My work with the embassy won’t be so arduous that I won’t have time for you. We’ll put a smile back on your face in no time.’ ‘You already have.’ Tessa smiled again, slipping her free hand through the crook of Sergei’s arm. She meant it, too. All she knew of London was through the Englishmen who’d been posted to the St Petersburg embassy. But Sergei was a familiar friend. The son of a Russian noble, Sergei had appeared at the Czar’s royal court three years ago, looking to make his way in diplomatic circles. He’d been an instant success with his fluency in English, his education and his dashing blond good looks and blue eyes. It hadn’t been long before he’d been assigned as a junior liaison between the British embassy and the Russian diplomats. He’d become a fixture at the Branscombe home, talking over situations with her father and a natural friendship had sprung up between them, which extended to Tessa and the girls. Tessa looked around at her sisters, busy admiring their posies. The simple gestures had brought them a moment of pleasure in their uncertain world. Seeing how happy the bouquets made them, she privately vowed it was time to start getting out more. London was full of sights to see, and, with Sergei here, it would be a perfect time to take in the attractions. For now, though, it was time to head home. Sergei offered to hail a cab, but Tessa insisted the walk was good exercise. Several streets later, they reached the neat row of town houses in Bloomsbury, a neighbourhood preferred by a well-to-do intellectual set. The town houses ringed a well-kept key-garden for the residents’ private use and smartly dressed nannies pushed babies in prams up and down the park. Overall, Tessa found it a pleasing area, quiet and removed far enough from the hub-bub of the city and busier neighbourhoods for her tastes. She had no desire to call attention to herself. The last thing she wanted was interference in her life. All she wanted these days was to set up house, see to her sisters in her own fashion without society’s intrusion and forget about the last tumultuous days in St Petersburg. She preferred remembering how life had been there before her father’s death and the quiet terror that had stalked her afterwards. The girls bounded up the front steps ahead of her, eager to get their violets in water. Sergei laughed at their enthusiasm. ‘They’re exuberant,’ he said. Tessa nodded. ‘It’s good for them. Will you come in and have tea? Mrs Hollister was making scones this morning.’ ‘It will be a perfect end to a perfect afternoon,’ Sergei accepted. Within moments, the perfection Sergei had spoken of evaporated. If Tessa had known what lay beyond the front door of her own home, she might not have gone in. No sooner had she and Sergei entered the hall than they were surrounded by her sisters, all talking excitedly at once. She caught only snatches of nonsensical phrases such as, ‘A guest!’, ‘An earl’, ‘In the front room’. Tessa clapped her hands for silence. ‘One at a time, please!’ She turned to Petra, her junior by five years. ‘Petra, what is going on?’ Petra never got a chance to answer. A masculine voice spoke with clipped, commanding tones from the doorway of the front room. ‘I believe what the girls are trying to tell you is that the Earl of Dursley is waiting to be received.’ Tessa turned to her right. All her instincts were on alert at the sight of the imposing, dark-haired man. Her first impression was one of danger. This man was dangerous. Dangerous and powerful. His eyes were like cold sapphires. There was no warmth in them as they surveyed her and her sisters. Her second reaction was to protect. Tessa stepped forward, adopting a cold hauteur of her own, the one she used when she had to inform an importuning guest her father wouldn’t receive them. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. Furthermore, I don’t believe you have an appointment. I regret you’ve been waiting. However, I am not receiving today. I must ask you to leave.’ She pasted on a polite smile at the last. She’d found in the years acting as her father’s hostess that people often accepted bad news better when it came with a smile. The man stepped forward, quirking a challenging eyebrow at her. ‘You must be Miss Tessa Branscombe.’ Tessa’s smile disappeared. The arrogance of this man was unprecedented. He’d come to her home unannounced, no doubt intimidated Mrs Hollister into being allowed to wait, and now refused to acknowledge her dismissal. She’d asked him to leave and he was ignoring her. Instead, he was carrying on with his visit as if she’d accepted his presence in her home. Beside her, Sergei bristled. ‘The lady has asked you to leave and come another day.’ The Earl turned his gaze on Sergei, as if noticing him for the first time. Tessa thought the gesture was intentionally done, meant to suggest that the Earl didn’t feel Sergei was worthy of his particular notice. She doubted this earl in all his kingly arrogance overlooked anything or anyone. ‘And you would be?’ ‘Count Sergei Androvich,’ Sergei said with all the coldness of a Russian winter. Tessa watched the blue eyes of the Earl become positively glacial. ‘Ah, yes, the attach? with the newly arrived Russian delegation.’ She was certain he was ignoring Sergei’s title on purpose. In one sentence this man had demoted Sergei from Count to a mere attach?. Sergei had gone from a foreign peer worthy of being treated as an equal to nothing more than another man’s clerk. ‘I see you’ve heard of me.’ Sergei summoned a modicum of aristocratic hauteur of his own. ‘It is my business to be apprised of all the people and things related to the Misses Branscombe,’ the Earl drawled elegantly. What audacity! She didn’t even know him and the man was arrogantly insinuating he had some claim to the intimacies of their lives. Tessa had had enough. The social temperature in the entrance hall was frigid. She wasn’t going to let these two men, not even well-meaning Sergei, squabble over territorial rights when it wasn’t even their home. It was hers, and right now her sisters were staring wide-eyed at her, expecting her to act as if it was. ‘My lord, I must again request that you leave. This is a highly unexpected visit.’ She gestured towards Sergei. ‘As you can see, we’ve already got company.’ Sergei gave the Earl a small triumphant half-smile. ‘I heard you perfectly the first time, Miss Branscombe. However, I think you’ll find time for me, once you hear why I’ve come.’ Was that a bit of condescension in his voice? Was he so certain of his news? Tessa placed her hands on her hips, her temper getting the better of her. ‘Then tell me and get out.’ The Earl chuckled. ‘Miss Branscombe, I am here to inform you that I am your guardian. A codicil to your father’s will has placed you and your sisters under my protection.’ Like hell it had. Tessa stifled the urge to speak her mind. She was a diplomat’s daughter and knew the importance of time and place. There would be nothing gained from erupting over the news. She needed more information before she could decide what to do and this overbearing male seemed to be the most immediate source to hand. ‘I stand corrected, my lord. Won’t you join us for tea?’ Tessa said with great aplomb. She gestured to the drawing room and the group filed in. He might have forced her to receive him, but she didn’t have to like it. Round one to the Earl. She would not readily cede any more ground to him. He could take tea with them, but he wasn’t getting a single bite of Mrs Hollister’s scones. Chapter Three Tessa Branscombe hadn’t looked like the kind of woman who caused trouble. When she’d come through the town-house door, Peyton’s first reaction had been an entirely manly one at the sight of her. Brimley had not mentioned how stunning the eldest Miss Branscombe was. But Brimley was an old man. Brimley had not mentioned the piles of pure gold curls that shone like a halo on her head, setting off the curve of her delicate jaw, or the cameo-like fragility of her ivory-skinned features. The woman was a walking incarnation of an angel, not to mention a properly dressed one. It would be a pleasure to see this young woman turned out in the more stylish, fashionable gowns of the ton. His second reaction was that Brimley was getting soft if he’d had difficulty getting around this lovely chit with liquid-gold hair. He had every indication that her demeanour would match her beauty. Then she’d opened her mouth, her blue-almost-violet eyes flashing with irritation and Peyton understood with instant clarity what Brimley had implied. The so-called angel had dismissed him, the Earl of Dursley. Out of hand, moreover. Peyton could not recall a time when he’d been so thoroughly given his cong?. There was little he could have done aside from obliging her, which was out of the question, so he’d ignored her dismissal. Fortunately, her escort made it easy for him to shift his attentions and now they were having tea—all six of them, including the Count and every one of Miss Branscombe’s sisters. Miss Branscombe had made no move to send her sisters up to the schoolroom or wherever else they were supposed to go. Peyton thought it was most unorthodox of her to let them sit in on this difficult meeting. To be fair, perhaps she meant to send them out of the room after tea, so he dutifully made small talk over two cups of tea—without cakes, he noted—waiting for an opportunity to continue with his business. Over the third cup of tea, Peyton began to think Miss Branscombe had used the tea as a rather successful delaying tactic. He was growing thin on the patience a man needed for appreciating the girlish chatter that flowed about him. He now knew a copious amount of information about each of the Branscombe girls. Petra, who was seventeen, had plied him with a veritable oratory regarding the differences between the horses she’d ridden in St Petersburg and the horses she’d seen here in England. He gathered she was as horse-mad as his brother Crispin had been at her age. Eva was fifteen and gabbed incessantly about clothes and gowns, and how she liked to design her own dresses. The youngest was Anne, a shy ten-year-old who said nothing, but leaned against Tessa for comfort, staring at him with frightened wide blue eyes the entire time. Miss Branscombe put down her tea cup during a lull in Eva’s dissertation on the different qualities of silks and speared him with a sharp look. ‘Well, my lord, we have had three cups of tea and you have not broached the reason behind your visit.’ Peyton set his cup down and met her challenge evenly. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to send the girls out of the room. It is not the English custom to discuss business in front of children.’ Miss Branscombe visibly bristled. ‘But it is my custom.’ ‘I do not wish my news to be unsettling to them. Sometimes, children are not mentally equipped to process information the same way adults are,’ Peyton explained politely. Miss Branscombe’s fascinating eyes narrowed. ‘My sisters are hardly children, as you’ve had a chance to ascertain. Petra and Eva are of ages where they should have a say in the direction of their destinies, and, while Annie is young, I must inform you that my father’s death and all the changes of the past year have been most unsettling to her.’ Peyton’s eyes flicked to the Count. ‘And Count Androvich? Is he to remain as well?’ Brimley had not suggested one of the Russian delegation would attach themselves so intimately to the Branscombe household. This was an unforeseen development and one Peyton didn’t like in the least. He wanted Count Androvich dislodged. Hunting for the list would be difficult enough without the Count around. The man’s presence begged the question of his motives. Was he here as a friend? He did seem quite protective of Miss Branscombe. Or was he using his association with the family to search for the list? Thankfully, Miss Branscombe recognised he was giving her a victory by allowing her sisters to remain. She knew what she had to do to secure that victory. She nodded her angel’s head at the Count. ‘Sergei, we’ve taken up enough of your time today. I thank you for your escort to the market. I will not take up any more of your time. I can talk with Lord Dursley on my own.’ Miss Branscombe rose and offered the Count her hand. Peyton silently congratulated her on the smoothness of her actions. There was no way the Count could refuse her polite invitation to exit the conversation without looking either obtuse or rude. Miss Branscombe saw the Count to the door and returned shortly, smoothing her demure skirts about her as she sat. ‘Now, my lord, we can discuss your business.’ All four pairs of Branscombe-blue eyes fixed on him, waiting. Peyton brought out the papers and began. ‘I have been informed that guardianship has passed to me upon your father’s demise. That guardianship will last until each girl marries or turns twenty-five, at which point your trust funds shall be given into your individual care.’ Miss Branscombe assessed him shrewdly. ‘You mentioned this permission was granted to you through a codicil to my father’s will. But I assure you there was no codicil or mention of one in the will. I was there when it was read, we all were.’ Her sisters nodded in affirmation. Miss Branscombe continued, ‘I have no reason to believe you and I certainly will not turn over control of my family and their modest fortunes to a man I do not know simply because he shows up on my doorstep with papers and a title.’ ‘It is regrettable that the codicil became separated from the other documents. It is fortunate that it’s been recovered and placed in the right hands.’ Peyton struggled for patience. He told himself he’d have been disappointed if the brassy Miss Branscombe had not been astute enough to see the possible flaws in his claim. He should appreciate that she was not easily hoodwinked. But the truth was, he didn’t appreciate it in the least. It had been a long time since anyone had countermanded the Earl of Dursley. He’d quite forgotten what it was like. ‘I understand your misgivings, Miss Branscombe. I assure you that I am the Earl of Dursley and I am, in the absence of any close living relations in your family, the man assigned to guide you and watch over you all. I have the most honourable of intentions.’ And he did have honourable intentions for England—just not necessarily for the girls. ‘I’ve never met you,’ Miss Branscombe challenged. ‘I am hard pressed to believe my father would have selected a guardian that we’ve never met. Quite frankly, it seems unlikely that he would have picked a man we didn’t even know existed until this afternoon.’ Peyton nodded. ‘I met your father on a few occasions in Vienna, but I never had the chance to journey north to St Petersburg.’ At least this wasn’t a lie, although the implications it hinted at—those of a relationship with Ralph Branscombe—were non-existent. Peyton pushed the papers towards Miss Branscombe, since she hadn’t moved to take them from the table. ‘If you look at the papers, Miss Branscombe, you will see that they are in order. There is a letter of introduction that vouches for me. The codicil is there, as well as an outline of how my guardianship is to be managed.’ Forced to acknowledge the papers, Miss Branscombe picked them up and began to read. And read. A weighty silence fell. Peyton could hear the mantel clock ticking off the minutes. The muffled sound of a passing carriage could be heard from the street and still Miss Branscombe read. At last, she looked up. Peyton thought he saw her hands tremble slightly, but she adroitly folded them and hid them in the lap of her skirt and he couldn’t be sure. ‘What do the papers say, Tess?’ Petra asked in a quiet voice. Miss Branscombe reached for Petra’s hand. She was all calmness; the angel quality Peyton had seen in her earlier had returned. ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about, dear. Now, I need to speak with the Earl privately. Please take the girls upstairs.’ Anne whimpered next to Miss Branscombe and she bent to whisper reassurances to the little girl, gently nudging her towards Petra’s outstretched arms. ‘Annie, your dollies will be missing you. Perhaps you and Eva can try on the new dresses she made them,’ Miss Branscombe cajoled. ‘I’ll be up in a while to see how they look and we can have a tea party.’ Peyton watched Miss Branscombe walk the three girls to the door, Petra shooting a last glance at her older sister, clearly worried. The scene was hard to take in. Seeing the sisters together reminded him all too acutely of life after his father had passed away, leaving him an earldom and two brothers to care for. But that was years past and he’d locked the feelings associated with those difficult days away deep inside himself long ago. He didn’t want them resurrected. Nothing could come of them. They were best left alone, unexamined and unexplored. When Miss Branscombe turned back to him, the angel was gone. She was all fire and rage. ‘I will not stand for you or anyone splitting up this family. I have worked too hard keeping us together, too hard trying to give them stability.’ Peyton rose, since Miss Branscombe had no intention of sitting down. He strode to the window and drew back a lace panel to view the street below. ‘I imagine the life of a diplomat is often trying for a woman. Moving about, making new friends, learning new customs must be an overwhelming task.’ ‘It is a difficult task for anyone,’ Miss Branscombe promptly corrected. ‘I have done it admirably and now I deserve my reward.’ ‘Which is what?’ Peyton turned from his study of the street to watch Miss Branscombe. ‘To be left alone with my sisters, to raise them where they will be safe,’ she retorted sharply. That got Peyton’s attention. He veiled his reaction carefully. ‘Were they not safe in St Petersburg?’ Miss Branscombe seemed to hesitate. Interesting. ‘Diplomacy in general is not always the safest of fields,’ she answered vaguely. Peyton nodded. He wondered—did she know about the list? Had something happened in St Petersburg to give her reason to fear for her own personal safety and that of her sisters? He couldn’t ask her now. Such probing would seem too nosy. He’d have to file this away and remember to pursue it when the timing was better. ‘I assure you, Miss Branscombe, that your fears are understandable and misplaced. I have no intention of swindling your fortunes out from under you. You are welcome to do a financial check on me. My solicitor has been instructed to be at your disposal. Additionally, I am not proposing that the family be split up. The girls are welcome to stay in London with you for the Season.’ If he couldn’t convince her of his reassurances, he’d be off to an awkward start in gaining her trust. ‘We can decide, together, at the end of the Season where all of you should go next. I am prepared to make you welcome at Dursley Park until you’re settled. My family is there,’ Peyton offered. The last bit was spontaneous, perhaps motivated by guilt over the situation. His arrangement with Brimley did not require him to do anything for the girls. Miss Branscombe appeared to visibly relax at the prospect. She nodded. ‘Will your wife be joining us in London?’ ‘I am not married, Miss Branscombe. When I mentioned my family, I meant my two brothers, my brother’s wife, their new child and my Cousin Beth.’ Peyton held up a hand to ward off the protest he saw coming. ‘I understand your hesitation. My Aunt Lily, the Dowager Duchess of Bridgerton, has agreed to sponsor you for the Season. Everything will be comme il faut and above reproach, I assure you.’ Miss Branscombe studied him for a long while. ‘I do not desire a Season. Your aunt need not worry and neither need you. I am sure squiring around an unknown girl who is rather too old to be making a d?but is not high on your list of priorities.’ True, it wasn’t. But that would not do. Peyton needed a reason to be in her company, to become a fixture in her life. ‘Surely you wish to marry and settle down with a family of your own? A Season will enable you to meet people and get to know England all over again.’ ‘I’ve never known England,’ Miss Branscombe said sharply. ‘Still, if it’s to be your home, you’ll want to make friends,’ Peyton argued. He’d never encountered a more obstinate female. His Aunt Lily was headstrong, but quite capable of seeing reason. His Cousin Beth was pleasantly compliant. But there was nothing reasonable or compliant about Tessa Branscombe. He offered her a Season under the sponsorship of the revered Lady Bridgerton. No young lady he knew of would take such a gift lightly. Yet Miss Branscombe simply refused and kept pacing the carpet, intent on studying the pattern. Perhaps she was unaware of the honour he accorded her with such an offer. Peyton played his ace. ‘If you are unwilling to do it for yourself, I would encourage you to do it for your sisters. Petra should be out next year and Eva won’t be far behind.’ That stopped her. She looked up. ‘I will speak to them. Perhaps, for their sakes, I will consider it.’ Peyton nodded, knowing that was the closest to an acceptance he would get from her today. He couldn’t push for too much too soon. He would have to instil his guardianship in gradual, subtle steps. It was clear from today’s meeting that Miss Branscombe wouldn’t take kindly to his outright assumption of authority. But there were definitely things that needed doing, starting with curbing inappropriate outings to the market and teas without cakes. It seemed that Tessa Branscombe intended for her sisters to grow up as wayward as she. That would not play well amongst the ton. Her beauty and his reputation would only go so far in making the Branscombes acceptable. He knew how the ton worked and the Branscombes were fringe players at best in that world. Any mis-step from Tessa Branscombe would be magnified a hundred times over. Peyton drew out his pocket watch. It was growing late. The visit had taken longer than he’d anticipated and he’d promised Aunt Lily he’d come for dinner after assessing the Branscombe situation. ‘I appreciate your time, Miss Branscombe. I’ll let you take the evening to help your sisters adjust to the news, although I want them reassured that all will be well. I do not wish to be wrongly painted as the ogre here. I will call with my aunt tomorrow in the afternoon so you can meet her and begin to make plans. It’s early yet and the Season isn’t fully underway for another two weeks. You needn’t panic on that account.’ ‘I don’t panic on any account, my lord,’ Miss Branscombe informed him crisply. The remark won a smile from him. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you would. My apologies.’ Miss Branscombe was more than happy to help him find his way to the door. In the hall, Peyton felt the need to offer her a final assurance. ‘All will be well, Miss Branscombe.’ She met his eyes evenly. ‘I know it will be. I won’t tolerate anything less.’ ‘Good evening, Miss Branscombe.’ Peyton bowed over her hand, choosing to ignore her cold farewell. Outside felt warm compared to the chill of Miss Branscombe’s parting comments. Peyton’s mind was already whirring with lists and plans in regards to the Branscombe girls before he got down the town-house steps. They would need additional staff and new gowns. The younger girls would need a governess to help with their studies. He suspected Miss Branscombe was overseeing that herself, but she’d be too busy once the Season started to plan lessons. He stopped at the bottom of the steps to caution himself. It was best not to make too much of this guardian role. This was make believe. This was a role he was playing for his country in order to prevent a war. This was about recovering a list that could save the lives of British soldiers. His guardianship would terminate once the list was recovered. In all reality, his role wouldn’t last past the Season, regardless of his offer to take them to Dursley Park. If Tessa Branscombe ever fully understood his role in all this, she would be glad to see him go, a thought that sat decidedly ill with Peyton for no logical reason. Peyton tried to shrug off the feeling of disappointment. Most likely, that gladness would be reciprocal. The next time he saw Brimley, he would ring a peal over the man’s head. The man had left out quite a lot about Tessa Branscombe when he’d outlined the mission, starting with her ethereal beauty and ending with her inconvenient streak of tenacity. Both attributes made Peyton Ramsden extraordinarily uncomfortable. Chapter Four Tessa climbed the stairs to the schoolroom, trying to decide how best to put the news to her sisters. A guardian was a completely unlooked-for development. All her protective instincts were on alert. She didn’t like it in the least and not only because it curtailed her own freedom and plans. Such a development simply didn’t make sense. Why would a codicil appear now? The Earl had implied she feared a swindle of their trust funds, but he was wrong there. She feared something worse than losing money. Tessa shivered at the thought. It conjured up the disconcerting incidents that had occurred before they’d left St Petersburg. Their home had been broken into days after the funeral. She’d told Sergei, but even with his protection, she’d known she was being followed whenever she went out. She had hoped that distance would have quelled the subtle danger she’d begun to feel in Russia. The appearance of the Earl today suggested otherwise. They knew no one in England, but he’d certainly known them. It seemed to be an eerie coincidence that after a month alone, they were beset with visitors. Sergei had arrived and now this unknown Earl was claiming guardianship. These newly developed circumstances begged the question: was this truly an accidental happenstance brought on by a quirk of fate, or were these men after something or someone? If the latter were true, it would be much easier to defend herself if she knew what their objective might be. Tessa took a deep breath and pushed open the door, taking a moment to appreciate the rare tranquillity of seeing her sisters quietly engaged in activity. Eva sat with her embroidery. Petra pored over a beloved book of horses and Annie played quietly with her dolls. Then they spotted her at the door and questions erupted on all sides. ‘Wait! Wait! One at a time,’ Tessa said, moving to sit on the floor next to Annie. Eva and Petra gathered around her. ‘Well, is he or isn’t he our guardian?’ Petra asked pointedly. Tessa opted for the direct approach. ‘He has legal documents that proclaim him as such. Until I can prove otherwise, it seems we must abide by this development. I will meet his solicitor and look through the situation quite thoroughly, I assure you. I won’t allow us to be taken advantage of.’ ‘When will we see him again? Is he going to live in the house with us?’ Eva asked. ‘Tomorrow and no,’ Tessa responded. ‘He will keep his own residence. His aunt will come with him tomorrow afternoon.’ Tessa paused before adding the next bit of news. ‘It seems that I am to have a Season, although I’ve told him I have no interest in such doings.’ Eva protested immediately. ‘Oh, Tess, you must have a Season! Think of all the gowns and parties. You’ll meet new people. You’ll know how it’s all done when it’s Petra’s turn and my turn.’ Tessa smiled thinly, thinking of the Earl’s goad that she must be cognisant of her sisters’ needs even if she would shun such an opportunity for herself. It was the argument of a traditionalist and it helped alleviate some of her suspicions about his appearance. It was exactly the sort of argument a real guardian would make, wanting to see his charges married off. A man on a different mission would hardly take an interest in such things. ‘Of course, dear.’ She patted Eva’s hand, aware of Petra’s gaze on her. ‘The Earl is not married?’ Petra asked, her natural intuition easily reading between the lines of what had and had not been said. ‘Is that why his aunt is calling?’ Tessa nodded. Eva gushed, ‘He’ll escort you everywhere, Tess. It will be like a fairy tale. He’s what they call an “eligible parti”.’ Tessa grimaced at the notion. Where had Eva learned such a thing and so quickly after their arrival? She was growing up far too fast. Tessa tried to tamp down Eva’s romantic notions. ‘I have Sergei to act as an escort. I needn’t rely on the Earl wholly, just because a set of papers made him guardian.’ Eva shook her head. ‘Sergei will have to go home eventually. Besides, I thought the Earl was much more handsome than Sergei. He was so dark and mysterious.’ That was saying a lot, considering Tessa knew that Eva harboured an adolescent infatuation with Sergei’s blond Slavic good looks and courtly manners. ‘I thought he was rather pompous and stuffy,’ Petra argued. Eva shot Petra a sly look. ‘It’s the perfect ones who have the most to hide.’ ‘Hush, girls,’ Tessa scolded. She made a mental note to keep a closer eye on Eva’s reading material. ‘Will we stay in London with you, Tess?’ Petra asked, returning to the subject at hand. ‘Yes. I have the Earl’s promise we are not to be parted.’ Petra nodded. ‘Then perhaps his guardianship won’t make that much difference and we’ll be allowed to go on as we have been doing.’ Tessa smiled her assurances, hoping to convince her sisters that Petra was right and all would be well. Life would certainly be easier to manage if that was the case. Although she’d protested against the idea of a Season, and although she’d argued that Sergei would be a preferable escort, Tessa couldn’t fully deny that the idea of spending an evening or two on the Earl’s arm held some appeal. He’d been arrogant today, but beneath that arrogance she’d sensed compassion. He’d offered to keep the girls in London and to let her decide where they went after the Season. Tessa found such a mixture intriguing, and, in Eva’s words, slightly mysterious. Petra’s idea of a laissez-faire guardian succumbed to reality at precisely eleven o’clock the next morning. The hypothesis that the Earl of Dursley would leave them be had hardly lasted fifteen hours, and they’d been asleep for eight of them. Mrs Hollister arrived in the modest library Tessa used as her private office, nervous and out of sorts. ‘Miss, there’s visitors here to see you.’ Tessa looked up from her letters. The Earl wasn’t expected to call until the afternoon. ‘Did they say what they wanted?’ It wasn’t like the capable Mrs Hollister to be edgy. ‘They say they’re from the Earl of Dursley.’ Tessa frowned, trying to make sense of the arrivals. ‘His solicitor, perhaps?’ she mused out loud. It was the only explanation that made sense. ‘No, miss. A maid and a footman,’ Mrs Hollister breathed in alarm. ‘I have them in the kitchen. I didn’t know where to put them.’ ‘I’ll see them at once. Send them up.’ Tessa set aside her letters. ‘I will see what they want.’ Tessa waited for them to appear, conscious of her choice to receive them in the library. Modest though it was, the room was done in dark woods and carried an aura of authority. Whatever their reason for being here, she wanted the message to be clear that she was mistress of this house. This was not their master’s house. Mrs Hollister returned with the unexpected arrivals and Tessa was immediately glad of her choice to stay in the library. She’d seen servants like these before—well-trained members of an exceptional noble household. In her experience, these types of servants had their own brand of haughtiness. She should have expected no less from Dursley’s household. ‘What is your business here?’ Tessa asked, taking her seat behind the wide desk. ‘The Earl of Dursley sent us. He said you were newly come to town and had need of staff, miss.’ The maid was dressed as crisply as she spoke. She bobbed a curtsy at the end of her message. ‘I appreciate his thoughtfulness, but he is incorrect in his assumptions. I do not require further staff. We keep an informal house here and Mrs Hollister sees ably to our needs.’ Tessa took out a sheet of paper and dipped her quill in the inkwell. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting, I will pen a note to the Earl, explaining my position. I am sure Mrs Hollister will be happy to provide you with tea in the interim.’ The maid and footman exchanged anxious glances. The footman cleared his throat. Tessa stifled a sigh. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. She was starting to suspect that nothing regarding the Earl of Dursley would ever be easy. ‘Excuse me, miss, I don’t mean to be impertinent,’ the footman began, ‘but the Earl said you might not share his opinion on the issue and that we were to remain until his arrival this afternoon.’ Oh, that was very neatly done, Tessa fumed. She couldn’t argue with them because they had no power with which to negotiate. All she could do was let them follow orders until Dursley arrived. ‘I understand your predicament,’ Tessa said tersely. ‘You may make yourselves comfortable in the kitchen.’ They did more than make themselves comfortable. They made themselves useful. When Tessa went down to check on the state of things shortly before Dursley’s arrival, she was astonished at the amount of industry taking place. The footman had set about the business of polishing the silver and was now arranging it in the glass-fronted storage cabinet. In another corner of the large room, the maid was assisting Mrs Hollister with the ironing. A pile of freshly laundered sheets already lay folded on a work table in testament to their efforts. What was more, Mrs Hollister had lost the cowed look she’d sported upon their arrival and was chatting amiably with the girl while they worked. Mrs Hollister spotted her at the doorway and excitedly waved her over. ‘Miss Branscombe, Meg here knows a most effective recipe for getting food stains out of tablecloths.’ Such first-name familiarity was a bad sign. Tessa forced a smile. ‘Lovely. Really, you didn’t have to go to all this effort, Meg.’ Meg beamed, taking Tessa’s comment as a compliment. Encouraged, Meg went on, ‘Of course we did. You’ve hardly unpacked. Arthur discovered the silver and the dishes still in their packing crates in the cellar. I have no idea what you’ve been eating off since your arrival. We decided at once we had to set the kitchen to rights. Mrs Hollister is just one woman. She can’t do everything.’ Meg smiled again, no doubt convinced she’d said just the right thing to prove her and Arthur’s efficiency. Tessa reined in her temper. It wasn’t Meg and Arthur’s fault, after all. They were just doing what they’d been ordered to do. It was all Dursley’s fault they were here at all. Still, it didn’t help things that, while she’d been upstairs going over accounts, they’d been down here inventorying the household goods and deciding on their own she wasn’t living grandly enough to suit them. In the month they’d been in London, she’d made no move to unpack the household goods they’d brought from Russia or the items that were stored in the home for the infrequent times her father had come to London. She’d decided to keep life simple and unpack only the basics. After all, she and her sisters had spent the prior months in mourning, travelling and living plainly during the journey. They knew no one in London and had no intention at this time of formal entertaining, although the house was big enough to do so. Tessa supposed there would come a time when they might offer salons and dinners, but not yet, not now when they were still adjusting to their circumstances. Tessa didn’t mind the practical nature of their lifestyle. Although, she had to privately admit that the sight of the well-polished silver service in the case looked magnificent and the elegant samovar she’d brought from Russia conjured up nostalgia for days past when they lived among the opulent surroundings of the St Petersburg court. ‘The pieces look lovely, Arthur.’ ‘Thank you, miss. There’s plenty more in the cellar. I saw the labels on the crates. I can begin work on them tomorrow.’ Arthur rolled down his sleeves and put on his discarded coat bearing the Dursley livery in dark green and silver. ‘Since the Earl is due in a few minutes, I’ll post myself at the door for his arrival.’ It was said with perfunction and kindness. It was clear from his tone he didn’t mean to be high-handed. He only meant to please. Tessa hadn’t the heart to remind Arthur she was sending him and Meg home with Dursley. Tessa offered a few instructions to Mrs Hollister about serving tea and turned to go. She wanted to be ready in the drawing room when Dursley arrived. ‘Miss Branscombe, don’t be too hard on the Earl. He did what he thought was best. Meg and Arthur are good folk,’ Mrs Hollister called after her. ‘It was good to have the extra hands today.’ In all fairness, Tessa supposed it was a boon to Mrs Hollister to have the help. Running the kitchen alone for four girls was work enough for one person, not counting the laundry and other sundry chores that cropped up on most days. Tessa did her part, too. She wasn’t above shopping at the market or greengrocers or dusting furniture or changing sheets. After years of running her father’s household, she’d learned how to do for herself. She didn’t live an idle life while Mrs Hollister shouldered the lion’s share of the chores. She saw to her sisters’ lessons; when they weren’t studying, she saw to it that they helped out around the house as well. She wanted her sisters to be prepared for whatever circumstances life threw at them. Diplomats’ daughters lived in an interesting half-world, not truly peers, but definitely a cut above the world of assistants, clerks and military officers. Some of her acquaintances married well, perhaps to a baron or a knight, and grabbed the bottom rungs of the peerage ladder. Others married merchants who’d engaged in lucrative import/export businesses. Others married clerks and assistants who had little in the way of money or family connections, but hoped to make their way in the diplomatic circles through hard work. Now that she and her sisters were not part of that circle any longer, it was hard to know what kind of suitors they might encounter. Without their father, they were nothing more than four girls with only modest trust funds to recommend them and a respectable house in Bloomsbury. Tessa knew such dowries would limit suitors to the gentry. Dashing men with titles like Sergei Androvich would disappear from their palette of choices when the time came. Tessa knew she should thank providence for the Earl of Dursley. His presence in their lives would provide a buffer from falling directly into obscurity. If she chose, she could use her Season to secure a match from among the ton and give her sisters a chance to make more advantageous matches than they could hope for otherwise. Perhaps that was the very reason her father had chosen such a man to act as guardian. Such a rationale would explain much in regards to her father’s actions in choosing Dursley. Maybe her father had seen a chance to give his daughters a leg up in the world in case of his untimely demise. That sparked another thought. The date on the codicil of the will had been six months before her father’s death. A shiver went through Tessa. Maybe his demise hadn’t been so untimely after all. She was contemplating these new thoughts when Arthur announced Dursley’s arrival with his aunt and ushered them into the drawing room. The Earl nodded a dismissal to the footman with a proprietary ease that sat poorly with Tessa. Her earlier resentment over the Earl’s high-handed assumptions flared. ‘I hope Arthur and Meg have made themselves useful,’ the Earl said after introductions, taking a seat in one of the chairs across from the sofa. Dursley looked immaculate and handsome in buff breeches and a blue coat. His presence filled the room, masculine and powerful. Tessa thought another kind of woman would be quite intimidated. As it was, she was merely annoyed. ‘Yes, we must speak about that, my lord,’ Tessa began bluntly. ‘I do not recall asking for your assistance with my housekeeping needs.’ ‘None the less, I ascertained those needs during my visit yesterday and hastened to address them,’ the Earl said easily, refusing to rise to an argument. Tessa bristled at his smooth arrogance. He was quite sure of himself. He must walk over people’s feelings on a regular basis to have acquired such a superior skill. ‘I don’t want them here.’ The Earl favoured her with a chilly smile. ‘Ah, but, Miss Branscombe, it is my pleasure to have them here.’ ‘The pleasure is not shared,’ Tessa shot back, momentarily forgetting the presence of the Earl’s Aunt Lily in the other chair. The regally coiffed woman gave a discreet cough at the hot rejoinder. Tessa had the good sense to apologise. ‘Pardon me, your Grace,’ she said swiftly to the Dowager Duchess, sure to imply that the Earl was not included in the apology. ‘Miss Branscombe, I think it would be wise to accept the offer of additional staff,’ the Dowager offered. ‘Life during the Season becomes hectic. One cannot see to all the little things as one usually might. The only way to survive is through competent staff. Additionally, it lends you an air of respectability, which, I dare say, you will need. Peyton tells me you went to the market on your own the other day. Those kinds of errands will have to stop or tongues will start to wag.’ Tessa studied the older woman. The Dowager Duchess was an attractive woman of middle years, blessed with stately height and a regal bearing. Her dark hair was streaked with the beginnings of grey, but it was unmistakably the same dark hair the Earl sported. The family resemblance ran strong between them. Tessa suspected the family tendency towards firmness ran strong as well. Aunt Lily showed all the signs of matching the Earl in forceful personality. What the Earl’s aunt said made sense and it was hard to argue with the practical need for more staff, even if she had plenty to say about curbing outings to the market. Perhaps she could allow her pride to give way in this one matter. It served no purpose to turn away something she needed simply to spite the Earl. ‘Perhaps you’re right, your Grace. I will need the extra help in weeks to come.’ Tessa turned to the Earl. ‘I would prefer that you consult with me in the future before making decisions about my household.’ ‘I shall do my utmost to remember that.’ The Earl nodded. The rest of the visit passed more smoothly. The Earl’s aunt was formidable, but likeable, with her straightforward opinions, and Tessa found her easy to get along with over tea. They talked about the upcoming Season and Lily’s plans to get Tessa to a dressmaker post-haste the next afternoon. After tea, Tessa gave them a tour of the house, at Lily’s request, including an introduction of her sisters. Lily wrung a gasp of sheer delight from Eva by announcing a visit to the dressmaker was in order for them as well as Tessa. The Earl was silent, trailing the two women through the house without a word or comment. Tessa had half-expected him to be articulating lists of changes as they went. But he didn’t have to say anything in order to make himself heard. Tessa’s nerves were fully primed by the time she showed them the last room in the house, the small music room. It had seen little use and by the time they’d arrived there, she had begun to see the house through the Earl’s eyes. He didn’t have to run a finger across the top of the pianoforte for her to be keenly aware of the thick layer of dust the instrument sported. He hadn’t had to comment on the state of the faded striped curtains in the dining room for her to realise they might be outmoded. In her urge to settle into a quiet life, she had not noticed such things. To her, the house had been respectable, and for a middle-class family of some means, it probably was. Still, she found herself making subtle apologies as they returned to the sitting room. ‘We’ve only been in town a month. We are still settling in,’ she said. ‘A good dusting will set quite a lot of it to rights.’ Lily smiled in sympathy. ‘Whatever dusting and beeswax can’t mend, Dursley’s purse can. I can suggest several decorators to you.’ ‘My purse, you say?’ The Earl cocked a challenging eyebrow at his aunt, who merely grinned. ‘You’re the guardian responsible for this house and its occupants, are you not, Dursley?’ Lily had the audacity to wink at Tessa. The Earl’s features clouded and Tessa fought back a laugh. She saw Lily’s ploy in all its glory. The scolding Lily had sent him was a subtle slap on the wrists. If he was going to play lord of the manor by placing servants here without Tessa’s approval and lay claim for the responsibility of the house, he would have to do so on all levels. Lily wasn’t going to let him pick and choose which responsibilities he shouldered. He would shoulder them all or none of them. ‘Aunt, make your plans with Miss Branscombe about tomorrow’s outing. I need a word with Arthur before I go,’ Dursley deftly excused himself. ‘Thank you,’ Tessa said after the Earl had left. Lily waved such thanks away with her hand. ‘It was nothing. My nephew can be stiff-necked at times, but he means well. Often, he has reasons for what he does that aren’t always clear to us at the time. I have learned to trust him and you will too. Between us, we’ll see you married and settled into a good situation by autumn. Dursley knows who would suit and who would not. He won’t let you be snatched up by the wrong sorts.’ ‘I don’t intend to marry,’ Tessa said quickly. The sooner her new chaperon had that idea fixed in her mind, the better. Lily patted her hand, dismissing the statement. ‘That’s what you say now. Wait and see. You can always change your mind.’ Dursley returned to escort his aunt to the carriage waiting at the kerb. As she was leaving, the Dowager Duchess said, ‘Until tomorrow, Miss Branscombe. Thank you for a delightful afternoon.’ The Earl added his thanks. ‘Good day, Miss Branscombe.’ ‘Good day, Lord Dursley,’ Tessa said, trying out his name for the first time. It seemed silly to keep thinking him as ‘the Earl’. He was going to be a fixture in their lives. She might as well give the fixture a name. Chapter Five Peyton sat with Brimley at White’s, more relaxed than he had been the evening before. He felt much better now that Arthur was stationed at the Branscombe house. Anyone contemplating a break-in would think twice with a strapping man like Arthur on the premises. He told Brimley as much as they drank evening brandies in a quiet corner. The club was nearly empty; most people had headed out for the evening entertainments. ‘I’ll have a chance to look around tomorrow,’ Peyton said. ‘Aunt Lily is taking Miss Branscombe to the modiste’s and the girls go to the park with Mrs Hollister in the afternoons.’ ‘Do you really think the list is here?’ Brimley asked. Peyton nodded. ‘I think the sudden presence of certain Russians in the city confirms it. What other reason could there be for a diplomat of Count Androvich’s background to be in London? Who better than a family friend to ferret out family secrets? After all, we’re doing precisely the same thing, only we had to fabricate the family friend in me. The Czar had a legitimate one to send.’ ‘Maybe he could not bear to be parted from Miss Branscombe,’ Brimley hypothesised. ‘They are old friends.’ The idea that Count Androvich might carry a tendre for Miss Branscombe sat awkwardly with Peyton. ‘It’s hardly practical to wait until the object of one’s affections journeys a thousand miles before declaring one’s intentions.’ Brimley shrugged, enjoying the debate. ‘Love isn’t practical.’ Peyton laughed. ‘Love isn’t, but Miss Branscombe is, I assure you. I can’t believe Miss Branscombe would waste her time on a trans-European romance. She would have settled the matter before she left St Petersburg.’ The surety of his own declaration gave him pause. He’d thought as much about Tessa Branscombe as he had the location of the list lately, a sure testimony that she’d started to get under his skin. Such a feat was a novelty all of its own. He seldom allowed himself to be attracted to anyone so quickly. In this case, he wasn’t convinced he’d ‘allowed’ anything to happen at all, it simply had. He’d only known Tessa Branscombe for a couple of days, but he felt certain his analysis of her situation was correct. This transition point in her life would have been the perfect time to accept an offer from Androvich. She could have settled down with a wealthy count and avoided the turmoil of her recent upheaval. But she had implied she hadn’t felt safe in St Petersburg. His mind had chased that one elusive remark around his head after their first meeting, resulting in sending Arthur and Meg to the house as soon as possible in the morning. It had also resulted in drawing another conclusion—if Miss Branscombe didn’t feel safe, she probably had a justifiable reason for it. Did she know about the list? More importantly, did the Russians think she knew about it? If they thought she was in personal possession of the list, the amount of danger she was in had just escalated exponentially. The shopping expedition had turned out surprisingly pleasant. In spite of her original misgivings, Tessa had enjoyed herself greatly. Dursley’s Aunt Lily was an intelligent and delightful companion. The two of them were loaded down with packages and chatting amiably when they entered the hall of Tessa’s town house. Tessa set her purchases and her reticule on a small table in the hall and stilled suddenly. ‘What is it, dear?’ Lily asked, noting her distress. Tessa shook her head, her panic starting to rise. It was happening again, the old fear she’d felt in Russia. ‘I don’t know. The house feels different. It feels unsettled, as if something isn’t right.’ Lily smiled fondly. ‘It’s probably all the changes. Arthur and Meg have done a substantial amount of work in a short time. I can even see differences from before we left. I dare say the house is improved greatly.’ Tessa had to agree. Meg and Arthur had tirelessly devoted themselves to unpacking some of the crates from the cellar as well as the crates she’d brought from St Petersburg. She had not realised how incomplete the house had been until she’d seen the family’s personal effects spread throughout the home and the rooms filled with furniture brought down from the attics. There had certainly been a lot of changes, but those weren’t what contributed to her sense of disquiet. The house felt disrupted from another’s presence. Someone was here. Tessa felt the gnawing fear start again in her stomach. She’d hoped to be done with such worry. Would the need to be constantly on guard ever be gone? She’d thought she’d beaten such fear since their arrival in London, but over the last few days the sense that she was being watched had returned, and now this. She reached for her reticule. She had her small gun inside. She went nowhere without it. ‘Lily, if you would just wait for me in the drawing room, I’ll have a look around.’ Lily looked at her strangely, but Tessa didn’t care. At least her fears weren’t misplaced. In St Petersburg she’d been right. Tessa started upstairs slowly, her back against the curving wall of the staircase as she went, making herself less visible if anyone was looking down. If there was an intruder, he would be upstairs. Anyone else would have heard them come in. Tessa slipped the small gun from her reticule. She cocked the weapon, not doubting her instincts once. It was the perfect time to break in. Her sisters were on an outing to a nearby park with Mrs Hollister and Meg and Arthur were spending their afternoon off at Dursley House. There was no one around to notice the comings and goings of a stranger in the house. She was five stairs from the top when she heard it: the sound of booted feet on the hardwood floor. She’d done a good job of hiding herself against the natural curvature of the staircase, but, reciprocally, she was blind to all else that moved above her. She could no more see who was coming down the stairs than they could see her. Tessa had only seconds to think before the intruder was upon her. Her mind raced over her options. There was no chance someone coming down the stairs wouldn’t see her as they passed. Her only choice was to seize the advantage. Tessa boldly stepped out into the centre of the stairs, gun ready to fire. ‘Stay where you are.’ She was not prepared for what happened next. Instead of obeying her command, the intruder flung himself at her, propelling them against the stair wall as opposed to tumbling down the steps. Tessa found herself most indecently pressed between the wall and the hard body of her attacker. Breasts met chest, her skirts met with the hard muscles of his thighs. She could barely breathe, let alone summon a scream. Her hand holding the gun was shackled against the wall by the intruder’s iron grip. Tessa struggled, but she was too closely imprisoned to land an effective kick. She tore her gaze from her trapped gun hand into the intruder’s face. She found her voice. ‘Dursley!’ ‘Miss Branscombe!’ His shock was nearly as great as her own. In his amazement, he released her gun arm. Tessa hadn’t been ready for such freedom. The gun slipped from her weakened fingers and clattered down the steps. A misfire rang out. Instantly, Dursley surrounded her again with his body, this time as a protector. His arms bracketed her on either side, his body in full contact with hers, disregarding any compunction for propriety. Tessa recognised the stance for what it was: the posture of a human shield. No one would be able to get close to her with such a force surrounding her. It was dark and safe in the confines of Dursley’s protective circle. For a moment, Tessa let herself savour such a luxury. Then Dursley realised the only danger was the misfire of the gun. The look he gave her was incredulous. ‘The gun was loaded? The gun you pointed at me was loaded?’ Tessa looked up at him, his face very near hers. ‘Of course it was. I didn’t know it was you. A lot of good an unloaded weapon would have done me.’ She’d not noticed what a dark shade of blue his eyes were in their prior encounters. Then again, she’d not had the opportunity to appreciate them at such close proximity. There were other things she was starting to ‘appreciate’ at this range, too, like the breadth of his shoulders and the firmness of his thighs, not to mention the supposed intimacy of their position on the stairs. Any moment his Aunt Lily would determine it was safe to come out of the drawing room. Tessa could only imagine what kind of image she and the Earl would create to the unsuspecting onlooker who happened upon them. Tessa shifted, squirming a bit in the hopes of creating some distance between them. She immediately wished she hadn’t moved. Her gyrations caused her hips to brush against Dursley in a highly improper manner. To her great embarrassment, she actually felt that most unmentionable part of him stir at the contact. Dursley took a step back. ‘A thousand pardons, Miss Branscombe,’ he said with polite neutrality, as if they’d merely brushed past one another on the stairs at a ball. Lily appeared at the bottom of the steps. ‘Is everyone all right? Heavens, Dursley, is that you?’ ‘We’re all right, Aunt,’ Dursley assured her. ‘Tessa thought she heard an intruder,’ Lily called up. ‘Did she?’ Dursley shot Tessa a foreboding look. ‘Do you have a lot of experience, then, in listening for intruders, Miss Branscombe? I find my curiosity is piqued as to why a young lady would feel it necessary to be armed with a gun in her own home.’ ‘No more so than my own curiosity, milord, as to why you were skulking about upstairs in my house,’ Tessa replied coolly. ‘Skulking, is it?’ Dursley said in his most high-handed tone. ‘Yes. Skulking,’ Tessa insisted, moving down the stairs ahead of him, doing her best to match his haughtiness. But her cool exterior was a fa?ade only. Inside, she was so jangled from the encounter that, after picking her gun up from the hall floor, she rang for tea before she realised all the staff was gone for the afternoon. It wasn’t until much later, after her sisters were asleep, that Tessa allowed her mind to consider the scene on the stairs. She sat at the desk in her private office, dwelling on those few moments. The most important concern on her mind was what Peyton—Dursley—had been doing upstairs. One of the consequences of the afternoon was that she was finding it difficult to think of him without wanting to use his first name. One could not brush up against a man’s groin in such an intimate fashion and continue to think of him as a title. At least she couldn’t. Tessa marshalled her thoughts. She had to stay focused. What had he been doing here? It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he’d come by to escort his aunt home from their shopping trip. Finding them still out, he’d decided to wait. But waiting could be done quite nicely in the public rooms downstairs. There was no need to wait upstairs. Upstairs consisted of bedrooms, the schoolroom and her small office. Peyton—Dursley—had been properly appalled at her sisters’ chatter over tea the first day. She doubted her sisters’ bedrooms held any interest or allure to him. Never mind that it wasn’t proper for gentlemen to go poking around young girls’ bedchambers. And propriety mattered greatly to him. The only room that could hold any interest would be her office, and only then if he were looking for something. Tessa gazed around the room. There was only a chair and a small bookcase, in addition to her desk. On the wall was a portrait of her father, newly hung by Arthur that morning. She couldn’t imagine what Peyton thought he might find in here. She huffed. There it was again—Peyton. She might as well give in. She would call him ‘Peyton’ in her mind. It could be her little secret. Tessa fiddled with a paperweight, studying the portrait of her father, which had been completed a few months before his death. In the painting he was elegantly posed, standing next to a table that contained a long scrolling document. She supposed the setting was to symbolise his diplomatic career, the scroll representing some kind of treaty or agreement he was so famous for. She wondered what he might make of this afternoon. Her father had been an expert at reading people. What might he see that she’d missed? Something niggled at her about the encounter. At the actual time of its happening, her mind had been racing too much for the nuance to register. But now as she slowed it down in her head, pieces began to form. Peyton had not recognised her immediately. His instincts had not seen her. His instincts had seen danger. Had he thought she was an intruder? That raised a host of other questions, most prominently—why would he have suspected an intruder at a quiet house in a quiet neighbourhood? The way he’d reacted indicated he’d expected the worst, for whatever reason. She’d never met a man with such lightning reflexes. He’d been on her before she could have even considered firing the gun. His skill was more than natural talent. That kind of reflex was carefully honed and acquired. She’d seen men with that kind of skill in the Czar’s personal guard. Once he’d recognised her, his demeanour had changed. He’d been all protection when the gun misfired. It was almost as if he’d thought the shot came from somewhere else. It clearly hadn’t. But his reaction had been that of a bodyguard. If there had been another shot, his body would have taken the brunt of it. Surely such action was above and beyond a guardian’s duty to his ward. Then there had been that moment of mutual, acute awareness, the searing gaze of his hot eyes. How would she ever face him again without blushing? He and Lily had not stayed long once he’d been assured of her safety in the house. She’d been grateful. Her eyes had developed a fascination for glancing at certain male parts of his anatomy. Luckily, he hadn’t seemed to notice. But she’d better get over the penchant for such behaviour quickly. He would be escorting her to the Broughtons’ ball in three nights’ time. Where they would dance. As her escort, he was obliged to dance with her once. The thought of being in such close proximity to Peyton’s body again was unaccountably exciting. Such emotions were unwise. Developing an infatuation over Peyton would cloud the real issue. Could she trust him? His actions suggested both yes and no. He’d been wandering around odd parts of her house while it was empty. He’d entered their lives without warning with only a misplaced codicil to recommend him. Those circumstances were highly suspect. Yet, he’d opted to protect her, which bespoke a message of trustworthiness and honour. Her own reaction to him had been one of security. In those moments on the stairs when she’d been surrounded by his body, she’d thought that here was a man who could share her burden. She recognised her reaction was based solely on impulse. Tessa shook her head to clear it. No, she would not tell Peyton about her fears. Not yet. Not until she knew more about her situation and him. She’d thought there had been an intruder today, but it had only been Peyton. Her instincts might be off. If no one was following her, if it was all in her head, then there was nothing to tell him. He would ask for proof and right now she didn’t have any. The darker side of her conscience emerged, prodding her to more difficult hypotheses. All this assumed Peyton was on the side of good. Perhaps he was the source of her fears. He was the one new variable in her life these days, along with the arrival of Sergei’s Russian delegation. The only difference was that she knew Sergei. Tessa sighed in exasperation. There was so much she didn’t know! What did she have that was worth all the trouble someone was potentially going through? Was Peyton connected to that? What did he know? Anything? Nothing? Everything? The only thing Tessa was sure of was that Peyton Ramsden and his exquisite body was dangerous to her in more than one way. Aunt Lily had that dangerous look in her eye, Peyton noted over an excellent trifle. He’d agreed to dine with her simply because not to do so would be to immediately admit to hiding something. Damn Tessa Branscombe and her inconvenient gun. He’d hoped to avoid the complicated topic. To that end Peyton had now exhausted every subject of conversation he could think of. But in the end, it was clear Aunt Lily could not be put off the scent. Lily set down her spoon and fixed Peyton with her gaze. ‘I think it’s time you explained to me why Miss Branscombe carries a gun and apparently does not hesitate to use it. If I am to act as a sponsor for her, I want the truth, Nephew.’ Peyton dabbed his mouth with his napkin, gathering his thoughts. ‘She’s a woman on her own and quite alone. She’s entitled to provide herself with protection.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/bronwyn-scott/the-earl-s-forbidden-ward/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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