What was it about her that held his gaze? She was lovely, yes—he’d long since stopped pretending otherwise—but there were a half dozen lovely ladies in the entryway, and he wasn’t mesmerized by the sight of any ofthem.
She paused on the final step, her cheeks flushing scarlet as she noticed she’d become the center of attention. She glanced behind her as if she were considering scurrying back up the stairs and vanishing into her bedchamber.
That wouldn’t do. He needed her downstairs, with him.
No, not withhim, but with Dunwitty, of course.
He stepped forward and held out a hand to her. “Ah, here you are, Miss St. Claire.”
She cast an apprehensive glance at his hand, but she could hardly refuse to accept it, and after a moment she placed the tips of her fingers in his palm. “Your Grace.”
His fingers closed around hers, and he drew her into the entryway. By then, the guests had converged near the bottom of the staircase, and all of them were regarding her with varying degrees of curiosity. It was the oddest moment, with their excited chatter all quieting at once. It was as if they knew her appearance among them must be significant, somehow.
It made no sense. There was no way they could possibly know he—
What? That hewhat? The only reason Rose St. Claire was here was because she was in hisway, and he wanted her out of it. That was all. Otherwise, she was of no importance to him whatsoever.
He released her hand and took a step back. “This is Miss St. Claire. She’s, er . . . an old acquaintance of my family who has graciously agreed to attend the house party.”
“You mean to say she’s yourguest, Grantham?” Lady Emily glanced at Rose and a smirk lifted one corner of her lip. “How curious.”
No one seemed to know what to say to that, and a brief, uncomfortable silence fell. A hot flash of anger heated Max’s blood, but before he could say a word, Francesca, the Duchess of Basingstoke, and Prue, the Duchess of Montford hurried toward Rose with warm smiles. “This must be the young lady we’re to chaperone these next few weeks. How do you do, Miss St. Claire? I’m the Duchess of Basingstoke, and this lady here is the Duchess of Montford.”
“It’s lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss St. Claire.” Prue took Rose’s hand. “You must promise to show us around Fairford. I hear it’s a charming village, and I believe you grew up here?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Rose gave her a shy smile. “Though I’m afraid it will be rather a quick visit, and I daresay you’ll find it terribly dull. Fairford is tiny.”
“No matter.” Prue waved away the objection. “I grew up in the Wiltshire countryside, in a little burg very much like Fairford, and Francesca spent a good part of her childhood in a small village in Herefordshire. I daresay we’ll be endlessly diverted, will we not, Francesca?”
“Indeed.” Francesca nodded, smiling.
Rose’s shoulders eased at their warmth. “I’d be pleased to show you Fairford, Your Graces.”
Max let out a silent breath. It had been a stroke of genius, asking Prue and Franny to chaperone Rose. They’d take good care of her, leaving him free to get on with the business at hand. All he needed was a private word with Dunwitty to set the scheme in motion.
“Mrs. Watson.” He nodded to his housekeeper, who was waiting by the doorway with Monk. “If you’d be so kind as to show my guests to their bedchambers?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Watson bustled forward, a small army of housemaids following behind her. “Why, you all must be frozen half-solid after such a journey! I daresay you’re anxious to be out of your damp things.”
Mrs. Watson took charge of the two duchesses and assigned a housemaid to each of the other guests. Within minutes the entire swarm was clambering up the staircase.
Peace, at last!
But before he could take Dunwitty aside, Montford and Basingstoke descended on him, their eyebrows raised.
“What is it? Why are you two gaping at me?” Max waved a hand at the staircase. “Go with your wives.”
Basingstoke glanced at Montford, who let out a heavy sigh. “Forgive me, Grantham, but I would have sworn you said that young lady’s surname is St. Claire.”
Damn it. What had he been thinking, inviting Montford and Basingstoke? They were far too adept at ferreting out his secrets. “Yes. What of it? I don’t see why it should concern—”
“St. Claire, as inAmbroseSt. Claire, the gentleman you’ve been vowing revenge upon since we were all together at Eton? Your nemesis, your sworn enemy, your—”
“I know what a nemesis is, Montford.” God above, had there ever been two nosier dukes than these? Still, there was no sense putting it off, as neither of them would rest until they got his confession. “Miss St. Claire is, ah . . . Ambrose St. Claire’s . . .”
“Yes?” Basingstoke’s eyebrow inched up another notch. “Hiswhat, Grantham?”
Max huffed. “His adopted daughter.”
