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“I am afraid the master is not at home to receive callers,” the butler replied smoothly. “Nor are visitors admitted in his absence.”

Cordelia’s smile did not falter, though her heart sank. “I understand. However, my cat has inadvertently entered your home. He is a white-and-grey Persian and answers to the name Sir Charles. He went through a window, most likely into the music room.”

The butler’s expression remained unchanged. “There is no cat within this house, miss.”

Her brows knit despite her best efforts. “You did not go to check, sir.”

A faint tightening appeared around his mouth, as though her mere insistence constituted a grave affront. “I am quite familiar with every corner of this residence, Miss Maubry,” he said with quiet, arrogant authority. “I run this household with impeccable efficiency. Had there been a cat, I would be aware of it.”

Cordelia stared at him, bemusement giving way to a flicker of disbelief. “My cat did not simply vanish,” she said, unable to contain her frustration. “I saw him enter. Please, if you would only conduct a thorough search⁠—”

“I assure you,” the butler cut in coolly, “you are mistaken.” He inclined his head, the gesture impeccably polite and unmistakably final. “Good day, miss.”

The door closed firmly before she could speak again. Cordelia stood upon the step, staring at it in stunned disbelief. For a moment, she did not move.

How very rude and uncaring!

The butler had dismissed her with such unwavering certainty that, for the briefest instant, she almost questioned her own eyes. But she had seen Sir Charles enter this very house.

Very well.

She turned sharply and made her way around the side of the townhouse, her steps brisk, her pulse quickening. At the narrow gate leading to the side passage and the mews beyond, she hesitated only long enough to ensure no one was watching before quietly unfastening the latch and stepping through.

A neatly raked gravel path wound between clipped hedges and carefully tended flowerbeds, every inch reflecting the disciplined hand of an attentive gardener. Moving with as much caution as she could muster, Cordelia crossed the garden, her slippers scarcely disturbing the gravel beneath her feet as she rehearsed one explanation after another should a servant discover her trespass.

I am only retrieving my cat. Surely no reasonable person could object to that.

Squaring her shoulders, she banished the last of her hesitation and crept toward the open window. Resting one hand against the sill, she cautiously peered inside.

Her breath caught. A gentleman sat before a pianoforte. She could see only his back, the broad shoulders beneath his impeccably tailored dark coat, and midnight-black hair that fell in unruly waves against his collar. When he inclined his head, she caught the masculine line of his jaw and the hint of an arrogant profile before he turned his attention once more to the keys.

His hands moved with remarkable confidence, gliding effortlessly over the ivory, coaxing forth a melody at once elegant and unhurried. Perched upon one broad shoulder, as though it was the most natural place in the world, sat Sir Charles.

Relief flooded Cordelia with such force she nearly laughed aloud. Sir Charles’s plush tail swayed lazily to the rhythm of the music, his bright eyes half-closed in unmistakable contentment. He looked entirely at home, as though the gentleman existed for no greater purpose than to provide him with music and a comfortable perch.

What do I do now? Call to him?

A discreet knock sounded at the door. The butler entered carrying a silver tray upon which rested a small dish. He approached her cat, a faint smile touching his mouth as his gaze settled upon Sir Charles.

Cordelia’s heart lurched. Then outrage flared, swift and scorching. Sir Charles had been inside the house the entire time, and the man had looked her in the eye and denied it.

You bloody liar.

She winced. Such language was hardly becoming, even when uttered solely within the privacy of one’s own mind. The gentleman continued playing, the melody never faltering as the butler quietly set the tray nearby. Instead of immediately leaping down to his meal, he climbed lightly from the gentleman’s shoulder and rubbed his face with unmistakable affection along the strong line of the man’s jaw. The gentleman lifted a hand and stroked Sir Charles between the ears before scratching gently beneath his chin, displaying the easy familiarity of someone accustomed to offering precisely the sort of attention her cat preferred.

Sir Charles purred.

Cordelia’s mouth fell open. The little traitor leaned into the man’s touch before gracefully hopping to the polished floor and padding toward his waiting meal. It was impossible to mistake such easy affection. Sir Charles behaved as though he belonged there. Worse, the cat who accepted food from no one but Cordelia, who regarded every unfamiliar offering with deep suspicion before turning away in disdain, lowered his head to the dish and ate with unmistakable relish.

The butler withdrew without another word.

Cordelia straightened, lifted her chin, and turned on her heel. She marched back to the front of the townhouse, ascended the steps, and rapped firmly upon the door. When it opened, she met the butler’s gaze without the slightest hesitation.

“I have just seen my cat, Sir Charles, inside this house,” she said with composed civility that did little to conceal her indignation. “You carried him a tray with food. I would be most obliged if you would bring him to me at once. If that cannot be arranged, then I must insist you permit me to retrieve him myself.”

Not so much as a flicker of guilt crossed the man’s face. “I must refuse your entry, Miss Maubry.”

Cordelia blinked. “You must what?”