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Before trailing his wife inside, Ian gave his drivers instructions. His soldier’s instincts pealed in alarm. Without a qualm or a hint of repentance, he opened the back door, letting himself into a deserted kitchen. Fresh-baked bread and pies cooled on a long table, and something savory simmered atop the iron cookstove. He sniffed in appreciation as he pushed the door closed behind him.

Head tilted, listening for voices, he strode the length of one corridor then turned down another. Taking care to tread silently, he glanced into the rooms he passed. High quality, if somewhat older, furnishings graced each of them. This was far from a pauper’s residence.

A scowl pulled his eyebrows tight.

Then why did his wife wear little more than rags?

“What, did they send you packing?” A woman’s haughty, strident voice demanded.

Ah, here they were. He edged along the wall until just outside the room’s entrance. The door stood open, giving him an almost unobstructed view of the interior.

Dressed in the latest fashion, ruby earrings sparkling in her earlobes, a hatchet-faced woman reclined in an armchair and berated Vangie.

“I must say, I expected you’d be banished from Polite Society sooner. I told you, the haute ton wouldn’t tolerate a gypsy tainting their fancy drawing rooms and elitist assemblies.” A sneer distorting her face, she waved a beringed hand as if she shooed a smelly beggar from her presence. “Well, change your clothes, and be swift about it. You’ve weeks’ worth of chores to catch up on.”

The shrew pointed to a glistening window. “You can start with the windows, inside and out, and then polish the silver. Frieda hasn’t had the time, poor dear. Your gadding about London left her to complete your chores too. It was most inconsiderate of you.”

“But, Aunt Eugenia—”

“You’ll give us none of your jaw, Evangeline.” A reedy masculine voice interjected. The uncle? “I suppose you’ve returned empty-handed once more. No clothes, fallalls, jewels…coin?”

Greedy scrounger.

Ian crept a few inches closer. The rail-thin hog grubber lounged on the settee, picking at a pasty of some sort.

“I’ve brought nothing of value back with me, Uncle Percival.”

Ian smirked. Except a well-heeled, titled husband.

Glaring daggers at her, the aunt curled her mouth into a pout. “Surely you could’ve solicited Gideon for funds. After all, he’s your legal guardian and has such well-padded pockets, while we must make do with the bare necessities. It’s most unfair.”

Ian examined the well-appointed drawing room again. Bare necessities? Hardly.

The aunt huffed out an exaggerated sigh before continuing with her fustian monologue. “For over thirteen years, we’ve been burdened with your care.” Tapping her long nails on the chair arm, Lady Caruthers continued her harping. “The pittance your parents left in trust for you is long gone—”

“Wait! There was a trust? For me?” Vangie stared at her aunt in astonished outrage.

The harpy ignored her question. “The dolts made no provision for your care, and the meager work you do around here barely compensates for your food.”

“Some days I eat but one meal,” Vangie protested. “And there have been days, I’ve not eaten at all, except for fruits or vegetables I’ve scavenged from the garden.”

Her aunt sent Vangie another thinly-veiled hostile look. “What of your painting and crochet work? Have you any ready to sell? The funds for your time-wasting hobbies don’t appear out of thin air, gel.”

The pained expression on his wife’s face deepened. “The Stapletons’ gifted me with those supplies, as you well know.”

Gritting his teeth to keep silent, Ian glowered. Bloody harridan. Was the woman completely void of decency? My God, to think Vangie had endured this—them—for over a decade?

Standing, Lady Caruthers sliced a self-important glance to her fusty husband, gingerly licking a blob of clotted cream off his bony finger. He grimaced in distaste. “Percival, do pay attention,” she snapped, her piercing voice scraping like pointed claws along Ian’s nerves.

Ducking his head, Sir Percival whined, “Of course, my dove,” before daring one last, defiant slurp of his finger.

Henpecked.

Ian twisted his mouth, then eyes narrowed, scowled again, outrage bumping around in his chest. Behind his wife’s back, the bloody lecher ogled Vangie. She was his niece, for God’s sake, the perverse old podger.

Was Vangie aware? Poised, her face wan and fraught with tension, she sliced her uncle a swift, wary glance. She shuddered and promptly averted her gaze. Hell yes, she knew. Had the reprobate dared touch her?

Ian clenched his hands against the urge to throttle Caruthers.