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“I knew the trellis was stout. But I am glad we planted ivy.” His smile strengthened hers. “It would have been a brutal climb if we’d planted rose.”

She looked her question.

“Varnham designed the original gardens,” he said. “And we’ve handled the major plantings and renovations since.”

He was guiding her toward the privets.

“The south wall is all wisteria. Blooming. That was a treat.”

She looked toward the back of the garden, enclosed by a high wall bunched with pale purple flowers. “You climbed the wall?”

“Didn’t expect I’d receive much welcome at the front door.”

She shook her head. “But how did you know to come here in the first place?”

“The duchess.” Neal turned them down one green lane, then another. Lavinia didn’t speak.

“Of Weston.” He hesitated. “You are also a duchess.”

“A dowager.” Hysterical laughter bubbled up. She was widowed. Good God. Dizzy, she pressed closer to his side. “Where is she?”

“We split up. She did try the front door.”

They must have missed each other, barely. Lavinia closed her eyes, then opened them wide. The bushes that enclosed them seemed tame after the blooming chaos of those rock-filled Cornish hedges. Nonetheless, it felt familiar. Walking with him amid so much green.

Familiar and strange.

He wore town clothes, dark jacket and trousers, well fitted to his muscular form. Any woman would notice the attractions of his figure, his bluntly handsome face.

He wasn’t her discovery, her humble Cornish gardener. He was a man with wealth and social ease. A man who moved between town and country. A man with choices.

He’d chosen Muriel Pendrake.

She’d best not lose sight of that essential fact.

“Did she tell you I was once engaged to her husband?” She forced herself to pull away, to drop his arm. “That I was rich and spoiled and intolerable and that the money I took for granted was, by and large, robbed from his family? That the papa I loved wasn’t who I thought he was?”

Lavinia hadn’t realized she’d accelerated. She had to stop, wait for him to catch up. He came prowling toward her, slow and thoughtful.

“She said you were her friend.” His steady gaze arrested her. Then his mouth tightened. “She said your husband was a beast. And a few other things.”

Her breath whooshed out. “I’ll tell you, then. I was born Lavinia Yardley. My father lives at Holloway Prison. My mother and I live . . .”

Where? What came next? She felt a flicker of panic and laughed again. And still he looked at her steadily.

“Tomas mentioned my father. Do you remember? The thieving architect? All true, by the way. The stories. Sometimes the rumormongers get it right.” She curtseyed. “That’s me. So wonderful to meet you.”

His hands had slid into his pockets. He shook his head, a troubled line between his brows.

“I won’t bow. Forgive my lack of courtesy. But we’re already acquainted.” His eyes hooded. “Well acquainted.”

Her heart caught in her chest. She made herself smile.

“We are, and we aren’t. In my native habitat, I’m a beribboned, befeathered little creature. The belle of the ball. Made in the same mold as your Elizabeth Davenport.” Ridiculous, to hazard a guess, at this juncture, as to the identity of his former fiancée, but she couldn’t help herself.

He acknowledged her attempt with a small movement, less than a shrug.

“I would never win over your mother.” Hush. She knew better than this. Self-flagellation was but the flipside of self-indulgence. He’d said it, and she agreed. “But then again, I never impressed my own.” She winced. So much for heeding him, or her inner voice. No stopping now.