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She sat on her bed with a thud, taxed by the weight of all that had transpired in the past hour. If Diantha had ever lamented the dullness of her life, she was cured of such folly. The unfortunately named Gurglewood sounded lovely. It would be a true holiday, if a working one. One of the unrelenting bits of sadness in Diantha’s life was that she never got to go anywhere, to do anything. She felt shallow admitting that she cared about such things, but her world had become so small. To go somewhere, even if it was only to one of the family’s houses, was a thrill.

Or it would have been, had it not been for the devastation of Mr. Hill’s visit.

She needed to remain calm. She needed to think. Six months. Mr. Hill had said he would return in six months. Surely she could come up with a solution by then.

Diantha retrieved the tin of lemon drops from her bedside table. Gurglewood. River’s Embrace. She wondered if Lord Marsden, the third of the Earls Trip trio, had made a suggestion as to a name for the property. Everyone thought Lord Marsden staid and overly serious, but Diantha thought it possible he was misunderstood. She’d recently been lending him novels when he called on the family, and on more than one occasion he’d returned a volume to her with a surprisingly astute, dare she even say fervent, observation. Even his speeches in the House of Lords, though reportedly delivered with equanimity and sobriety, were, if she parsed them closely enough, sprinkled with glimmers of passion.

She popped a lemon drop into her mouth, and the tart shock it delivered was nothing next to the idea that crashed into her head.

You are a single, respectable woman, Mr. Hill had said.

She couldn’t do anything about the former—not that she wanted to anyway—but perhaps she could affect the latter.

It was a dramatic solution.

But she had a dramatic problem.

Last time Lord Marsden called on the family, she asked him how he kept so calm in the sometimes boisterous environment of Lords. “People are saying the most outrageous things, and you are so placid,” she had observed.

His answer: “I approach Parliamentary matters with logic and moderation. I endeavor to approach all matters with such qualities deployed. It is rather difficult to shock me, Miss Brown, dare I say even impossible.”

Hmm.

The girl who used to live inside Diantha would have taken that dare.

3

An Even More Shocking Proposal

Simon was in the library in his shirtsleeves when Mrs. Tavish knocked.

“My apologies for bothering you at this hour, my lord, but Miss Brown is here. She says she must see you urgently.”

“Miss Brown?” Simon opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again and made an unsuccessful attempt at verbalization.

Mrs. Tavish must have taken pity on him, for she said, “Miss Brown of Lord Harcourt’s household,” as if Simon did not know.

“Show her in.” He paused. “Though perhaps I ought to receive her in a sitting room?”

The question had been rhetorical and not in earnest, but one of the things Simon appreciated about Mrs. Tavish was that she generally couldn’t, or didn’t care to, make the distinction.

“I should think here is suitable. I can’t imagine Miss Brown is here on a social call at this time of evening.” Mrs. Tavish didn’t sniff. She didn’t need to.

“Very well.”

And there she was, clad in a long-sleeved black dress with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons that ran all the way up to her chin.

He rose and performed an abbreviated bow. “Miss Brown. Shall I call for tea?” He should have thought to do so before Mrs. Tavish retreated. He was making a mull of this. He was just so discombobulated by her presence.

“No, thank you. I am here on a matter of business.”

“In that case, please take a seat.” He led her to a pair of wing chairs that faced the fireplace, which wasn’t lit, as it was unseasonably warm, even for August. “Is everything all right with Harcourt? The countess? The dowager countess?” He couldn’t think why Miss Brown would be the one to deliver bad news about Archie’s household, but he also couldn’t think why else she would be at his house at nine o’clock on a Monday evening on a “matter of business.”

She did look rather businesslike. Simon did not know textiles, but the black dress seemed a thick, robust fabric. It wasn’t her usual fashion. Most of her day dresses—as far as he could tell, she had five—were made of fabrics that looked softer, less weighty. And they were either light in color or printed with a pattern. There was one in particular, cream with small blue flowers, that was quite striking.

“My lord, I realize it is highly unusual for me to call on you in such a manner, but I was hoping to prevail upon you to assist me in a matter of some urgency.”

“Unusual, but not unwelcome. How may I help?”