She looked lovely in the shimmering light, hair loosely knotted and ready to fall at the slightest touch, lips pressed together just daring a man to attempt to breach them.

Bink took her bags from the footman.

“You’re ready to go then?”

She balked like a surly burro. He let her have room, but he blocked her access to the mail coach.

“I’ll have these stowed on your wagon. We’ll have time for breakfast before it’s readied.”

“I’m leaving on this coach.” Her voice trembled, and she cleared her throat. “Kindly give them back to the servant.”

Bink moved nearer. “No, Paulette,” he said softly. He was close enough to see fire building in her eyes. He’d seen a few grand Spanish tantrums before. This one wouldn’t stop him.

Still, he didn’t want to embarrass the girl.

“I’ve purchased the tickets. I will go,” she hissed.

“The agent will give back your money. I’ll see to it.”

“I am not going to Cransdall. I am going to London.”

London. All the folk thought London held the key to everything. He, however, had seen the real London in the weeks he’d spent helping Hackwell search for his missing nephew. “Why London?”

“That is my affair.” She pressed her lips together and inhaled loudly. “One of my trustees is there.”

“One of them is on the Continent, I’m told.”

Her head snapped up and her eyes widened momentarily before compressing into a scowl.

“Nor is the other likely to be in town this time of year.”

“Curse you, and curse Bakeley.” She stamped her foot. “I will not go to Cransdall. You have no authority over me. You must give me my bags and move. The horses are harnessed. The coachman is taking his seat. Please.” She put out a hand and tried to push him away.

The group of men had turned to watch, and some laughed.

“You lot mind your business,” Bink said.

He shifted the bags to one hand and reached for her arm. She was trembling.

He would not see her humiliated. Nor would she travel to London in a public coach with only her maid.

“Stay now, lass. Don’t fret. If you must go to London, I will take you there.”

That evening, Bink knew he was in for it when his mount trotted into the stable yard at Greencastle. Hackwell’s stalwart horse, Chester, was here, and her ladyship’s new traveling carriage also. And from the number of strange cattle, they’d brought guests.

Devil take it, he’d only meant to stop the night here on the way to London—or longer if he could persuade the lady to stay, but Hackwell had come home early from the house party in Hertfordshire where he’d been politicking to get a new Poor Law in place. The man had taken to his Parliamentary duties like he’d taken to soldiering, every bill a battle campaign requiring a good deal of hobnobbing, usually with Lady Hackwell at his side. That sort of campaigning could never include Bink.

However, when Hackwell visited the rookeries, Bink went along. Even before their marriage, Lady Hackwell had been a strong voice for the denizens of those London neighborhoods.

Helping the poorest of the bastards was a worthy cause, and Bink would have liked to do more than just serve as a guard to the two or three of whichever lords Hackwell coaxed into going, trying to force some compassion into their coddled hearts.

As he dismounted, the head groom of Greencastle hobbled up to take the reins, exchanging greetings.

“When did his lordship return?” Bink asked the elderly man, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.

“Came back late on Saturday. Mary sent for ‘em as Master Rob took a fever, and the babe was a’sniffling.”

Hackwell’s four-year-old nephew and their baby girl had been hardy enough the day Bink had left.

“How are they now?”

The groom chuckled. “Fit and full of it, he and the babe both, Mary says.” He frowned. “His lordship was asking questions.”

Bink patted his horse and waited, giving the old man his best stone face.

“Ach,” the old man said, surrendering. “Which horse did Mr. Gibson take? What did Mr. Gibson say about his travel? Might’ve wanted to know where you went, but he didn’t ask it outright.”

He unstrapped his bag. “There’ll be a post chaise and a wagon along any minute. See to them. I’ll have Mrs. Bradley sort out the new guests.”

Below stairs, the servants were immersed in preparations for dinner. Bink found the housekeeper and issued instructions, then went to the set of rooms not far from the servants’ hall, the lodging and office of the steward. His exalted domain.

He steeled himself and pushed open the door.

Hackwell lounged in the sitting room chair, dressed impeccably for dinner, yet still managing to look disheveled, and with the same wicked gleam that had fired in him before a battle.

“Gibson.” He stretched his long legs within tripping distance. “So good of you to return.”

Bink growled a greeting and tossed his bag on the only other chair. “Ye came back early, milord.”

“This is my home.” His eyes narrowed. “And where have you been?”

He gritted his teeth. A steward was a grand bloody servant, but still a servant after all. “A personal matter, milord.”

A dinner gong sounded distantly. Hackwell ignored it.

He’d best get a drink into both of them before Hackwell uncoiled his bloody questions. Bink went to a cabinet and poured out two brandies. He debated reminding his lordship of his dinner hour, and decided against it. It was not for the likes of him to tell the Earl of Hackwell to get himself up to the eating room—well, not tonight, anyway.

“I had a letter this morning, Gibson. From the new Earl of Shaldon. It seems the old earl died and you attended the funeral.”

He sloshed a little more drink into his own glass and handed the other over to Hackwell.

Hackwell’s hand closed on the glass, and his gaze locked on Bink’s. “You devil, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what, milord? That I’m an earl’s bastard? I wasn’t raised in that great house. I dunna think it signifies.”

Hackwell rose, clinked glasses and downed his drink. “As to that, I always knew you were not what you made yourself out to be. And you may dispense with the Paddy accent.” Hackwell poured himself another finger of brandy. “I see I do not have to condole with you on your father’s death, though I also see you are feeling something. Right now I can’t tell what it is besides irritation with me. Irritation that I’ve found you out. Here’s to you, Edward Bink Everly.” Hackwell drained his glass and set it down. “And hell, man, I’m not talking about you keeping the secret of your parentage. I’m raising my father’s and my brother’s by-blows—you know I don’t give a damn about that.” A wicked grin spread over his face. “What I’m talking about is your impending nuptials.”

Hot liquid coursed down the wrong pipe and Bink choked, his face flaming, while he sought to bottle the ire threatening to burst.

Bakeley. Bakeley had shared information as if it were fact, as if he could bloody well step into the Spy Lord’s shoes and run another man’s life.

Not this man. He set his glass down carefully. “No.”

“No?” Hackwell’s eyes narrowed. “I understood it to be your father’s wish, this marriage. His ward, is she?”

“Wishes and facts are not the same thing.”

“So the new Earl of Shaldon…your brother…is mistaken?”

“He most certainly is.”

“I see.” He walked around the low table. Scratched his head. Stopped in front of Bink. “If that is so, tell me then, Gibson, why did the parish read the first banns yesterday?”

Bink swore a stream of oaths.

“Such language, Mr. Gibson.” Lady Hackwell swept into the room.

“Bink has had a shock, my dear.”

She looked at Bink quizzically. “I ran into Mrs. Bradley and she told me about your guest. And I believe her chaise has just arrived. And Mrs. Bradley and I have decided to move her into the yellow chamber near my rooms. I’m afraid there were too many male guests near the room you selected for her. Though I know you didn’t know about our visitors. Steven has brought along some possible votes.”

His face heated up again. “You will know best, your Ladyship.”

She looked a question to her husband, and he shrugged.

“Bink says he has no wish to marry. I believe he may wish to stay in my employment as steward, rather than run his own estate and stand for the Commons as my political ally.”

Standing for Commons? That was a wrinkle. They’d never discussed any such thing.

He cursed—inwardly this time, in deference to Lady Hackwell. Hackwell’s mention of the Commons was just a ploy. Just more aristocratic managing.

Hackwell blocked the way to Bink’s inner chamber, and her Ladyship, her dinner gown flowing over the new heir growing inside her, made an imposing barrier to the corridor door.

A bead of sweat chose that moment to slide down his neck, and he took a step to the window and opened it.

He’d had enough. He’d served enough. “This is as good a time as any to mention, I’m taking a post in India. I’ve already put up the money. With Maharashtra destroyed last year—”

Hackwell made a noise low in the back of his throat.

His wife laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Oh, Bink. Dear, Bink. You are free to go to India, or China or the Americas, if that is what you wish. You are free, but you are also part of our family, and like a brother to Steven, and an uncle to the boys and our daughter, and your leaving will never be what any of us wish.” She beamed him a smile, radiating the calm she’d applied to the houseful of misbegotten urchins she’d taken in before her marriage. “To have you take your place in a great house with a wife and children, and to ally with Steven in helping the poor, oh…well, we must find our happiness where we will.”

She patted Hackwell’s arm, and he laid a hand over hers, the affection between them unmistakable. Hackwell had come to embrace his new life only because he’d found happiness with her. It was not something Bink ever expected to find for himself, not while he was too poor to be naught but a hired man.

A memory of his mother flashed through his mind.

No. ‘T’was not only the money at issue. A wife needed care, protection.

She smiled and rubbed her stomach. “I believe I shall tell the cook dinner will be delayed. As I said, Steven has brought some important guests home with us. You will join us at dinner, Mr. Gibson.” She dropped a kiss on her husband’s cheek. “And I’m going right now to make your Miss Heardwyn welcome.”

Paulette was unprepared for the phalanx of staff that practically levitated her into the great house, up the stairs and across the threshold of a glowing, golden room. Someone had opened a window, and the breeze blowing in carried with it the fragrance of grass and a hint of the rain that had followed them for part of their journey.

A bathing tub had been set up, and a team of young housemaids were already filling it.

While Mabel helped her with her spencer and bonnet, the grey-haired housekeeper directed the footmen and grooms. They settled her trunks onto the carpet, and a tea tray on the table in front of the windows.

A tall, dark-haired woman in an elegant, wine-colored gown was the last to sweep in. All the staff curtsied or bowed, and she smiled, her gaze landing on Paulette.

Who curtsied also.

“Miss Heardwyn.” The tall lady advanced on Paulette, bringing with her the essence of lavender, her dress rustling over a swollen belly.

No wonder she seemed to glow.

She inclined her head and her smile warmed more. “I’m Lady Hackwell. You are most welcome here. And this is your maid?” She looked at Mabel and smiled. Mabel dropped in another awkward curtsy, tongue-tied.

“This is Mabel, er, Brown, my lady.”

Mabel flushed. In this great house, she must transform from maid-of-all-work to lady’s maid and go by her surname.

“Well, Mabel Brown, Mrs. Bradley will see to your dinner and lodging. No doubt you will want to help Miss Heardwyn settle in first and prepare for dinner.”

“I—”

“Oh please, you must join us, Miss Heardwyn. Mrs. Bradley, see that she has what she needs to get ready.”

Paulette let out a breath. “I’m afraid I may not have an appropriate dinner dress.”

Lady Hackwell’s eyes swept over her. “Dressed just as you are would be appropriate in our home, Miss Heardwyn. We do have a few guests, but no one so high in the instep they would worry about a pretty young woman’s gown after a long day of travel.” She took Paulette’s hand and squeezed it. “We are dining tonight with one other lady, and three of my husband’s parliamentary associates. We are all out of balance. Do join us.” The door shut on the last male servant, and Mrs. Bradley ushered all but one maid out of the room.

Her ladyship beckoned the maid. “Jenny, come and get me when Miss Heardwyn is ready so she and I can go down together. I will be in the nursery.” She squeezed Paulette’s hand once more, and left.

“Oh, she was very nice,” Mabel whispered.

The young servant smiled. “’Elp you with your baff, miss?”

“Excuse me?” Help you with your bath. “Oh. Yes. Jenny, is it?”

The girl nodded.

“Shall I shake out the blue dress, Pol…miss?” Mabel asked. “Or do you wish to wear the brown for mourning Lord Shaldon?”

The blue dress was her finest, though it had been made over from one of her mother’s for her visit to Cransdall years earlier.

She wouldn’t wear her newest dress, the brown she’d made last spring from Mrs. Everly’s left-over yardage. Nor would she mourn for Lord Shaldon, the insufferable man.

“The blue will have to do.” She reached around, fumbling for her gown’s ties, and Mabel came over to help.

Mabel was right—Lady Hackwell was all friendliness and welcome. This chamber was just as warm and cheerful, all of it shining bright and spanking clean. It needed an abundance of servants to keep a place of this sort.

She took in a breath. And to have such a finely-clad steward. Hackwell must be quite wealthy. Mr. Gibson didn’t wish to leave, so perhaps he knew something about the Earl’s promised Little Norwick. It wouldn’t be as grand as this. Perhaps no grander than Ferndale Cottage.

And perhaps he wished to remain because Lord Hackwell was as congenial as his lady.

Yes, indeed, Mr. Gibson’s situation here was good. No wonder he didn’t want to trade this for a living that perhaps needed more care than four thousand a year could provide.

While Mabel slipped out of the room to press the blue gown, Jenny helped Paulette settle into the bone-soothing water.

“Shall I brush out yer ‘air, miss?”

“Yes, thank you, Jenny.” She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth for the hair pulling to come, but the girl’s first strokes were gentle, tentative.

“Just give it a good tug,” Paulette said. “Else we’ll be here all night with my rat’s nest.”

“No, miss, yer curls are lovely.”

“And require firmness. Don’t worry, Mabel bashes me every night with that brush all the while complaining how heavy it is.”

Jenny chuckled. “T’is a lovely hairbrush.”

“My mother’s.” Another thing rescued by Mr. Gibson.

“Lucky you are to ‘ave it,” Jenny said.

The hint of wistfulness made Paulette turn. “Jenny, your accent is not from this area, is it?”

The girl’s hand paused. “I’m from town, miss.”

“From London? However did you wind up in the country?”

“Her ladyship. She 'elped me. There are a bunch of us ‘ere she ‘elped, though I been with her the longest, almost a year now.”

“She hired you?”

“Not right off. She found me and brought me home. She was Miss ‘Arris then. And then Lady Cathmore took me to the house in Sussex.”

“You worked for Lady Cathmore?”

“No, miss. It were…was…” She cleared her throat. “The house in Sussex is an orphan home or such as are like orphans, miss, one with good food and no beatings. Both their ladyships run it.”

She picked up the toweling and helped Paulette to stand. “Miss ‘Arris had a houseful of us, but when her friend Miss Montagu married Lord Cathmore, he made her move all of us to the country.”

“From London to the country? Did you like that?”

“Well, I liked living with Miss ‘Arris sure enough, and I liked the country too. Both places the food was better than what the pieman could sell and much more regular, and she made sure we had lessons.”

“Not as exciting as the city.”

“I’d trade a clean bed and regular meals for that excitement any day, miss.”

Paulette met Lady Hackwell at the stair landing and they descended together.

“How lovely you look,” Lady Hackwell said.

Her face heated. Only Mabel bothered with compliments. No one else ever noticed her, except to criticize.

She nodded her thanks. “Jenny told me about your home for orphans.”

“She’s one of our successes.”

“She’s a very good girl. Are both of her parents deceased?”

They had reached the last stair. Lady Hackwell took Paulette’s hand and tucked it in the crook of her elbow, sending a rush of warmth to her eyes. The unexpected intimacy felt almost maternal, not that Paulette’s mother had been much of an example of tenderness.

“They are both living, as far as we know. Her father was transported a few years ago, and her mother… cannot provide a home.”

Paulette thought of her vicar, who did so much for the poor, to the detriment of his own family at times. Shame pricked her warmly. His inclination to doing without had been another reason for turning him down. “The parish cannot help her?”

“My dear, London is awash with the poor, far more than any parish can provide for. It’s one of the reasons our guests are here,” she whispered. “My husband is trying to convince members of parliament to do something constructive for a change.” She pushed open a grand door. “We are here,” she announced.

All conversation stopped, while the gentlemen rose. Paulette’s cheeks flamed. All of them were richly dressed for this country dinner.

“Are the children well?” a woman asked.

“Yes, and thank you for waiting.” Lady Hackwell apologized, taking the blame that should have been Paulette’s. It had been, after all, her bathing and changing that had delayed dinner. A splash of color drew her eyes to the woman who’d spoken, a fashionably-dressed matron who looked to be Mrs. Everly’s age.

But as her gaze roamed the room it froze on a pair of arresting brown eyes, sending her heart into a relieved flutter.

Mr. Gibson was here, dressed for dinner. Dressed like the son of an earl. He towered over all the other gentlemen, even the very tall Lord Hackwell, who greeted her as cordially as his wife had.

She barely registered the rest of the names—Lord Shurley, Lord and Lady Tepping, and a fair-haired boy of about twelve or perhaps older, Lord Hackwell’s brother, Thomas.

Perhaps this would be a less formal affair.

Lord Hackwell took her arm and turned her to where Mr. Gibson had joined a new arrival, a man with his back to her whose dark hair was streaked with grey. She saw the man’s head move and Mr. Gibson’s eyes flare.

And then he turned, and Paulette’s stomach sank. This man she knew.