Grey’s musical technique had faded from disuse, but as he reacquainted himself with the soft strains of lullabies, his mind wandered as it hadn’t since the last time he’d fished the stream beside the abbey ruins.

He’d given up his music because Tabitha’s skill had been approaching his own. He’d set aside a treasured pastime to make room for his daughter’s ambition.

He’d set aside his painting—one of the finest ways he knew to solve problems without thinking of them directly—when Oak’s talent became obvious.

He’d delegated many of a steward’s tasks to Thorne, who had an aptitude for farming. Care of the land and livestock was one aspect of being the earl that Grey enjoyed, and yet, he’d passed those responsibilities to his brother because Thorne needed to feel useful.

As surely as Aunt Freddy was fading on the bed, Grey had been letting parts of himself slip from his own notice. This insight changed nothing, but he had at least put together causes and effects in his own heart.

Addy was snoring in her chair, a swath of blue knitting draped over her knees. Mrs. Beauchamp was asleep as well, or in the untroubled twilight wherein many awaited death. Grey recalled his grandfather’s last hours being spent in a similar state, as had his father’s.

Had those men been at peace? Had they regretted a short-lived affair that should have been the love of a lifetime? Grey did not regret his encounters with Addy. Just the opposite. He was profoundly grateful to have been allowed even those brief interludes to be himself, not the earl, not the head of the family, not the fortune hunter.

Himself.

He played on, and Aunt Freddy’s breathing changed, becoming more audible.

Addy’s eyes opened, and when Grey would have brought the tune to a close, she shook her head. “She should leave us while lovely music fills the air.”

Addy took her aunt’s hand, though the old lady gave no sign she was aware of the gesture. For the space of two soft, sweet choruses, Mrs. Beauchamp continued to breathe, while Addy held her hand.

Then… nothing. No sound of breathing came from the bed. No movement of the covers suggested life yet lingered. Fredericka Beauchamp had departed the mortal realm, a pretty tune in the air, her niece at her side. Grey could not be sad for the old woman, but his heart broke for Addy.

“Play one more,” Addy said. “I need you to play one more lullaby for her.”

Grey did not play for Mrs. Beauchamp. He played for Addy. His music was offered as a consolation, a promise of peace, and the only gift he could give her. When he’d played the piece through twice, he rose and set the harp back in its corner.

“You’ll want some time to make your farewells,” he said. “I’ll let the household know you are not to be disturbed and have word sent to Mrs. Beauchamp’s domestics.”

Addy remained seated, the blue knitting still in her lap. “Are you leaving?”

Grey knew exactly the state of her mind, both because he’d lost many older relations and because he knew her. Addy appeared calm and accepting of the realities, but on a level beneath words, she was dealing with a blow.

Nothing would be the same. A loss had to be grieved.

“I’m going to the kitchen to let your staff know of your aunt’s passing. I will write a note to Mrs. Beauchamp’s solicitor and send for her senior staff. They will want to assist with what comes next. I will not leave the house without bidding you a proper farewell. If you have no crepe, I can lend you my stores.”

“I have crepe,” Addy said, gaze on the small, still form in the bed. “Mr. Ickles has offices near the Inns of Court. I’d not thought… I’d forgotten how much effort a death can be.”

An aunt need not be mourned as a spouse or parent was mourned, but this aunt had been dear to Addy. The rituals would be observed out of respect rather than duty.

“I’ll return shortly.” Grey longed to take Addy in his arms, wanted to at least hold her hand, but he had not the right.

The staff took the news with sadness and relief—a lingering invalid could turn a household upside down for months—and despite dawn being two hours away, Grey jotted off notes to Mrs. Beauchamp’s housekeeper and to her lawyer. The message to her vicar could wait until morning and should be penned in Addy’s hand.

Grey collected a tea tray from the kitchen, waved away a tired footman, and took the food upstairs himself. Addy’s housekeeper, in nightgown and cap, trundled at his side, occasionally sniffing into a handkerchief.

“You’re most kind to trouble over us, my lord. Most kind.”

“If mourning cannot inspire friends to kindness, then what can?” He set the tray in Addy’s sitting room and accompanied the housekeeper to the sickroom.

“Mrs. Fortnam,” Addy said, rising from her chair. “Aunt Freddy has left us.”

“His lordship said as much, my lady. I am so sorry, and I know Mrs. Richards will want to pay her respects as soon as may be. I can sit with Mrs. Beauchamp now, if you’d like to rest.”

Addy rose, gathering the blue knitting into a bunch. “I don’t want to leave her.”

Grey knew that feeling too. “If you choose one of Mrs. Beauchamp’s favorite frocks, Mrs. Fortnam and Mrs. Richards will see that she’s laid out in it.”

Addy’s composure faltered. She blinked several times and clutched the knitting more tightly. “I would… I would appreciate that. The green dress with the pink embroidery, then. Aunt had it made in Paris. It’s delicate. You will be careful?”

“Very careful, my lady. I promise.” The housekeeper sent Grey a look: For pity’s sake, help her.

“A tea tray waits across the corridor,” Grey said. “I could use a cup, even if your reserves of energy have yet to fail.”

Addy spared the bed one final glance, bit her lip, blinked, and nodded.

Grey resigned himself to pouring out another pot of tea nobody much wanted, and held the door rather than take Addy’s hand.

“Mrs. Quinlan, I suspect we have a small problem.”

Charles raised this small problem at breakfast, for Sarah had not deigned to join them at such an early hour, thank God.

“I am plagued by small problems,” Edna replied, “such as a modiste who has forgotten the meaning of modesty. Madam claims fashion all but requires a young lady’s attributes to fall from her bodice, and Sarah abets her.”

Sarah was at the heart of most of the household’s difficulties, though Charles honestly did not care how many new riding habits his daughter demanded or how many slippers she threw. He cared very much that Edna hadn’t smiled at him for three days.

“Sarah is worried that she won’t bag her earl,” he said. “Quinlans are ambitious by nature, and I don’t apologize for that.”

Edna took a sip of her coffee. She liked it black and strong, as did Charles. “I fear Sarah did not make a good impression on her earl—if Casriel is hers. She’s convinced they are off to a roaring start, but nobody was smiling when I returned to the formal parlor.”

Charles did not care for the formal parlor. Sarah, aided by her finishing governess, had seen to the decorations, and they struck Charles as gaudy. Edna had said not to criticize Sarah’s first efforts at shaping a household, and he’d held his peace.

“Casriel was not at Lady Bellefonte’s do last night,” Charles said, sawing off a bite of steak. “He has a family connection to the Haddonfields. His brother Willow is married to a Haddonfield, and you’d think Casriel would put in an appearance.”

Charles had nothing against music, but evenings spent with caterwauling sopranos or young couples too besotted to stumble through a duet at the pianoforte were an annoying waste of time.

“The earl has not been socializing much lately,” Edna said, peering at her coffee. “Sarah claims that’s because he’s made his choice, and he’ll soon declare himself.”

“Does Sarah know that Casriel spent all of last night with Lady Canmore?”

Edna set down her cup, carefully. “He’s an aristocrat, as is her ladyship. They regard marriage differently than we do.”

“Lady Canmore’s auntie apparently expired in the middle of the night, but what does it say that a pretty widow sends for Sarah’s earl when the hour is well past midnight, and the damned man arrives on the instant and hasn’t left the premises as we speak?”

The hour was quite early—Charles did not believe in wasting daylight—but sending for an undertaker and ordering the servants to hang crepe did not take all night. Casriel’s affections were clearly engaged, and so were Lady Canmore’s.

“Mr. Quinlan, are you having Sarah’s earl followed?”

No judgment colored Edna’s question. Much was learned simply by observing a potential business associate from a discreet distance. A future son-in-law merited at least the same scrutiny.

“Of course I am. Wish I’d had the younger brother followed. That one hasn’t taken ship, so where the devil is he, and what’s he about?”

Edna selected a triangle of buttered toast from the rack at her elbow. “Perhaps he’s enjoying the hospitality of a sponging house. More likely, Sycamore Dorning has gone home to Dorset for a respite from London’s pleasures. Lord knows, I’ve had enough of this place.”

And that was why Sarah must have her earl. Charles’s daughter would be miserable if she failed to land a titled husband, but Edna was miserable now. The hunt needed to come to an end, before Edna lost patience with the whole endeavor, or Sarah made a complete fool of herself.

For his own part, Charles expected polite society’s snickers and whispers, but for his daughter, he demanded better.

“We won’t be here much longer, Mrs. Quinlan. I do not begrudge a bachelor and a widow their diversions, but staying the night is not done, no matter who has gone to their reward. Casriel needs to understand that he’ll be a faithful husband, or I’ll have a thing or two to say about it.”

Edna dipped her toast in her coffee. She would not have done that if a footman had hovered at the sideboard.

“Casriel is not of our ilk, Charles. You cannot expect him to behave like a besotted yeoman when he’s an earl making an advantageous match. Earls keep mistresses. They have affairs. He already has a by-blow and makes no secret of it. Sarah likely won’t care what he gets up to, provided she can continue to spend your money.”

That last observation was not intended to compliment Sarah—or her father.

“Say what’s on your mind, Mrs. Quinlan. We have ever been honest with each other, one of many things I treasure about you.”

Edna munched her toast, and Charles waited. His wife was slow with her judgments, also thoughtful and shrewd. Her insights frequently astounded him.

“Ever since Sarah came back from that fancy finishing school,” Edna said, “I have felt as if I do not know her. She speaks French when she knows I can’t understand a word of it. She was a good girl, Charles. I want my good girl back, not this preening twit. We sent her off with a good opinion of herself, and she came home determined to look down on her own upbringing.”

Charles’s steak had grown cold, which bothered him not at all. There had been a time when steak hadn’t been on even his Sunday menu.

“She should look down on her own upbringing. We’re common as dirt, despite all of our money. My Sarah does not have to be common, and my granddaughters will have the title lady. My grandson will be an earl, and nobody will dare look down on him. That’s what Sarah wants, so I’ll see that she gets it.”

Edna took another bite of soggy toast. “I would far rather my grandchildren be happy than titled, and I suspect Sarah has simply adopted her father’s priorities when it comes to progeny and titles. Sarah is setting herself up for an empty marriage, among people she won’t understand. She is not of the aristocracy, and she knows little of the gentry. Country life will leave her bored and lonely, and resentment is sure to follow. I want better for her. I want her to have what I have—a wonderful man who is her best friend and intimate companion.”

Edna on the scent of truth was a fearless warrior, but Charles understood ambition, and thus their daughter, in a way Edna did not.

“Sarah wants a title,” he said, “and Casriel in particular. He’s a bird in the hand, Edna. If I send him packing, Sarah will be impossible. She’ll be the butt of unkind talk, and then we’ll never get back to Cheshire.”

Edna poured herself more coffee, but Charles was not fooled. She was allowing him the last word. She was unhappy, she did not agree with him, and she was not entirely wrong.

“If it becomes necessary,” Charles said, “I’ll have a word with Casriel. He’ll not play Sarah false. To the extent an earl can make his wife happy, Casriel will exert himself to that end, or I’ll ruin him.”

Edna blew gently on her coffee. “Sarah will be his countess, Charles. Not merely his wife, perhaps not his wife in any meaningful sense, but his countess. You cannot ruin him without also ruining her.”

The sun was rising, as the sun always did. In early widowhood, Addy had clung to that evidence of life going forward. The sun rose, and Addy had risen from her bed. The sun traveled across the sky. Addy had dressed, eaten, received friends, eventually received the mourning callers. She’d traveled across first and second mourning and into the terrain of the proper, settled widow.

“I think some part of me was always anticipating Roger’s death,” she said.

Grey had led her to the back garden, an oasis of green a mere dozen yards wide and three times as long. Just enough of a garden to attract birds at daybreak and grow one stately shade tree.

“You anticipated Roger’s death because he was reckless?”

“That word… Yes, he was reckless. Let’s sit beneath my maple.”

Gnarled roots lifted the soil at the base of the tree, canting the white wrought-iron bench slightly higher at one end. Addy often took a pillow out here and read. She’d been beneath this tree, trying to compose a letter to her sister-in-law, when word of Roger’s death had reached her.

“You should take a nap,” Grey said, coming down beside her on the bench. “Grief destroys our natural rhythms, and you barely slept last night.”

Addy did not recall falling asleep. She’d been sitting on her sofa one moment, prattling to Grey about who among Aunt’s friends would need to be notified of her death. The next, she’d been aware of Grey lifting her feet to the cushions, stuffing a pillow beneath her head, and retrieving a quilt from her bedroom.

While she’d dozed, he’d been busy, for Addy had awoken to a house draped in crepe, the knocker off the door, the mirrors covered, and fragrant lilies in the windows of the formal parlor.

The scent of those flowers made real that Aunt had died, but how had Grey procured lilies before the sun had properly risen? From the kitchen had come the aroma of fresh bread, and the voices wafting up the stairs suggested Aunt’s senior staff was on hand to join in the mourning.

Grey had done what needed doing, though soon he needed to leave.

“I must deal with the vicar.” Addy had sent the note, though Grey had had to remind her. His presence beside her on the bench steadied her. They’d barely touched since last night, but she’d leaned on him shamelessly.

And that had felt natural and right, damn it all to Hades.

“The vicar can do little,” Grey said. “He’ll swill tea and cite biblical passages meant to be comforting, though they are flimsy consolation against the loss of a loved one. He’ll encourage you to attend services, and you’ll go, Beatitude, because it’s the only way you’re allowed to leave your house and all the wretched crepe staring you in the face during first mourning. Why am I telling you these things? You are a widow. I am merely recalling the loss of parents, aunts, grandparents, uncles, a pair of cousins…”

He ran a hand through his hair, and that small gesture revealed that death upset him as well.

“You inherited the title when your Papa died. Did you want it?”

“Of course not. What fool wants a title when an earldom means he loses his only surviving parent and becomes responsible for scores of people who have every right to look to him for sustenance? He must husband thousands of acres, flocks and herds, forests, meadows… Anybody who views a title as a mere license to frolic doesn’t deserve membership in the peerage. My father understood that and made sure I did as well.”

Hence, Grey’s need to marry well. Even through the weight of grief, Addy could spare plenty of resentment for his circumstances.

“You don’t want your son to have to feel that way, though. You want him to have the means he needs to be a good earl.”

Grey crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned back so his head rested against the tree. “I want to have the means to be a good earl, but Addy—”

She put her hand over his mouth. “You are a good earl. You are a very good earl, a good brother, a good cousin, a good neighbor, a good friend. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your company, Grey Dorning. I might have called on Theodosia, but she is not… She has become Mrs. Tresham, a duchess-in-waiting. She could not have played that harp. She would never have taken matters in hand as you have. I am in your debt and always will be.”

That was Grey’s cue to rise and leave quietly through the back gate. Instead, he took Addy’s hand.

“I will alert Mrs. Tresham to developments here,” he said. “But, Beatitude, I’d like you to do something for me.”

He’d never asked her for anything, though she’d given him her heart. “Name it.”

“I want you to go to Canmore Court once you’ve tended to Mrs. Beauchamp’s affairs. Leave Town and spend time with your family. You have nieces and nephews, you have a right to a dower house, and you should at least see that it’s maintained to your standards.”

His hand was warm around hers, but he was letting her go—again. Leave Town was a kind way to inform Addy that he’d soon be back at his courting game, if he hadn’t already embarked upon it.

“I had thought to go to Bath,” Addy said. “Aunt’s friends are there, and they will be solicitous of my loss.”

Those friends would speak about an Aunt Freddy whom Addy had never known, a young, vivacious, pretty lady who’d nonetheless never quite settled into the narrow role society created for intelligent, opinionated women.

“Please, not Bath, Beatitude. The elderly congregate there with the infirm. Your aunt would want you to enjoy the company of family, to be around children, and to go for mad gallops as a vicar’s hoyden daughter used to do. Climb a few trees, tear your hems in the raspberry patch. Nap in a hammock or two while reading Byron’s racy prose. I need to know that you will not be toppled by grief.”

Toppled by grief when Grey took a wife, as he must. How delicately he dealt with the impossibly painful.

“I don’t want to go to Canmore Court. They will try to discuss Roger.”

Grey clasped her hand in both of his. “Then discuss him. He was a selfish fool who appreciated neither his wife nor his brother nor the children who would continue the succession. You and the present earl have common ground, and you likely have common guilt as well. Put it behind you and move on to happier pursuits. Aunt Freddy would tell you the same.”

Addy leaned into him, and he settled an arm around her shoulders. What he asked was too much, a parting in truth, not merely a decision to avoid each other. Grey was all but ordering her to find somebody else to fall in love with, but that would not happen.

“Thank you for being my friend, Grey Dorning. I will think about your suggestion.” Addy would resist, but soon—with a few days at most—she’d leave Town as he’d asked her to. Casriel was not a man to issue warnings for the sake of filling a silence.

“Thank you for being my friend, Addy. I will miss you.”

Addy pressed close, and to blazes with anybody spying out of the neighbors’ windows. She was exhausted, she’d suffered a blow—two blows—and was entitled to a small lapse in decorum.

Grey let her be the one to sit up.

“Be well, Grey, and if you can, be happy.”

He said nothing, merely pressed his lips to her temple, rose, and departed quietly through the back gate.

“Where the hell have you been?” Grey was relieved to see Sycamore, hale, whole, and casually strolling into the town house office.

And Grey was furious with a sibling who lacked the consideration to leave word of his whereabouts. But then, since parting from Addy two days ago, Grey had been furious most of the time.

“Took a jaunt down to Dorning Hall,” Sycamore said, hands in pockets, not a care in the world. “Everybody sends their love. Have you cried any banns yet?”

“You took a jaunt…” Grey rose, lest he pound his fist on the desk. He’d rather pound on his baby brother. “Did it not occur to you to ask me for use of the traveling coach? Did it not occur to you to let me know you’d taken a sudden notion to ruralize? Could you not be bothered to send a note reassuring me that you’d not been taken up for debt?”

Sycamore looked him up and down. “What has you in a pet?

“I had visions of you selling your cravat pins for food in Calais, or fleeing for your life because a patron at The Coventry conceived a notion to do you an injury. One funeral a week is one too many.”

Sycamore took down the abacus that hung on the wall near the landscape of Durdle Door. “Who died?”

“Mrs. Beauchamp.” And thank God convention decreed that women typically did not attend graveside services, or Grey would have snatched Addy by the hand and… “Did you purloin the traveling coach to prevent me from eloping with Lady Canmore?”

“Casriel, I’d buy you a coach if you promised to steal away in it with her ladyship. I simply wanted to see my other brothers and thought perhaps you’d appreciate an eyewitness report of doings at the Hall.”

“Report, then, and be quick about it. I must change for an evening out.”

“Where?”

“None of your damned business.”

Sycamore gave him another look, much like the looks Grey had been enduring from his staff for the past several days.

“You leave,” Grey said, “and tell no one of your plans, but you expect me to consult you regarding my social calendar. The Quinlans are hosting a soiree this evening.”

“Not La Quinlan, Grey. You cannot… Is this your way to evict the brothers from the Hall? She’ll drive them all screaming for the Royal Navy within a fortnight. Send your regrets, for I’ve brought money.”

Sycamore withdrew a folded paper from his coat pocket and set it on the desk. His gaze gave away nothing, suggesting the money did not have a respectable provenance.

Grey opened the paper, which was a duly executed bank draft. “This is signed by Aloysius Pletcher.” A good amount of blunt. Enough to repair many roofs, not nearly enough to prevent an engagement to Miss Quinlan. “How did you come by it?”

“Ash came by it. The lovely Miss Tansy Pletcher became Mrs. Hammond Barclay ten years ago. Left her tinker for a well-to-do tannery owner and is a respectable goodwife over in Exmoor. The Pletchers used the money you’d given them until that time as a dowry for the fair Tansy.”

Grey sank into the chair behind the desk. “And they’ve been collecting additional money from me for ten years?”

He’d consumed countless pints of ale at the Pletchers’ tables, kept them informed regarding Tabby’s progress at school, shared many of her letters with them, and encouraged her to both write to them and spend time with them. He considered the Pletchers extended family of a sort, though they clearly considered him something else entirely.

“I don’t understand, Cam. They took money they didn’t need, money Tansy didn’t need, and never said a word to me of her marriage.” While Grey had sold his father’s Italian glass panes to buy hay for the shire’s flocks. That wasn’t wrong, exactly, but the sense of having been taken advantage of remained.

“They saved this money for Tabby,” Sycamore said, propping a hip against the desk, “or so they claimed when Ash pressed them. I don’t know the particulars, don’t know how much you’ve been sending them, but they haven’t any means to invest the money. You do. Ash pointed that out to them and also made plain that Tansy’s frolic with you left her none the worse for the experience, while you’ve taken responsibility for Tabby without a word of complaint.”

Grey stared at the bank draft, a small fortune that had come from his conscience and his own pockets. “Of course I did. She is my daughter.”

“Nothing compels even a gentleman to support both a daughter and her well-situated mother ten years on, Grey. You will take that money, or I’ll hand it over to Worth Kettering for investment in one of his magical schemes.”

Jacaranda’s husband was a genius with investments. Out of pride, Grey had avoided imposing on him, though Sycamore would do exactly as threatened.

“I’ll take it to Kettering,” Grey said. “This sum is not the dowry an earl’s daughter should have, but it’s something. In five years, it will be more, particularly if Kettering manages it. Please tell Ash—”

Sycamore shoved away from the desk. “Tell him not to meddle in your affairs? Tell him yourself.” Cam was angry, though unlike Grey, he was managing to conceal his ire.

“I’ll give him my thanks in person then,” Grey said. “I would never have thought to ask the Pletchers to account for the funds. I’ll thank them as well, and now I must change for the evening.”

“You’ll keep the money?”

“You’ll not go haring off without letting me know I needn’t worry?”

Cam shrugged. “I was homesick. I’m coming with you to the Quinlans’.”

Of all Grey’s brothers, Cam was the most determined, which was saying something. “Sycamore, I don’t need a chaperone. I won’t spill my punch or make drunken pronouncements. Miss Quinlan and I are approaching an understanding of the marital variety, and that does not require your assistance.”

Grey had fallen into a bleak sense of inevitability where Miss Quinlan was concerned. With Mrs. Beauchamp’s final obsequies having been tended to, Addy had no reason to linger in Town.

And Grey had no excuse for putting off his courting.

“Grey, how much is enough?” Sycamore asked, marching up to the desk. “Ash takes a notion to chase down money that’s been leaking from your pocket for years, and a goodly sum lands on your desk as a result. That means you needn’t consign yourself to marriage with a vain, spoiled young woman who will be—not coincidentally—miserable as your countess.”

“I will do my utmost to make her happy.”

Cam slapped both palms on the desk. “You cannot make another person happy. You cannot buy all of Oak’s paintings, make Valerian’s book a wild success, give Thorne tenants of his own, or make my gaming hell thrive. You cannot make Sarah Quinlan happy, but you damned sure ought to be spending more time seeing to your own joy in life.”

Grey rose, standing eye to eye with Cam, the bank draft on the blotter between them. “Our father would disagree with you. With a title comes a responsibility to manage the head of the family’s duties. Those duties were imposed on him as a result of present company, and I will do at least as much as he did to uphold the honor of the earldom.”

The anger faded from Sycamore’s eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Papa had to marry because I was on the way. My mother was a decent young woman, not a tavern owner’s wayward daughter, and Papa and Mama had no choice but to marry.”

“Which he well knew when he was frolicking with your mother, and which she knew too. You are not the reason they married, Grey. I come by my impulsive nature honestly. Don’t burden your brothers with your own misplaced guilt. Marry because you damned well want to marry, and do not wed a woman who will bring you nothing but suffering.”

The bank draft sat open on the desk, a reproach of some sort, though Grey could not fathom for what. He should not have trifled with Tansy, but neither should he have blindly continued to send money to her parents when they nor she had need of it.

And Tabby did.

“This is Tabby’s money,” Grey said, stuffing the bank draft into his pocket. “I’m exceedingly grateful to have it, but it changes nothing about my own circumstances. How are our brothers?”

Cam wanted to argue. Grey saw that in the compressed line of his brother’s lips, the mulish glint in his eyes.

“They are managing. They would be loath to see you marry a carping twit who will turn Dorning Hall into Versailles-on-the-Winterbourne. Ash pressed the Pletchers for these funds because he knows what a desperate situation you’re facing.”

“Ash declined to return to Town with you?”

Sycamore sidled away to study the landscape of Dorning Hall with the ruins in the distance. “Oak, Valerian, and Thorne keep an eye on him. He’s getting dressed each day, taking meals, that sort of thing.”

Drifting, in other words. When autumn came, Ash typically threw himself into the harvest, but inevitably, winter saw his spirits plunge. Cam’s words echoed: You cannot make another person happy, though Grey would and could keep Ash safe.

“If you’re coming with me this evening, you must promise not to act on any impulses, Sycamore. The key to our brothers’ fortunes, as well as to those of half the tenants in the shire, lies in my ability to win Miss Quinlan’s hand in marriage. She’s amenable to my suit, and I owe her the niceties.”

“She told you that?”

“She knows her mind.”

“But does she know your heart?” Cam left the office on that question, moving too quickly for Grey to land a punch.