This gentleman's house might not be as opulentacious as his brother's, but it was the grandest house Emma had ever seen. In size, it was no larger than Aunt Harriett's, but where Auntie's house was furnished in dark, ancient Tudor pieces with faded upholstery, every elegant piece of this heavily gilded decor gave a nod to the French. Her eye was drawn to a massive crystal chandelier lighting the entry hall's marble staircase.

A second son he might be, but this man must be exceedingly wealthy—sot or not. She suddenly became shy in his presence.

After greeting his master, the butler quietly locked the massive entry door behind them and took up the long-handled snuffer, no doubt to darken the house now that its owner had returned.

"Tell me, Studewood," the gentleman asked the butler, "which room would be best to put this lady in?"

Studewood's manner did not change one bit as he calmly said, "The yellow room, I should say, Mr. Birmingham. Since the other servants are in their beds, I'll just pop up and see that there's a fire in the young lady's chamber." The butler put down the long-handled snuffer, took the strap to her portmanteau, and started up the stairs.

At last, she now knew this man's name. Mr. Birmingham. It seemed a solid name. If he weren't such a reprobate, he'd be . . . awfully appealing. No man in Upper Barrington could match this dark-haired man for handsomeness. Indeed, no man in Upper Barrington dressed so fine, either—not even their revered kinsman, Sir Arthur Lippincott—who actually lived in Lower Barrington. What tailor would not adore clothing a man with such long limbs and trim waist and broad shoulders as Mr. Birmingham? He would show to great advantage any clothing he wore.

"Allow me to escort you to your chambers," Mr. Birmingham said to her.

Their eyes briefly locked. His were dark and piercing. She nodded, then lowered her lashes and began to mount the staircase.

When they were half way up, he paused on a step and swayed as he glanced back at her. "I shappose I should know your name."

Afraid he'd tumble down the stairs, she came to his side. "I'm Miss Emma Hastings. Do give me your arm to hold onto, Mr. Birmingham." She could hardly tell him it was he who needed to hold onto her.

"I say, how did you know my name?" He proffered his arm.

"Your butler addressed you."

"Show he did."

They came to the first floor where the entertaining rooms were located and continued to mount the stairs to the next level. Before they rose to the next floor, she tried to take in as much as she could of the tasteful drawing room with its richly patterned carpets, silken draperies, and slender-legged furniture. She was struck that, unlike at Sir Arthur's, the walls of Mr. Birmingham's stairwell were devoid of ancestral portraits. That must mean the Birmingham wealth was new.

One part of her was pleased to be able to stay in this lovely home, even if only for one night, especially since there was no alternative. She knew not a soul in this mammoth city. But another part of her—the part under the influence of Aunt Harriett—kept warning her how dangerous it was to be staying with a strange man. What would she do if he tried to take liberties with her? He was so tall, and she was so small.

Her closest friend back in Upper Barrington, Anne Forester had shared with Emma her six elder brothers' advice on how to thwart unwanted advances. They instructed Anne to kick or to knee the offending man in that unmentionable part of his anatomy. Emma decided she would not hesitate to do that to Mr. Birmingham if he should press those kinds of attentions upon her.

"Let me see," Mr. Birmingham said when they reached the upper floor, "which of these blasted chambers is the yellow?" He stopped and looked down at her. She was still linking her arm to his yet attempting not to show how stunned she was that Mr. Birmingham was not familiar with every room in his own house.

"Studewood did say the yellow room, did he not?" he asked.

She nodded.

His eyes squinted at the door to the second room. "This may be it." He opened the door to a rose-coloured bedchamber, then shook his head. "Not yellow. Perhaps it's across the corridor." On wobbly legs, he crossed the hallway and opened the door opposite the red chamber. "Ah! Here it 'tis."

Not without trepidation, she swept past him and entered the chamber. She was nearly overwhelmed by its beauty. The bed was swathed in pale yellow silk. A brocade of the same shade covered the walls, and more of the fine yellow silk hung at the chamber's two tall casements. The fireplace, where Studewood was succeeding at starting a fire, was surrounded by a creamy marble chimneypiece adorned with a turquoise porcelain clock. Near the fireplace reposed an elegant chaise of apple green silk, and beside it, her portmanteau. What a home this was! How fortunate was Mr. Birmingham.

Studewood's presence lessened her alarm. Surely, no man would compromise a young woman’s virtue in front of his servant. Then she recalled how placidly Studewood had accepted the news that she would be a guest tonight. Was bringing home strange women a customary occurrence for his master? Her heartbeat accelerated as she stealthily glanced at Mr. Birmingham whilst appearing to examine the writing desk, a small gilt table in the French style. He seemed completely disinterested in her.

Thank goodness!

As the coals began to burn, Studewood got to his feet and addressed her. "This should keep you warm all night, miss." With a nod, he left the chamber.

She was about to order her host to leave her sleeping chamber when a curious thing happened. He yawned deeply, eyed her chaise, and collapsed upon it.

For a frightful moment, she thought he had died. Her heartbeat hammering, she raced to the chaise and bent over Mr. Birmingham.

And he started to snore!

She recalled that bosky Jeb Hickman of Upper Barrington had a propensity—after over indulging in spirits, which he most lamentably did with frequency—to fall into exceedingly deep slumber in the most unexpected places. Once in Squire Peterfund's trough, another time in the back of the Widow Pennington's pony cart, and more than once in a pew at St. Stephen's!

What was she to do? She cupped a hand to Mr. Birmingham's arm and shook him. He snored some more. The next time she shook him harder. He snored louder. Oh, dear. It was not likely she would be able to rouse him.

She could hardly sleep in the same chamber with a man. Perhaps she could cross the corridor and sleep in the rose chamber. As disappointed as she was to leave this room—especially now that the fire was warming it—she went to the rose room. Though it was even lovelier than the yellow chamber, it felt as if she were standing on a frozen moor. A servant must have left the window open. She strolled across the room and closed the casement. Hugging her own arms, she left the room, knowing she could not sleep there.

From the moment she'd seen her portmanteau in the yellow room, it had seemed like she was meant to be there. The way it claimed her was almost like some kind of Divine proclamation.

Who was there to find out she had (quite innocently) shared a bedchamber with a man? Just so long as Aunt Harriett did not discover the truth. Standing there in front of the fire, Mr. Birmingham snoring in the background, she could almost hear Auntie say, "Once lost, a lady's good reputation can never be regained."

In this, Auntie was likely right. What manner of man would offer marriage to a sullied lady? Emma did not want to impede her chances of being some man's wife. She did so long to be married. Before Uncle had invited her to London, Aunt had encouraged Emma to wed. It had been most unselfish of her, too, because Emma knew Aunt Harriett didn’t want her to leave.

But Auntie was pragmatic enough to know she was nearing the end of her life. “When I’m gone,” her aunt would say, “all that I have will revert back to the estate of my father’s lawful heir. You will be alone. And penniless.”

For those reasons, Aunt had been pleased when Emma was given the opportunity to make her home in London.

Dare she trust that Mr. Birmingham was truly a gentleman? Could she trust him not to tell anyone he had shared a bedchamber with Miss Emma Hastings? Her gaze fanned to the beautiful bed. How she longed to climb upon it and rest her weary limbs. She was so exhausted, she understood how Mr. Birmingham could have collapsed upon the chaise. She could easily sink down on the mattress and fall into a deep sleep.

Given her lack of alternatives, that is what she would do.

But she could not undress in front of Mr. Birmingham, even if his awakening was about as likely as Uncle Simon knocking upon her chamber door. She tiptoed to her portmanteau and quietly opened it to retrieve her sleeping gown. Then she tiptoed to the bed and climbed upon it. She drew the fully lined bed curtains all the way around the bed for privacy and stripped off the damp traveling clothes she had worn for two days. After slipping into her linen night shift, she buried herself beneath the covers and promptly feel asleep.

* * *

He wasn't at all sure he could lift his head. It felt as if it had been bashed with a cricket bat. Repeatedly. He opened one eye. Then the other. He had fully expected to see the familiar blue bed coverings in his bedchamber, but he did not. Good lord, was he once again waking up in a strange bedchamber? A light rose scent tempered his disorientation. Now that he thought about it, though, he realized he was not actually on a bed. His gaze moved. The first item he spotted was a turquoise clock. He'd bought the blasted thing himself. Did that mean . . . he was at his own house?

He bolted up.

And locked gazes with a young woman who smelled of roses. She was not much more than a foot away from him. She sat in a chair facing the chaise longue he'd slept on. He was about to press some coins into her hands and send her on her way when he thought better of it.

He took a long look at her. The last time he'd seen her, he now remembered, her hair had been wet. Now that it was dry he could tell it was a warm brown, the color of tree bark. Quite an ordinary color. In fact, everything about the young lady was ordinary. She was not a great beauty as Maria had been. Yet all of her features were pleasing. And so was her sweet rose scent.

As for her age, he would put it somewhere between eighteen and twenty, though she was not much larger than a twelve-year-old girl.

She smiled at him. Her teeth were even and white, and when she smiled, she was pretty—in a quiet way.

Before he could respond, he remembered something else about her. She was not a doxy. Even though everything about him was impaired, he knew he had not taken advantage of this girl.

Which made his presence in her bedchamber all the more offensive. What vile depths had he sunk to? How repulsed she must be over his drunken behavior. How embarrassing that this maiden had likely been exposed to the obnoxious roar of his snores!

He stood and bowed. "Allow me to apologize for my unforgiveable behavior."

She regarded him stiffly, in much the same manner his mother had when he'd been a naughty lad. "It's your home, Mr. Birmingham. Even if you are a Godless hedonist, I am grateful that I had a warm bed in which to sleep, and I shall be even more grateful if you never, ever reveal that you and I shared a bedchamber."

"'Pon my word, I am a gentleman, even if that presently seems inconceivable to you. I'm not always in my cups. I had a very good reason for my intoxication."

"Maria," she said with a nod.

He grimaced. "I told you that?"

She nodded ruefully, then quickly changed the topic. "It was actually awfully kind of you to allow me to stay here. I will own, I was blindsided that no one was at my uncle's house." She stood. "Surely he'll be there this morning. It's no longer raining. I'll just get along. One of Uncle Simon's servants can collect my portmanteau later." She walked toward the chamber door, then turned back. "I beg that you deceive your servants into thinking you slept in your own chamber last night."

At the surfacing memory of who her uncle was, he thwacked his forehead. He needed to tell her the truth. But he'd rather eat his boot than do that. "Don't go."

She raised a fine brown brow and stared at him with her hazel eyes. Perhaps they were a smidgeon above ordinary.

He couldn't stay in a bedchamber with a maiden. "Please, come with me to the library. There's a matter I need to discuss with you."

She followed him from the chamber. As they began to descend the stairs, the clock struck ten. In the ground floor library, he was thankful his servants had built a fire. The mossy green room was toasty warm. He beckoned for her to sit on one of a pair of sofas that faced each other in front of the fire.

Once seated, he was trying to gather the courage to tell her the grim news when she lowered her brows and asked, "Why did you use the word need?"

He cleared his throat. "Because I need to tell you something before you go bustling over to your uncle's residence."

She gave him a quizzing gaze.

"I'm afraid there's no one at your uncle's house."

"I thought you said you really didn't know my uncle."

"That's true." How in the devil am I going to phrase this?

"When will they return?"

He found himself delaying the response as long as he could. Was that not better—allowing her to ease into the morbid explanation one troubling step at a time? "By they, do you mean the servants? Or your uncle? Or both?" He was quite sure he was bungling things most miserably.

"I suppose both."

He drew a deep breath. "Well, the truth of the matter is that none of them are coming back."

"You mean to tell me my uncle has moved?"

"In a way."

"Sir, he's either moved or he hasn't."

She might look young, but there was a distinct maturity about her. He suspected quite a bit of intelligence lurked beneath that youthful exterior. He needed to be direct. He eyed her solemnly and spoke in a voice even more solemn. "Your uncle has died."

Her eyes widened, but not the slightest sound emanated from her. Tears began to trickle along her fair cheeks. After a considerable length of time, she asked, "When?"

He shrugged. "I think three or four days ago."

"And no servants stayed behind?"

"I am told by my servants that they sought employment elsewhere."

"What about my uncle's burial?"

"I honestly don't know, but I am at your service to find answers."

As quickly as the snuff of a flame, she burst into tears. These weren't soft sobs with the intermittent sniffle. This was a full-fledged wail. Every molecule of her body was involved in the convulsion of tears which erupted like a spewing volcano.

He handed her a handkerchief. As he continued to sit across from her, he'd never felt so utterly impotent. She cried and cried. She wailed and wailed. She sobbed as if she'd just witnessed the death of her own child. His handkerchief was completely saturated with her tears. He began to wonder how so small a body could hold so vast an amount of tears. Was there no end?

After an interminable length of time, the clock stuck eleven. Dear lord, had she been wailing for nearly an hour? How long could this go on? Finally, he gathered the courage to ask, "But, Miss Hastings, it is Miss Hastings, is it not?"

Her tear-splattered face lifted, and she nodded.

"I seem to recall that you told me you'd never met your uncle."

She nodded. "That's correct."

Then why in the devil was she so distraught? "Forgive my impudence, but your reaction to his death seems somewhat out of proportion to your connection with him."

She sniffed. "Which makes me seem abominably self centered." Sniff. Sniff. "I'm crying for me. For my future." Wail. Wail. "Or my-y-y-y lack of future." Long wail.

"I would say a young woman like you has a bright future."

She blew her nose and attempted to stop crying. "Since I was my uncle's only living relative, he was going to have me learn about his business. He planned to leave it to me."

"But if you're his heir, it will still come to you."

"Fat lot of good it will do me in Upper Barrington. Because I am an unmarried woman, Aunt Harriett will never allow me to live in London, and . . . " She began to bawl again. "I'd rather die than return to Upper Barrington."

Her aunt must be quite the dragon. "Then you are not of age?" Were she of age, she surely could take her inheritance, hire a companion, and make her own home away from Upper Barrington.

"Not for seven months."

"We shall have to think on your problem, but first we need to discover who your uncle's solicitor is." A helpless little female like her was ill equipped for so urban an undertaking. He would have to help her.

* * *

Perhaps Mr. Birmingham wasn't always such a sot. He was being awfully helpful to her. It was quite ingenious of him to dispatch one of his most resourceful servants to Uncle Simon's house to pick the lock.

At first she'd been horrified to be part of such a dishonest activity, but he assured her it was to be considered her house now that Uncle Simon was gone, since she was his only blood relative.

Now she and Mr. Birmingham were in her uncle's library—which wasn't nearly as lovely as Mr. Birmingham's—looking for private papers. She'd been moping around, getting to know a bit about what kind of man Uncle Simon had been by the possessions he'd amassed, the books he'd read.

Unlike Mr. Birmingham's books, which were all classic titles with fine leather bindings, her uncle's were a jumble of assorted subjects and a hodgepodge of bindings, but all looked well read. Unlike Mr. Birmingham's.

Uncle Simon was obviously not a reader of poetry but had a great fondness for travel journals. What a pity he'd repressed his desire to see the world to tend to his business interests in London. Was that why he wanted her to come? Had he planned to have her see to the business while he spent the last years of his life seeing all the places he'd spent a lifetime reading about?

While Mr. Birmingham's home was lovingly looked after, her uncle's was not only cluttered, but it also was not clean. Or perhaps only the library was off-limits to the servants. Had he forbidden his servants to dust and tidy this chamber? It was obvious he spent a great deal of time in this room. The seat of the upholstered chair nearest the fire had been worn to a half-moon shape, and the work table beside it bore circular stains from where glasses had been set.

Her gaze flicked to the other side of the fireplace. That must be where her uncle's guests sat. Indeed, right next to the chair there—a chair that did not appear well used—sat an empty wine glass.

She wondered if the man drinking from that glass might have been the last to see her uncle alive. She shook her head. What an active imagination she had! For all she knew, Uncle Simon had dropped dead at his place of business.

She needed to know more. As his only kin, she needed to know how he'd died and where he'd died. She wanted to know what had killed him.

A pity there were no servants left to answer her questions. If only she had come a few days earlier. If only she'd had the opportunity to meet her uncle.

More than anything, she was curious to know what kind of man he was. How sad that just as their lives were about to intertwine, she was deprived of him. Something inside her ached from the loss.

"Ah, ha!" Mr. Birmingham said after he'd searched through the contents of one of Uncle's desk drawers.

She'd been hesitant to initiate such a search herself. It seemed so disrespectful of the dead. "His solicitor's name is Wycliff. Hugh Wycliff on High Holborn. Hmm. Not far from my solicitor's. Come, Miss Hastings, let us go."