Their problems at least Marcel was able to solve. “There is only one person in this house with the authority to give orders,” he said, regarding them in some amazement, his eyebrows raised. “You are looking at him. If you need extra help in the house, Mrs. Crutchley, then you must get it. If you need any extra help in the kitchen, Mrs. Jones, then you will inform Mrs. Crutchley and she will provide it. And from this moment on attendance at morning prayers is to be voluntary.” He had voluntarily absented himself from the daily ordeal since his return. “I shall inform Mrs. Morrow. Will that be all?”

It seemed it was. Both women bobbed curtsies, thanked his lordship, and went on their way, looking vindicated.

It was a small success among too many weaknesses.

And now this.

He came across Jane and Estelle in the morning room one day two weeks after his arrival. He had gone in there looking for a book he had put down somewhere but now could not remember where. They were both standing, Jane close to the window, Estelle not far inside the door. He could see her in only partial profile, but she was the picture of docile dejection. Her aunt, in contrast, was looking majestic and annoyed. She was waving a letter in one hand while she held two or three more in her other hand. She stopped midharangue when the door opened. Estelle, significantly, did not turn.

“I really do not know what has got into Estelle lately,” Jane said as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “She has always been the most obedient and biddable girl. She has never given me a moment’s trouble. But first she insisted upon pursuing you all the way to Devonshire, a decision she has no doubt regretted bitterly ever since. Then she insisted upon this party, which even you must admit is excessive, Marcel.”

“Must I?” he asked softly.

“And now,” she continued without perceiving the danger in his tone, “she has gone beyond the pale. I am at a loss to know what to do. A simple punishment seems inadequate, though a few hours or even a full day of quiet reflection in her room would certainly do no harm. But all this—” She waved the letter that was still suspended in one hand, and then waved the others too. “All this is irreparable, Marcel. She did it entirely on her own, without seeking anyone’s advice, and she did it on the sly too without anyone noticing. I am extremely vexed. Charles will be infuriated when I inform him. You doubtless will be too.”

“Will I?” He strolled farther into the room and stood facing his daughter, positioning himself between her and her aunt. “And what have you done, Estelle, that is so heinous?”

“She has—” Jane began. But he held up one hand without turning.

“Estelle?”

She did not raise her eyes to his. “I am sorry, Father,” she said. “I wrote invitations I did not have permission to write.”

She was back to calling him Father. She had been doing it ever since they arrived home.

“To your party?” he asked. “Why would you need permission when it is your event?”

“Marcel,” Jane said. “Estelle is still a child. You seem to forget that.”

“I forget nothing,” he said. “Her mother was the same age when she married me.”

A loud silence from behind assured him that his sister-in-law did not think that much of an argument. Estelle raised her eyes to his face for a moment before she lowered them again.

“I wanted them all to come,” she said. “I wanted it to be a proper betrothal party, a real celebration. Abigail gave me all their names that evening at the cottage. I did not expect that they would all accept the invitation, though. I only hoped that a few of them would—Abigail’s sister, perhaps, with Mr. Cunningham. I would not have been at all surprised if none of them had come or even answered.”

Good Lord!

“And some of them are coming?” he asked.

“I sent nine invitations,” she said. “I had five replies yesterday and the day before. Four more came today. Aunt Jane saw them before I came down this morning. I was delayed when one of the tapes at the back of my dress snapped.”

“I see,” he said. “And how many have accepted?”

He scarcely heard her answer, but she repeated it a little more loudly. “All of them,” she said.

All . . . ?

He held up a hand again when he heard Jane draw breath.

“And when,” he asked, “did you intend to reveal this information?”

It was some time before she answered. He waited. “I do not know,” she said. “I was a little frightened.” But she looked up suddenly, and she looked more like the angry little daughter who had all but launched herself upon him outside the cottage in Devonshire. “I am not sorry I did it, Papa. If I had asked, Aunt Jane would have said no. You would have said no. But they ought to be here, or at least given the opportunity to be here. They are going to be your family. They are going to be my family and Bert’s. I want them here for Miss Kingsley’s sake and Abigail’s. It ought to be a celebration for both families, not just ours. Oh, I know the wedding is going to be that, but I want everyone here. If you are angry with me, I—”

He held up his hand and she fell silent. Was he angry? Was there a part of him that had been hoping that somehow he could wriggle out of this marriage? It had been all very well at the time to do the honorable thing, even to insist upon it when Viola had resisted. But now? Truth to tell, he had been avoiding thinking about her and about it—it being his betrothal and his looming marriage. And when he could not block all thought, perhaps he had considered that if she came alone or with just her younger daughter for company, and if she still felt as strongly opposed to the marriage as she had the last time they spoke, then perhaps . . .

If there had been any faint, lingering hope, it had now been snatched from him. The whole damned lot of them were about to descend upon Redcliffe to celebrate his betrothal. Unless they were all coming here to boil him in oil or otherwise express their displeasure. It was a distinct possibility, but he would not rely upon it. Either way he had lost control over his life and the conduct of his business. Again.

“Why would I be angry with you?” he asked. “But your aunt believes you ought to be punished, Estelle, and I cannot help but agree.”

She lowered her eyes again and stood meekly before him. And good Lord, he thought, was this how she had been raised? Was this the way all young ladies were raised? She ought to be coming at him with both fists flying and both eyes flashing. It was how her mother would have behaved.

“You,” he said, “are going to find Mrs. Crutchley as soon as I have finished speaking, and confess all to her. And then you are going to find Mrs. Jones and confess all to her. And then you are going to wear your slippers into holes and your fingers to the bone helping them prepare for this houseful of illustrious guests we are expecting. Even if it means getting down upon your knees and scrubbing a few floors.”

“Marcel—” Jane protested from behind him. He ignored her.

Estelle’s eyes had flown to his again, and she smiled radiantly, transforming herself into a considerable beauty, the little minx. “Yes, Papa,” she said, and whisked herself out of the room before he could draw breath to say more.

He strode out after her before Jane could launch into speech.

His mind was reciting every blasphemy and swear word he had ever heard. Again. He even made up a few extras.