Chapter One

There was a deep scratch upon the side of Maggie’s valise.

She could not recall how it had happened. Perhaps the last coach she had taken had flung it a little too roughly to the ground? Her previous conveyance had been a public stagecoach, so crowded that all the luggage was lashed to the roof—even her worn old valise. The coachman, being neither careful nor courteous, had dropped it with something close to contempt when she changed vehicles. It had almost certainly happened then, she supposed.

Carefully, she turned the case so that the mark would not show when she stepped out. This was the final leg of her journey, and she must look as composed as possible.

On impulse, she drew out her cracked silver hand-mirror and opened it, studying her reflection.

I look like a governess. Perfect.

Her hair, brushed smooth from its rich chestnut curls, was drawn into a modest knot at the back of her head. Not a strand dared stray. Her face, though pale from travel, bore no smudge or blemish. She met her own eyes—clear green-gold, fringed with dark lashes.

Not modest enough for a governess.

She lowered her gaze, practising meekness. It did not come naturally. She would have to learn it.

On cue, a man’s voice echoed in her head—low and amused. 

“What pretty eyes you have, my dear Maggie. I shall always call you Maggie, and never Margaret. A woman named Margaret would never have such bewitching eyes. Didn’t your poor, dead Mama call you Maggie?”

The recollection made her shiver. Clenching her jaw, she snapped the mirror shut and thrust it away. She was weary of her reflection—weary of his voice that clung to her like a stain. 

I will not think of him. He cannot find me here. Three months have passed; I am safe. I am Maggie Winters, governess. Margaret Camden is long gone.

She would have to remind herself often. Perhaps she ought to have chosen another name entirely, but it was too late now. Her application had been signed Maggie Winters, and that was whom they expected.

The coach lurched suddenly, turning up a steep, gravelled drive. Peering through the cloudy window, she caught sight of her destination—a great house crowning the hill. Burenwood Manor. It looked more imposing even than she had imagined.

The final ascent seemed interminable, though perhaps her nerves made it so. At last, the coach rolled to a halt before the largest house she had ever seen.

She pushed open the door herself and stepped down, manoeuvring her scratched valise after her. Her boots sank into the well-raked gravel.

A sharp tut met her ears. An elderly butler advanced, lips compressed.

“You should have allowed me, or the footman, to open the door,” he reproved. “You are Miss Winters, I presume?”

“I am,” Maggie replied with a smile. “I am used to opening my own doors, you see.”

It was meant lightly, but the butler did not so much as twitch a smile.

“Things are done properly here at Burenwood Manor,” he said austerely. “His Grace is most particular.”

Maggie curbed her amusement. “I shall endeavour to remember.”

He inclined his head, apparently appeased. “See that you do. I am Crawford, the butler. John, take her case.”

A footman appeared as if conjured, seized her valise, and strode away. Maggie felt oddly bare without it and clutched her gown to steady herself.

“Come inside,” Crawford said briskly. “Mrs Thornton awaits you. The housekeeper—I believe you corresponded with her.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and marched towards the great stone steps and arched doorway.

A small tremor of apprehension passed through her. She wished she could hold her valise again—heavy, awkward, scratched though it was.

Inside, the air was as chill and pristine as outdoors. Their footsteps echoed so sharply that Maggie wondered if she would forever announce her presence wherever she went.

Should I put felt upon my soles? Would the duke object to his servants clattering through the house?

At the foot of the elegant, red-carpeted staircase stood a small woman of about fifty. Her hair was pale as milk and neatly drawn back, and her skin so clear and white that Maggie gave a quick start. 

“I am Mrs Thornton,” she said crisply, her pale grey eyes assessing. “We had hoped to introduce you at once to your charge, but you have arrived later than expected. Do you require rest or refreshment first?”

Maggie longed for both—a meal, a cup of tea, anything warm. Yet better to see it through.

Make a good impression, she reminded herself, and smiled.

“I should be delighted to meet Miss Hartwell,” she said brightly. “She sounds the sweetest child in the world, from your letters.”

“You may call her Miss Emma. She will be Miss Hartwell when she is grown, but for now, she is but seven. Follow me.”

Mrs Thornton turned to ascend, then paused. “I shall order tea—and perhaps cake—in the nursery. You must be hungry after such a journey.”

Maggie merely inclined her head, relief softening her fatigue, and followed.

The house was just as she had imagined—stately, echoing, faintly unfriendly. Mrs Thornton seemed kind enough, but Maggie would not relax yet. No doubt the little girl would be spoiled, the servants proud, and the duke—her guardian—mercifully distant.

“The nursery is on the third floor,” Mrs Thornton announced. “Miss Emma has a nursemaid, a local girl, Jenny Miller. You may find her of use—she is well educated and a great reader.”

“A nursemaid? A great reader?” Maggie repeated before she could stop herself.

Mrs Thornton cast her a sidelong look. “Voraciously so,” she said, with the faintest curve of amusement. Maggie sensed she had blundered.

She was grateful, then, for her choice of attire—her best remaining gown, a pale green muslin trimmed with modest lace. Her finer silks and jewels had long since been sold, but this, at least, gave her an air of neat respectability.

At last they reached the top. Mrs Thornton swept down a corridor muffled with carpet, and Maggie hurried after her.

“The nursery is here, and Miss Emma’s bedchamber adjoining. The schoolroom lies beyond.”

“I see. Am I to meet the duke afterwards?”

Mrs Thornton halted so abruptly that Maggie nearly collided with her.

“His Grace,” she said slowly, “is a fine employer. Like many great men, he has his eccentricities. He keeps odd hours and is not to be disturbed unnecessarily. Your charge, Miss Winters, is Miss Emma’s education and welfare—and, of course, your own health. None of us here may overstep our remit, not even the duke himself. You will bring any concerns to me, or to Crawford. It is best if His Grace is left alone.”

Exactly as Maggie had suspected. Mrs Thornton’s letters had made clear that the duke was not the child’s father but her uncle and guardian. His reputation in London had been formidable; it was no surprise that he wished to fulfil his obligations without personal inconvenience.

“I understand perfectly,” Maggie said, and Mrs Thornton’s shoulders eased.

“Well, we should go in, then.”

The nursery was a spacious, wedge-shaped room that faced the sun. The walls were painted in cheerful hues, lined with shelves and toyboxes, little chairs and books—a paradise for any child. A narrow bed was piled with cushions, and a table in the corner bore traces of recent use.

The abundance of toys took Maggie aback; she had never seen so many. Her own childhood had held but a few rag dolls and wooden animals.

Two figures occupied the room. One, clearly Jenny Miller, rose as they entered—tall, fair-haired, and bright-eyed. But Maggie’s attention was instantly claimed by the small girl at the easel.

Miss Emma Hartwell sat intent upon a painting—a garden scene, half finished, yet remarkably good. She was small and slight for seven, with enormous dark eyes and prominent front teeth that lent her an air of solemn charm.

“Miss Emma,” said Mrs Thornton, “this is Miss Winters, your new governess.”

For a moment, silence. Then Maggie, trusting her instinct, knelt beside the child and smiled.

“I am very glad to meet you,” she said warmly. “I hope we shall be friends. What a lovely painting this is! Have you copied it for a print?”

“She never does,” Jenny interjected. “All her drawings come from her own fancy.”

Maggie looked again, impressed. “How clever!”

Emma’s mouth curved in the faintest smile. “I like to paint,” she said shyly. “Jenny told me you might want more lessons, and that I should not have as much time. My other governesses said painting was too disorderly for a proper young lady.”

“I can assure you that will not be the case,” Maggie replied. “There will be lessons, yes—but always time for painting.”

This seemed to set Emma’s mind at rest. She glanced up at Jenny, who gave her an encouraging smile. 

“And this painting—is it from your imagination too?” Maggie asked.

“Not exactly,” Emma said. “Uncle described it to me. He tells me stories about Mama’s home—all the gardens and flowers. I never met her, you see. Uncle says I must try to remember her.”

Maggie blinked, at a loss. It was not what one expected from a child. Managing her might prove more delicate than she’d thought.

“How very nice,” she said gently.

Emma beamed, inching closer.

She wants me to hug her, Maggie realised suddenly. Does no one ever hold this child?

Before she could act, quick footsteps sounded in the corridor. A footman appeared at the door, breathless. He whispered to Mrs Thornton, whose face stiffened.

“I see. Thank you, Simon.”

Turning back, she said heavily, “It seems His Grace will see you after all. Come at once.”

“That is good,” Maggie replied briskly, rising and smoothing her skirts.

To her surprise, Emma slumped back onto her stool, tears springing in her eyes. 

“Oh, no, Mrs Thornton. I like Miss Winters,” she mumbled mournfully. 

Maggie gave a nervous laugh. “Why, I shall come straight back, Miss Emma!”

“Uncle has already frightened away all my other governesses,” the child murmured.

Surely a jest. Maggie smiled uncertainly at Mrs Thornton, who only sighed.

“Yes, Miss Emma, we know. But perhaps Miss Winters will be the exception. We shall see.”

With that, she swept from the room, and Maggie hurried after her.

Yes, Maggie thought grimly. We shall indeed.

Brace yourself, your Grace. I am going nowhere. There is nowhere for me to go. 

Chapter Two

Mrs Thornton swept along the corridors at a brisk pace, her heels clicking smartly against the tiles, never once glancing back to see if Maggie kept up.

“Is it true, then—what they say about him?” Maggie ventured at last, a little breathless.

Mrs Thornton cast her a sharp look over her shoulder. “And what do they say, Miss Winter?”

“Well, I am sure you’ve heard.”

“Enlighten me,” Mrs Thornton returned, her tone as crisp as a whip-crack.

Maggie swallowed. Well, I’ve started; I’d best go on.

“I only meant that he is said to be something of a gambler. Not a spendthrift, of course, but a most formidable player.”

She was being charitable. In certain parts of London, the Duke of Burenwood’s name was met with a curse.

“The Gambling Devil,” one man had muttered, spitting to the side. “You want no dealings with that one, missy. Ruins lives, he does.”

The man in question had been a coachman offering passage, about ten miles outside of London. He had apparently withdrawn his offer when he learned where Maggie was trying to go. It shocked her, somewhat, and hinted that the man’s reputation extended far beyond London itself. 

Maggie had no chance to explain further, for Mrs Thornton stopped so abruptly that she almost collided with her.

“I’ll have no truck with gossip in this house, Miss Winter,” she said sharply, her eyes glinting. “A little harmless chatter is one thing, but I will not abide slander—least of all against the duke. The man pays our wages, if that has escaped you.”

Maggie blinked, taken aback. “I… It isn’t slander.”

“Oh, no? And you know the truth of it, do you?” The housekeeper’s tone could have curdled milk. “Mind your tongue, Miss Winter, or you’ll be out of this house faster than the rest—and that would be a pity, for Miss Emma seems to have taken a liking to you.”

Without waiting for a reply, Mrs Thornton turned and strode off again, leaving Maggie wide-eyed in her wake.

I cannot recall the last time anyone scolded me so soundly, she thought wryly, and hurried after her.

They went on in silence for what felt like ten minutes, winding through stairways and corridors, until at last Mrs Thornton halted before a tall, rounded door marked ‘Study’.

Whatever sort of guardian he is, Maggie thought grimly, he clearly prefers the nursery kept well away from his own rooms.

Mrs Thornton drew herself up, gave Maggie a quick, appraising glance, sighed, and knocked.

“Enter,” came a gravelled voice from within. She opened the door but did not step inside. “Miss Winter,” she said, gesturing.

Maggie obeyed—and found herself in a large, airy chamber with high ceilings and bookshelves lining every wall. A great window poured sunlight upon a battered desk set before it. A man sat there, his figure half-silhouetted by the glare.

Maggie advanced a few paces. London had taught her what men’s studies could be like—dim, dusty, and jealously guarded from the maids’ dust-cloths. But this room was immaculate; even the bookshelves gleamed.

The door clicked shut behind her. She turned—Mrs Thornton had gone. She was alone.

Alone with the duke.

A faint scratching told her he was writing.

He must know I am here, she thought, a twinge of irritation rising. He summoned me, after all.

She cleared her throat. The pen stilled.

“Yes, Miss Winter?”

The voice was deep, a little rough—like a man recovering from a cold, or accustomed to giving orders at a shout. It startled her.

“Well, I’m here, your Grace. You sent for me.”

“And you would like me to drop what I am doing to attend you, is that it?”

A chill prickled down her spine. She reminded herself that this was her employer now, and that a good reference might one day stand between her and ruin.

“No, of course not,” she said lightly, folding her hands before her. She schooled her face into patient calm, though she longed to shift her weight. There was no chair set before the desk, only one large armchair turned towards the fire—and she did not presume it for herself.

With a sigh, the man laid down his pen and rose.

He kept rising—taller and broader than fashion allowed, his shoulders near blocking the sun.

When he stepped away from the window’s blaze—perhaps positioned there to dazzle his visitors—she saw him clearly for the first time.

The Duke of Burenwood was far younger than she had imagined. She had pictured a severe man of forty, grey at the temples and lined about the eyes. Instead, this one could not be thirty. His hair, thick and black, brushed his collar—far too long for Town. His suit was dark green, slightly faded, stretched across a chest that needed no padding. His cravat was tied in a simple knot, unadorned by a pin. London’s dandies would have sniffed—but perhaps envied his figure.

Not that I ought to notice such things, she told herself sternly. Yet with shoulders like those, who could help it?

“You are Miss Margaret Winter, then,” he said, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe. His lips compressed, as though at some disappointment.

His tone was so cold that she almost shrank. But those days of shrinking were behind her. She straightened instead and met his eye with composure.

“I am, your Grace.”

He blinked, perhaps surprised that she did not look away. She debated whether she ought to; it was already too late. To drop her gaze now would seem weakness.

He could not be more than thirty, she thought again, taking in the strong, symmetrical features—almost classical in their lines. His eyes were a strange, stormy blue, like the sea under thunderclouds. In London, women would have called him handsome, had he only trimmed his hair, bought a proper coat, and frowned a little less.

“You are a long way from London, Miss Winter,” he said abruptly.

“Yes.”

He raised his brows, waiting for elaboration, and when she offered none, the silence grew taut, broken only by the steady tick of the mantel clock.

Two can play at that game, she thought hotly. What business is it of his why I am here? I am ready to work—that should suffice.

At last, he said, “You are very bold, Miss Winter.”

“I—”

“That was not a question. Let me be plain. Three governesses have left this house within the past two months. Three. Their failing, it seems, was an inability to endure my household’s requirements. I expect discipline, order, and honesty. I did not think those demands excessive, but evidently I was mistaken. Tell me—am I mistaken with you also? Are you afraid, Miss Winter?”

She swallowed and kept her gaze steady. He is trying to frighten me, she thought. Trying to drive me off. But why?

“I am not the least bit afraid,” she said evenly, lifting her chin. “I have managed difficult households before.”

He arched a brow. “You equate discipline with difficulty? An odd notion for a governess.”

“Not at all, your Grace. Perhaps I speak out of turn, but I did not think Miss Emma a child in need of great discipline.”

His brow furrowed. “You have met my niece already?”

“Yes—Mrs Thornton took me there directly upon my arrival.”

Something flickered across his face—displeasure, perhaps? Had the formidable housekeeper overstepped her bounds? Impossible.

Abruptly, he turned away, striding to his desk. He sat heavily, once more half-hidden in sunlight.

“You may go, Miss Winter,” he said curtly. “My niece requires firm discipline and a proper education. By that I mean mathematics, geography, history, the sciences—no idle nonsense. I will not have her walking about with a book balanced on her head and calling it education.”

“I shouldn’t dream of it, your Grace,” she returned smoothly. “Though balancing a book upon one’s head is excellent for posture.”

He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“But never fear,” she added blithely. “I shall make her read the book first.”

He stared at her, clearly uncertain what to make of her.

“Do we have an understanding or not, Miss Winter?” he demanded at last. “If not, you may take yourself off this very day.”

That was a sharp reminder of how precarious her position truly was. If she were turned away, there was nowhere else to go.

So she smiled, dipping a curtsey—perhaps a touch too graceful for a governess, but the expression of bewilderment on his face almost made it worth the risk.

“I shall, of course, follow your instructions, your Grace,” she said coolly. “As to discipline, I have always found that children respond better to understanding.”

He leaned back in his seat, already engrossed in the papers on his desk. “Do you? Well, follow the rules and you may think as you please.”

With an absent wave, he dismissed her.

Maggie, stifling indignation, turned to the door, opened it, and hesitated. It was foolish to seek the last word—but she could not help herself.

“As one who grew up motherless, your Grace,” she said softly, “I know how a child feels who has lost such love. One carries the weight of that absence every day.”

The duke inhaled sharply, his head snapping up. For an instant, she saw his face—startled, stricken—before she closed the door.

Outside, the corridor was empty. Mrs Thornton was nowhere in sight. Maggie picked a direction at random and walked as fast as she could.

Fool, she scolded herself. You’ve likely ruined everything before you have even begun.

Too late now. She forced her thoughts away from the stern duke and tried instead to concentrate on not getting lost.

It appeared she would fail at both.

Chapter Three

Neil stared at the closed door for a full minute after Miss Winter had gone. He found himself unsettled in a way he had not been for years. What was it about that woman that had so discomposed him?

She had been defiant, forthright, and perhaps rather more quick-tempered than a governess ought to be. She was also, in his opinion, uncommonly pretty. There was nothing wrong with a man observing the beauty of a woman, provided he kept such observations to himself.

He reached for his pen and noticed, with irritation, that his hand was shaking. How absurd.

Miss Winter was certainly not the prettiest governess he had ever employed. Miss Swaddle—the second of the three who had come and gone in as many months—had been truly beautiful. Golden hair, clear blue eyes, a doll’s perfect face. Half the menservants had been in love with her, and, unless he was much mistaken, she had been making eyes at him as well.

It had made little difference. Emma had disliked her, and Mrs Thornton had soon followed suit. Miss Swaddle had left in floods of tears within a fortnight.

So I return to my original point, Neil thought grimly. Why am I so distracted by Miss Winter?

It could only be her manner—so outspoken, so unexpected. No doubt that had thrown him off balance. Perhaps, at least, her spirit would be good for Emma. The child needed confidence, and Jenny Miller was too mild to inspire it.

Neil bent again over his correspondence, determined to focus, but concentration would not come. His pen hovered so long that a fat blot of ink fell and ruined the sheet. With a muttered oath, he set the pen aside, crossed the room, and poured himself a measure of brandy. It was far too early in the day for brandy, but he felt shaken.

What was it she said? That she knows how a child feels, bereft of a mother’s love. 

He tightened his grip on the glass. 

She believes that I am a bad guardian. 

There was no reply to make, even in his own thoughts. It was not a new accusation; he had seen the same quiet judgment in the eyes of several governesses—and a few so-called friends. They thought him wrong to keep Emma far from London.

“How will she marry, when the time comes?” somebody had said once. 

“She is seven,” Neil had replied, tartly enough to silence further questions.

He took a long swallow of brandy and set the matter aside. Miss Winter, sharp as she was, knew nothing of his life, nor of the choices he had made. He had no intention of explaining himself. She need never know why he frequented the gaming tables, nor why Emma must be kept away from Town. There were men—and women—in London who would stoop to anything, even to using a child as leverage.

A sudden drumming of hooves sounded on the drive. Neil turned to the window and saw a lanky young man riding towards the house as if hellhounds were at his heels. 

Sighing, Neil turned back to the decanter and poured another glass. A moment later came hurried footsteps in the passage, a murmur from Crawford—and then the door burst open.

“He won’t be upset, Crawford!” the man shouted over his shoulder. “He’ll want to see me, I promise!” 

“Don’t be too sure, Simon,” Neil said dryly, holding out the brandy. “You only ride like a madman when you bring bad news. Out with it.”

Simon grinned, shedding his jacket and tossing it carelessly onto a chair.

“Your butler does not like me bursting in,” he remarked, taking the brandy and downing it in one gulp.”

“Nor do I. You take too many liberties for a steward, my friend.”

Simon’s grin widened. “Ah, but not for a cousin.” He dropped into an armchair, stretching his long legs over the side. As tall as Neil but far slighter, Simon had earned the name Beanpole at Eton. His nose was hooked, his brown curls rebellious, his face pleasant and clever. He was said to have a better head for figures—and a far better temper—than his cousin.

“Where’s the new governess?” Simon asked. “Arrived yet?”

“She has. I have just concluded our interview.”

Simon groaned. “I told you to wait.”

“And why should I require your presence to engage a governess?”

Simon leaned forward, bracing one bony elbow on his knee. 

“You’ll wish you’d waited when you hear what I have to say. Victor is on the move again. He’s in a state.”

Neil stilled. “I thought Lord Bramwell had every intention of sitting quiet while we kept him under watch. Our men said he’d been as good as gold of late. I was beginning to believe we would never gather enough evidence to convict him.”

Simon gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes. And to convict a member of the Parliament, one needs a mountain of proof. The man’s a murderer several times over, but no one has ever seen him misstep.”

“But you say you have new information?”

“Of a kind. You see, our Lord Bramwell has his mind set on love.”

“On what?”

“To marriage. You must have heard the talk. No formal notice yet, but—”

“Oh, yes,” Neil said grimly. “He was pursuing someone. A Miss Camden, was it not? I imagine she was well dowered. Lord Bramwell would never marry for love.”

“Ah, that’s the thing. Miss Camden was poor as a church mouse. Her father owed Bramwell a ruinous sum, and everyone thought the marriage would clear it.”

Neil nodded. Nothing from Lord Bramwell could surprise him. They had scarcely scratched the surface of his offences, yet what was known already was various and appalling: murder, of course; extortion, blackmail, and bribery; violence and frauds of every description. The man was vile through and through. In his rages, he beat his servants, and pretty housemaids were sent weeping from his doors in the small hours—enceinte and no prospects. 

Much like a swan—hard flurry beneath the water, all grace above—Bramwell showed Society none of this ugliness. He was accounted a man of scandal (servants will talk), yet remained welcome enough: rich, well-born, and a Member of Parliament. It was no wonder to Neil that such a man had found a bride.

“Well, the wedding’s off,” Simon said with satisfaction.

“I cannot blame her. She came to her senses?”

“No, she ran. The girl vanished without trace. Bramwell is making the most determined enquiries—and he is looking for a governess.”

Neil stopped pacing. “A what?”

“A governess.” Simon reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheet. “He’s sent this round through his network. All London is looking for her.”

Neil unfolded it. “And she has not been found—which suggests she has left London. A sensible girl. Where is her father?”

“No idea. But if she was willing to marry Bramwell to save him, what changed her mind?”

“Better question,” Simon said dryly, “why hasn’t he changed his? Bramwell is not short of prospects. Why so intent on one simple governess? Take a look at the sketch—she’s pretty enough, but no Society beauty. There’s more in this, Neil, you mark my words.” 

Neil said nothing because he was staring down at the paper; jaw agape. The paper was dominated by a sketch of a young woman, staring angrily out, and a few lines of description were written below. 

She was, unquestionably, the very same woman who had left his study only moments before. 

“This—” Neil managed, waving the paper at Simon, “—is Miss Winter. The woman I have just hired as Emma’s governess.”

Simon let out a low whistle. “I feared as much. Governesses flee London all the time, but this coincidence seemed too neat.”

Neil leaned against his desk, staring down at the sketch. Even rendered in ink, those eyes stared back at him defiantly. 

What made you run, Miss Winter? What did you see?

“Who is her father?” he heard himself ask quietly.

“Thomas Camden. A cloth merchant, by trade—and a fool. He owes Bramwell ten thousand pounds.”

Neil gave a low whistle. “Plus interest.”

“Naturally. He could never pay it, so he offered his daughter in lieu. To everyone’s astonishment, Bramwell accepted.”

“And did she accept?”

Simon frowned. “I do not recall anyone saying. I assumed she had.”

“Assume nothing,” Neil said sharply. “From what I have seen of this woman, she would never allow herself to be bartered so. Still, it matters little. What matters is that Bramwell believes he has a claim upon her—and means to find her.”

“He’s offering gold for information,” Simon warned. “And gold loosens tongues. You must send her away.”

Neil’s head came up. “Send her away?”

“Yes. Otherwise Bramwell will trace her here.”

Neil paced the room, rolling the paper into a tight cylinder and tapping it against his palm.

“If I send her away, and he follows her trail, he’ll come here regardless,” he said at last. “Besides—she must know something about him. There’s a reason she fled. Why not simply refuse him?”

“Perhaps she feared he would turn his wrath upon her father.”

“And running away would not do that? No. It takes courage—desperation, even—for a young woman, alone and penniless, to flee her home. There is more to this.”

Simon pursed his lips. “She did not strike you as naïve?”

Neil allowed himself a faint smile. “Not particularly.”

“Then she knows her own mind. All the same, I’d send her away. Think on it.”

Neil turned back to the window. He realised he was still holding his half-full glass of brandy and set it down. Simon immediately claimed the decanter.

“You don’t mind if I have another, do you, old boy?”

“Would it make any difference if I said no?”

“None whatever,” Simon said cheerfully, pouring himself a generous measure. “It’s too late now, but I should like to meet this Miss Winter—Miss Camden, I should say. What was she like?”

“Intelligent. Outspoken. Rather insolent, truth be told.”

“I like her already,” Simon laughed, settling back. “What does Mrs Thornton make of her?”

“She has not said. Though she took her straight to meet Emma—that seems a favourable sign. She never allowed Miss Swaddle that privilege so soon.”

And what if Emma loves her? Neil thought suddenly. She seems the sort a child might attach herself to. How could I send her away if she is exactly what Emma needs?

It was a sobering question.

“What did Jenny think of her?” Simon asked casually.

“I did not ask.”

“Ahem. You should. Jenny has a knack for people. Everyone in the village says so. Clever little creature, that Jenny—very clever indeed.”

“Indeed,” Neil murmured absently. His mind was elsewhere.

He had no doubt that love had nothing to do with Bramwell’s pursuit. There was something else—something darker—and Neil meant to uncover it. Miss Winter might hold the key, though she would not reveal it willingly. Not yet.

Could I win her trust? he wondered. Unlikely.

Charm was Simon’s domain, not his. Neil was too severe, too blunt; people found him unapproachable. How unlike his sister he was—Catherine, the kindest soul that ever lived.

At the thought of her, his chest tightened painfully.

“If Cat were here,” he murmured, “she’d have Miss Winter charmed in a heartbeat.”

A long silence followed. Then came the creak of the armchair, and Simon’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

“I know you want Bramwell brought to justice,” he said quietly, “but you’re not the only one pursuing him. I fear this quest is consuming you, Neil. Vengeance won’t bring Catherine back. Meanwhile, her daughter lives under your roof, longing for your notice. Emma—”

“Emma will be best served to know her mother was avenged,” Neil said sharply, turning away. “That will do, Simon. You know what to do.”

Simon sighed. “I’ll make further enquiries—see what more can be learned.”

“Good. That’s what we need—information. As for Miss Winter, she stays. For now.”