“Why so glum, Agnes? I should think you’d be in transports after receiving Lord Devonwych’s message,” observed Sarah Butler.

Agnes Pixley, headmistress of a fashionable ladies seminary in Kent, stopped squinting at the astonishing letter that had come in the post to peer myopically at her first cousin. “I know I should, Sarah. I keep telling myself I must be happy, if only for Diantha’s sake, but...”

“I confess I don’t understand you,” Miss Butler confided. “His lordship’s unexpected summons is an answer to your prayers. With her penchant for mischief, Diantha Fraser has been a thorn in your side ever since you felt obliged to engage her as music teacher.”

“You malign the child unjustly. She is an excellent instructress, and you must own her musical talents are remarkable. Besides, I had no other choice. The letter I received in response to the one I wrote to her father, advising him that his natural daughter was ready to leave the schoolroom, instructed me to find her a suitable post.”

“No doubt Lord Devonwych considered his obligation discharged upon completion of her education. ‘Tis a cruel world, cousin.”

“Very true! Unfortunately both her youth and her beauty made it impossible for me to comply with his request. Fashionable young matrons with young children do not wish to compete with a winsome governess for their husband’s attentions, whereas the elder mamas would consider Diantha too tempting a morsel to dangle before their stripling sons. But what man understands that?”

So Miss Pixley had ignored inner qualms and engaged Miss Fraser as the school’s musical instructress, drawing what comfort she could from the girl’s rich contralto voice--the envy of the neighborhood at Sunday chapel--while doing her best not to dwell overly much on Diantha’s lively spirits.

A light scratching upon the study door cut short the headmistress’s musings. “That will be Miss Fraser come in answer to my summons.”

The headmistress waited until her cousin quit the room before issuing a gruff command to enter. The door widened to allow nineteen-year-old Diantha Fraser to step inside. As usual, Miss Pixley experienced a tug on her heartstrings, for the sight of her former pupil attired in serviceable brown wool filled her with sad resignation.

“You wish to see me, ma’am?” Diantha’s voice was slightly husky, tinged with curiosity, yet melodious.

“I do. Kindly oblige me by closing the door and taking a chair.”

Diantha sat on a plain wooden chair, vainly attempting to tuck a recalcitrant tendril of raven-black hair into the coiled knot at the base of her neck. She looked expectantly at Miss Pixley.

“I have splendid news, child. Your father is not well and wishes to see you.”

To the elder woman’s dismay, Diantha’s rosy complexion blanched. As the girl took refuge in a nearby chair, Miss Pixley bit her tongue.

“What a bubblehead I am! I should have broken it to you gradually. Would you like some vinaigrette?”

“No, ma’am. I’ll be myself in a trice.”

“To be sure. How fortunate your father has fallen ill. Dear me, that’s not what I mean precisely. What I meant to say is how nice that he wishes to receive you at last.”

“Fiddle! It is only his nagging conscience, I daresay. No matter. I’ve not the least intention of indulging his whim.”

It was Miss Pixley’s turn to go pale. Indeed, the vehemence smoldering in Miss Fraser’s eyes caused the hairs to stiffen on the back of the headmistress’s scrawny neck.

“Have a care, Miss! Must I remind you he is your father. A nobleman too! He deserves your respect.”

“Does he? Why?”

Miss Pixley’s tone was as repressive as Diantha’s had been impudent. “I had no idea you harbored such resentment against that excellent man. I must say your attitude is not the least bit becoming.”

In a cold fury, Diantha retorted, “You can hardly expect me to fly into transports because my father has finally consented to receive me. Need I remind you, he washed his hands of me when I turned eighteen?”

The headmistress shook her head. “Poor misguided innocent. Useless to rail at the world, you know. I don’t mean to refine overmuch upon it, but given your circumstance of birth, you are quite fortunate to have been educated. That’s to your father’s credit, particularly in light of the cloud surrounding your mother’s death.”

“Cloud? What cloud?” Diantha asked, obviously intrigued.

Miss Pixley looked stricken. “It is not my place to enlighten you.”

Diantha took a deep breath and straightened her spine. “With all due respect, Miss Pixley, I am a grown woman and have been earning my keep for the past year. Surely I have a right to know.”

“So you do. All the more reason you should pay your father a visit. He’s the proper person to ask, not me.”

A look of bleakness stole into the young girl’s face as bits and pieces of fragmented memory came rushing back. Beautiful Mama dressed for the opera bending to brush a soft kiss on her cheek. It had been the last time she’d seen her. For that matter, after that night she’d scarcely seen dearest Papa, who’d barricaded himself in his own suite and, according to kitchen gossip, had refused to emerge--even for Mama’s funeral.

Without warning, Diantha was seized with an intense longing for the loving security she’d lost so inexplicably shortly after her eighth birthday. Her vision blurred.

Miss Pixley clucked sympathetically. “Have a good cry, child. I daresay you will have ample time to pack your trunk before his lordship’s coach arrives on the doorstep.”

Brushing away tears with an angry swipe, Diantha leapt to her feet. “But, ma’am, after his shabby treatment, I don’t wish to go to my father. I prefer to make my own way in the world.”

Frustrated, the headmistress wrung her hands. “Diantha Fraser, that’s outside of enough! For all you know, he’s on his deathbed. Surely you are not so hard-hearted that you’d refuse a dying man’s last wish.”

Her young charge gripped the arms of her chair so hard her knuckles whitened. Her voice flat with despair, she said, “I’ve the right of it now. What with my lamentable tendency to become involved in girlish pranks, you wish me gone. Only please, ma’am, let me stay. I give you my solemn word to reform.”

Miss Pixley’s face softened as understanding dawned. She threw her bony arms about the troubled young woman. “No such thing! I will own you try my patience at times, but I’ve no wish to be rid of you. All I want is what is best for you. My wish for each of my pupils.”

“Then I may stay on?” Diantha’s gray eyes anxiously scanned the elder woman’s face.

“Go to your father, child. Afterward, should you wish to return here, I shall be most happy to receive you.”

Again bleak despair dominated Diantha’s features. Rising, the young woman sighed. “I must go then?”

“It is the wisest course,” Miss Pixley advised gently.

Diantha was half way to the door before she whirled about. “What of Miss Stracey’s voice lesson? I should be with her directly.”

The headmistress issued a wintry smile. “I believe it may be safely canceled. Indeed, I never imagined you would turn her into a songbird.”

A shaky chuckle escaped Diantha. “Very true! Poor widgeon cannot carry a tune in a bucket! But I know you need every shilling you can lay your hands on to keep this establishment running. Far be it for me to ever throw a spoke in your wheel.”

As usual, Diantha’s candor was accompanied by an innocent smile. The combination never failed to beguile Miss Pixley. Nevertheless, she felt obliged to deliver a mild rebuke. “Mind your saucy tongue, Miss!”

Too far away to see the twinkle in the headmistress’s eye, Diantha murmured contritely, “Indeed, ma’am, I beg your pardon.”

* * * * *

The clock chimed thrice as Sebastian Pemborough, Sixth Marquess of Ravistock, carried the dozing noblewoman across the entry hall and up the carpeted stairs. Entering Lady Fitzwilliam’s boudoir, he noted the candles were now guttering in their sockets. With infinite care, he placed her on the bed, then gazed at her tousled mass of red-gold curls, at her alabaster skin, slightly flushed at the cheeks. Asleep, Honoria looked positively angelic; awake, she was capable of giving the devil a run for his money.

Ravistock’s lips twitched. Not that he meant to complain. Her ladyship might be a spoiled little schemer, accustomed to bending all men who crossed her path to her will, but on the plus side of the ledger, she was a perfect pocket Venus. Even more gratifying, Ravistock found her to be passionate, a rarity in the upper circles of society, despite the tendency of neglected aristocratic wives to acquire a lover--once they’d provided their husband with an heir.

Honoria’s eyelids fluttered open and she asked, “What time is it?”

“After three, my lovely. Time we parted.”

“But we just arrived. Must you go? Henry seldom gets in before dawn,” she coaxed softly.

“Even so, we must be discreet. If I linger, I may be seen leaving. I’ve no wish to blemish your reputation.”

“Bother my reputation!” Lady Fitzwilliam exclaimed, reshaping cherry red lips into a pout.

Sebastian’s sudden surge of impatience surprised him. Usually he found her womanly wiles enchanting. Usually he didn’t mind that this lovely morsel--with a scant twenty summers in her dish--had no more brains than a peahen. As he started to edge discreetly toward the door, her eyes glittered like emeralds and she gave him one of her most enticing smiles.

“Do you know what I wish?” she asked.

Ravistock shook his head. Honoria was a lovely creature but her willfulness was beginning to pall. “Suppose you tell me.”

“I wish you and I would sail away to Italy and live in a villa. Just imagine, Sebastian. No more having to part in the middle of the night. Come morning, we’d wake in each other’s arms. Best of all, we need not concern ourselves with what the ton thinks.”

“Fly to Italy?” He gave an ungentlemanly snort. “Pray don’t be a goose! Such a course would be certain to ruin you. That is not going to happen. Not if I have anything to say about it,” Ravistock asserted with pardonable firmness.

At this juncture, Honoria’s abigail burst into the room. Lady Fitzwilliam glared at her maid. “What is the meaning of this intrusion, Nan?”

“Oh, ma’am, I fear you are undone. Sir Henry’s downstairs. Drunk as a lord, he is! Yelling to the top of his lungs. He’s coming up here!”

“Angels defend us!” cried Lady Fitzwilliam.

Sebastian laughed sardonically. Bad enough that he’d cuckolded Sir Henry. He had no wish to compound his transgression. Thus, should it come to a duel, he would have to delope. And Sir Henry, that silly young cawker, was a crack shot. Sebastian had no wise to die. His wisest course, it seemed, was to avoid the confrontation entirely.

“Calm yourself, Honoria,” he commanded, tossing the abigail a guinea. “Go you below stairs, Nan, and do your best to stall him.”

“Gladly, milord. I make no doubt Biggers could use a hand. The master was carrying on something fierce when I slipped upstairs to warn milady.”

“Off with you then, Nan! There’s a good girl!”

The instant the door closed, Honoria said, “What good will it do to stall him? Sooner or later, he’s bound to come here and then I’m undone.”

“Not, madam, if I leave by way of the balcony.”

Honoria clapped her hands. “I’d forgotten you used to climb up the drainpipe at first. So romantic!”

“Farewell, sweetling,” Sebastian called as he swung off the balcony and caught hold of the sturdy elm branch.

* * * * *

Several hours later, inside the Earl of Devonwych’s townhouse overlooking Cavendish Square, the ailing peer’s housekeeper gently jostled his shoulder. “My lord, are you awake?”

His lordship had been dozing but now he came to his senses with a start. “What do you want, Crawford?”

“The Marquess of Ravistock is come. You bade me to rouse you the instant he appeared.”

“So I did. Show him up.”

Though stouthearted, Mrs. Crawford hesitated. While the present Earl of Devonwych had ever been plagued with a ghostly pallor, of late, his pale white skin had taken on a grayish cast that she could not like.

“Quit dawdling, woman. Get Ravistock. It’s imperative I speak to him.”

“Pray don’t excite yourself, my lord. I’ll fetch him directly.”

Minutes later, Crawford returned with his visitor. “The Marquess of Ravistock, my lord,” she announced before she withdrew.

“Appreciate your promptness, Sebastian,” said Devonwych.

“Not at all, sir,” the marquess replied politely.

Truth be told, he’d barely completed his toilet before the footman had come with the earl’s note. He’d been looking forward to a large breakfast. Instead, he’d settled for a cup of coffee and a roll, much to his protesting stomach’s displeasure.

Sebastian was quite fond of the earl, who’d had the kindness to take him under his wing when he’d first joined the Admiralty staff. It was common knowledge that his mentor was gravely ill. Thus, he’d felt it only prudent to answer his summons without delay.

“How may I serve you, my lord?”

“I’ve a favor I would ask of you.”

“If it’s within my power, I’m at your service.”

“Minute I laid eyes on you I knew you were a right one!” The Earl waved a frail arm toward a sealed letter lying on the night table. “Take that with you when you leave. Mind, you don’t read it until after I’m gone.”

“You have my word, sir. Anything else?”

“I’ve sent for my natural daughter, Diantha. Shipped her off to school in Kent when her mother died. Want to see her comfortably settled before I cock up my toes.”

“Admirable sentiment, sir. However, I fail to see what you need me for.”

“Want you to keep an eye on Richmond. Though he’s my son and heir, never could stand him. I know it’s presumptuous to ask, but I need someone to protect her from his malicious streak.”

“I’ll do what I can, but you must understand I’ve no authority over him.”

Devonwych sighed. “Even so, my honor compels me to ask. Least I can do for the chit after neglecting her all these years. If I know Richmond, he’ll try to turn her out of the house the minute I die. She’s to stay on through the funeral. However, it’s after the will is read that has me worried. Richmond’ll be mad as a hatter. Don’t let him use Diantha as a scapegoat.”

“Never fear. I shall hover nearby until after the reading of the will. Does that ease your mind, sir?”

“Yes, it does. Now that our business is done, allow me to congratulate you for succeeding to your father’s title.”

“Thank you, sir. The honor was wholly unexpected. Father was in sound health.”

“Just so. Who would have thought he’d be cut down on the hunting field? Bloody shame! But then, none of us know for certain when it is our turn, do we?”

“No, indeed.” The Marquess’s eyes narrowed pensively. “I fear the estates my father left me are in sorry shape. Though I’m by no means a pauper, thanks to a legacy received from my mother’s side of the family, I still see no way to bring them up to snuff at present.”

“Take my advice, my boy, marry an heiress. That way you can repair the family coffers depleted by your scapegrace father. High time you settled down and set up your nursery.”

“Nursery? I’m only six and twenty.”

“I daresay it’s presumptuous of me to tell you how to go on but frankly I don’t like your dalliance with Lady Fitzwilliam. You may want to consider changing course before you embroil yourself in a scandal. Speaking from experience, there is nothing so devastating. Think on it, lad, think on it.”

“I promise I will. Now I’d best go. You look worn to the bone.”

“By all means take yourself off. Mind you, don’t forget to take my letter along.”

“No danger of that, sir.” Sebastian picked it up and slipped into an inside pocket of his coat.

Devonwych watched Ravistock stroll across the room in long easy strides, and just as the marquess reachedthe threshold, the earl muttered softly, “Goodbye and Godspeed.”