Fiona Hill Anthology

By Fiona Hill

A sparkling collection of Regency romances from the popular author with “considerably more wit and pizazz than the legendary Georgette [Heyer] herself” (Kirkus Reviews).

A true artist of Regency romance, Fiona Hill paints pictures of the past with warmth and charm, enchanting readers the world over with her beautiful, heartfelt tales.

Ladies and lords, viscounts and estates, Fiona Hill weaves spellbinding stories that bring readers back in time and set them in the middle of household intrigue, of passion and peril, of complicated men and independent women. In these nine tour-de-force novels, Hill takes her readers on a journey to a bygone era, into the beating heart of Regency-era England, where trouble is always afoot—and so is new love . . .

Praise for the novels of Fiona Hill

“In the battle of the sexes waged in this lively Regency romance, the contestants are overtaken by circumstances . . . The victory is detailed with wit and verve.”—Publishers Weekly on The Country Gentleman

“[A] very un-fusty Regency frolic, this one featuring a quartet of nicely matched pairs . . . another little winner.”—Kirkus Reviews on The Stanbroke Girls

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jun 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781626815964

Fiona Hill

FIONA HILL is the Robert Bosch Senior Fellow at the Center on the United States and Europe in the Foreign Policy program at the Brookings Institution. From 2017 to 2019, she served as deputy assistant to the president and senior director for European and Russian affairs on the National Security Council. From 2006 to 2009, she served as national intelligence officer for Russia and Eurasia at the National Intelligence Council. She has researched and published extensively on issues related to Russia, the Caucasus, Central Asia, regional conflicts, energy, and strategic issues. Coauthor of Mr. Putin: Operative in the Kremlin and The Siberian Curse: How Communist Planners Left Russia Out in the Cold, she holds a master’s degree in Soviet studies and a doctorate in history from Harvard University and a master’s in Russian and modern history from St. Andrews University in Scotland. She also has pursued studies at Moscow’s Maurice Thorez Institute of Foreign Languages. Hill is a member of the Council on Foreign Relations and lives in the Washington, DC, area.

Book preview

Fiona Hill Anthology

The Practical Heart

The Trellised Lane

The Wedding Portrait

Love in a Major Key

Sweet’s Folly

The Love Child

The Autumn Rose

The Stanbroke Girls

The Country Gentleman

Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright © by Ellen Pall

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information, email [e-mail]

Diversion Books Anthology Edition November 2014

ISBN: 978-1-62681-596-4

FionaHill_ThePracticalHeart

The Practical Heart

Fiona Hill

To my parents

Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright © 1975 by Ellen Pall

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information, email [e-mail]

First Diversion Books edition November 2014

ISBN: 978-1-62681-472-1

Chapter I

Nonetheless, said Miss Gillian Spencer firmly, your advertisement was misleading at best, my Lord.

Misleading? countered the Viscount. Say, rather, tinged with the last, rosy rays of a sinking optimism; say, rather, hopeful, though mistaken in its hopefulness; say, rather, obscured somewhat by rhetoric. Do not, I beg, call it misleading!

But it was, my Lord, Gillian persisted. You offered the post of companion to two young ladies of quality, about to make their come-out—I believe that was your phrase?

Thereabouts, he admitted, but indeed that is just what it is. Only wait until you have met my daughters, I pray.

Begging your pardon, sir, your daughters have nothing to say to it. It is impossible, utterly impossible, to enter London society from such a house as this!

Oh, do not say impossible, the Viscount pleaded earnestly. Difficult, perhaps; challenging, even better—but impossible! Such a dismal word, so moribund, so distressing, so, as it were, final…

I suppose it is my own fault, said Miss Spencer, more to herself than to Viscount Sherbourne. I ought to have visited the address you gave before accepting the post. Still, I thought a place called The Haven, Berkeley Square—well, I thought it could not help but be quite elegant.

And so, indeed, it was, the Viscount affirmed, some forty or fifty years ago. At least, I expect it was. And so, indeed, must Catteroyes have been—once, he ended sadly.

Yes, that is another thing. It never occurred to me but that Catteroyes, Essex, must be a stately county seat. I suppose now it is just such another ruin as this?

Miss Spencer, I must ask you not to say so! Not a ruin, no; say rather…Oh dear, he sighed at last, words failing him as they very rarely did, I expect one would call it a ruin after all. But very stately—once.

Gillian looked about her. That The Haven had at one time been quite a magnificent mansion was indisputable; the frayed Turkish carpets, the faded velvet hangings, the gilt peeling from the walls testified to that. Now, however, the rich furnishings told a tale of sad decay. Gillian reflected that no matter how elegant the proportions of a house, it could not for long survive with dignity the ravages of time and neglect. And how, if you please, sir, do you intend to pay my wages?

"Well I do have some money, Valerian pointed out, and though it is not, perhaps, quite as much as one would like to have, it should suffice to sustain us until—"

Until one of your daughters makes a wealthy match, I suppose. That is your notion, is it not?

A wealthy… Valerian echoed, then continued, an advantageous connection, I should prefer to say. You see, they are so charming—

Your Lordship, Gillian interrupted with a sigh, say no more, I beg. Little though I like it, I must admit I have no choice but to oblige you with my services. You see, I too am quite without means: I spent my last shilling on the coach fare from Bath. The Viscount eyed her curiously and she added, My late employer was a shocking pinchpenny—thrifty, I expect you would call it. She left me, in her will, a necklace—paste and glass, sir, and quite worthless—and nothing more. Not even my wages for the remainder of the term, she concluded.

Scandalous! said the Viscount.

I rather thought so, she agreed, with a small smile.

And yet, it means you will be staying with us, so I suppose it is all for the best. And now that it is settled, there is one detail which, as it were, cuts up my peace: are not you rather younger than you might have been? I believe I advertised for a middle-aged lady?

I am twenty-seven, said Gillian bluntly, and it is ten years since I had my first season, and nine years since I seated myself firmly on the shelf. My family, straitened as we were, had much the same thought once as you seem to have: ‘Put her on the marriage mart and let her win a rich offer.’ Unfortunately, my Lord, I did not take, as the saying is. Since that time I have served as companion to Mrs. Peacock—the lady in Bath, you know—and you may well believe I am accustomed to a matronly role.

Indeed, answered the Viscount, surveying her more closely than he had before. Yet, I wonder you received no offers! You are quite pretty. Gillian blushed at these words, but the Viscount was in the right of it. She was pretty—very pretty, one might say. Valerian Collins was not known to be a great enthusiast where women were concerned, contenting himself rather with his placid marriage to Miss Caroline Woofstead and the memory thereof, for Lady Caroline had died in childbirth some four years after their wedding. Still, he was a notable critic of beauty of all sorts, and Miss Gillian Spencer appealed to his aesthetics. He observed now that she had a fine figure, quite tall for a woman, with a long neck and a face composed of smooth, even planes. Her large green eyes and sculpted features, coupled with the almost startling whiteness of her skin, gave her countenance an uncommonly pleasing aspect—not unlike, his Lordship thought, a cameo.

Miss Spencer broke in upon these reflections when she said, her colour subsiding, Nevertheless, I did not marry, and so here I am today.

So, in fact, you are, he assented. But o dear, what am I thinking of? Allow me to call the girls, so that you may meet them.

Gillian nodded agreement and the Viscount rose and went to the door. She thought, as she watched him, that he moved almost as if he were surrounded by water: he was rather a large man, but he carried himself gracefully, gently, almost as if something extremely fragile were balanced atop his head. His countenance was ruddy, his hair even more so, and as he peered out the doorway, he did so through the pair of thick lenses that perched eternally across the bridge of his nose. His attire was something less shabby than his house, and fit extremely well; still, it was a little behind the fashion, and showed subtle signs of having been well worn. Miss Spencer had remarked before that his speech was always accompanied by gestures, gestures as expansive and yet as nice as the words they illustrated.

The Viscount returned, waved his hand nervously towards the doorway, and said, "They will be here directly, I am sure. Such a trouble, do not you think, moving en famille as it were? There is so much ado, so much to-do, so much, one might say, to do! We are hardly arrived here ourselves, you know; only since last night, and the staff—such as it is—is yet unsettled. One is obliged to do a good deal for oneself which one had rather not do, but so, he ended, sighing, it always is!"

Miss Spencer agreed that it took some time to organise a newly displaced household and wondered vaguely what sort of harum-scarum servants might be attending his Lordship. Her train of thought was soon interrupted by the entrance of two young ladies, both in a state of high excitement.

Miss Spencer, permit me to introduce my elder daughter, Cordelia—she is one-and-twenty, you know—and my younger, Felicity. Seventeen, he added, as though courtesy demanded it. The girls bobbed prettily and inspected the newcomer with ill-disguised curiosity. Cordelia, you know, the Viscount continued, ought to have been out years ago, but we could not—well, let us say that our life at Catteroyes was too retired to permit of such an event. And Felicity, I know, is a bit young for it, but there you are again—the rigours of economy—that is, I thought we might as well while we were in town, he finished a little lamely.

Safety in numbers, was Miss Spencer’s only reply.

Safety, his Lordship mused for a moment. Ah, yes. Well, you will observe they are both excessively charming, each in her own way. I made sure of it, you know, before we came down. Ah—! he exclaimed, in an airy, reverberating tone, like the ringing of a little bell, what a thing is paternity! Come, my dears, and kiss your Papa."

His daughters obliged him promptly.

Such angels! he remarked, embracing them briefly and then leaving them go altogether, as if he had forgot they were still present. Cordelia, you know, is by far the more serious of the two—Sweet Gravity, I have been wont to call her—whereas Felicity…well, in short, Felicity does justice to her name. Though it was her mother’s choice, he digressed pensively. I had rather have named her Ophelia, or Hermione…I am amazingly fond of Shakespeare, Miss Spencer. Are not you?

Indeed, she began, although the Sonnets—

Ah—! he pealed, as if with delight, the Sonnets, the Sonnets, the divine Sonnets! How I do enjoy them! How I do, as it were, revere them; how beautiful, how unparalleled, how, in fact, true they are! I have often thought of my dear Cordelia as the Dark Lady—though she is not, perhaps, quite so mysterious as she might be. Still, one cannot but remark that she is a deal darker than her sister.

Gillian murmured assent, for indeed this was so. Both the girls shared the same oval face, and the same delicate mouth, but whereas Cordelia’s curls were dark and heavy, Felicity’s hung from her honeyed crown like yellow gold. Cordelia’s eyes were as dusky as her locks, and heavily lidded; Felicity’s were bright blue—like her father’s—something like almonds in shape, and set on the most intriguing little slant above her fragile cheekbones. She had leisure to observe them, for the Viscount went on at length about Shakespeare, and the joys of poesy, and the qualities of his daughters—together and severally, as the fancy struck him. At last, however, he concluded his rhapsody by saying abruptly, But you will never get acquainted while I am here. Excuse me, I pray, and you may all have a comfortable cose.

Do not leave us on that account! Gillian objected with more politeness than feeling.

My dear Miss Spencer—for I feel you will soon become dear to us all—do you think I am unaware of my own character? I am a sad prattler, and I know it. He shook his head soberly as if disapproving of someone whom he loved very much but could not help censuring. Ah—! But then I know a little of everything—you will find it is so—except, perhaps, the art of parsimony. He smiled woefully for a moment, made a little bow, and floated gently from the room.

"O my, I do love papa!" exclaimed Felicity, as that gentleman shut the doors behind him.

Felicity, scolded Cordelia, smiling upon and blushing for her younger sister, is that your notion of conversation? We must try to make Miss Spencer feel comfortable!

Having thus rendered Gillian’s comfort quite an unlikely eventuality, Cordelia sat back to watch her at her ease. Gillian felt that she was expected somehow to imitate a flower in the act of blossoming. She returned the girl’s regard in an awkward silence for a long moment, then said at last, There is no need, really, to make proper conversation with me, Miss Cordelia. In fact, I beg you will not. We are to be together a good deal, you know.

In that case, Felicity answered for her sister, may we call you Gillian? I have always thought of you as Gillian, you know, ever since you responded to our advertisement. Besides you, there was a Mrs. Doweller, and a Mrs. Pinkley—and those I always thought of formally, as one ought to, I expect; but I have forever been speaking of you as Gillian, so should you dislike it extremely if I just went on that way?

Gillian and Cordelia spoke together, Cordelia on a note of reproval. Gillian said firmly, however, Not only may you, my dear, but I should appreciate it very much. And I beg you will do the same, Miss Cordelia.

If you think so… said that lady dubiously. Then I expect you should call me Cordelia.

And so I will. Now tell me, said Gillian, rallying herself with difficulty to a lukewarm optimism, I suppose your Papa has provided you with clothing for the Season?

No, Cordelia answered flatly. In fact, we neither of us have anything that is suitable at all. I think you will find, she added, with more than a suggestion of bitterness, that although my father is a great dear, he does not excel in practical matters.

I see. I am certain, however, that he has made some allowance for your wardrobes?

Miss Collins responded to this with an eloquent shrug. It is possible, she conceded, but hardly certain.

Papa is terribly generous, you know, Felicity confided earnestly, "but the truth is, he hasn’t anything to be generous with, just now. However, that will all be mended when Cordelia and I begin to receive offers."

I find your confidence most reassuring, Miss Spencer said.

And, under the circumstances, a little pathetic, I think. Cordelia sat back in her chair and regarded the empty hearth with a gloomy countenance. The three ladies sat thus in silence for a few moments; then an odd sound—something between a croak and a groan—penetrated the room.

The doorbell! Felicity interpreted, somewhat to Gillian’s surprise. Shall I answer it?

But the butler, surely— Gillian began.

But we have no butler, said Felicity simply. Indeed, we have no servants at all! Did not Papa tell you?

No, indeed, he did not, Gillian replied faintly.

I daresay he forgot, then.

Gillian did not agree, but she nodded assent.

So may I answer the door? Felicity repeated.

No, Miss Spencer answered, restraining her with an outstretched hand, I think perhaps I had better do it. Are you expecting anyone?

Cordelia and her sister consulted one another with a brief glance, then shook their heads.

Then let us hope it is someone who has mistaken his direction, said Gillian as she rose and quit the room.

But she was not so fortunate. She opened the door to find a very tall and slender young man, whom she judged to be about thirty years of age. He was dressed with an understated elegance, the quietness of which served to make his handsome features stand out more clearly. The most arresting of these were his eyes, which were quite alarmingly enormous, and of a colour that varied between green and brown. They gazed at Miss Spencer with an expression calculated to make her feel, somehow, that she was the most significant, the most fascinating object they had ever rested upon—an effect she found most disconcerting. These eyes were surmounted by straight, heavy brows, and complemented by a slightly hooked nose and a full, rather long mouth. The gentleman’s cheekbones were so prominent as to make his cheeks nearly hollow, and his complexion glowed with an interesting pallor against the background of his dark, curling locks. Miss Spencer stared at him for an instant, then recollected herself and smiled inquiringly.

My card, ma’am, said the gentleman, handing her an heavy square of paper that bore the legend, Mr. Miles Lawrence, Esquire, and nothing more. I do not put my direction on it, you see, because it is unfashionable, and therefore little to my credit. Self-consequence is of the first necessity for a nobody-in-particular. Do not you agree?

Miss Spencer looked at him blankly.

But, my dear ma’am, Miles went on, laughing, how abominable I have been! I am his Lordship’s nephew—on his wife’s side, you know. You, I trust, must be— he thought for a moment, Cordelia, is it?

Oh, no sir, not at all, replied Miss Spencer, thankful to find her tongue at last, though it yet behaved very ill. I am Miss Spencer. His Lordship has just engaged me to chaperone his daughters. But do come in, sir. I am sure his Lordship will wish to see you.

I thank you, he said, and beg you will accept my most profound apologies for mistaking you. He watched her closely as she hesitated in some confusion. Is anything the matter?

I—no, indeed, Gillian replied. It is only that, just having arrived here myself, I am at a loss as to where to put you while I seek out his Lordship. She surveyed again the numerous doors that led from the front hall, and finally chose one at random. This, I hope, will be a suitable saloon—O dear, she interrupted herself, as she saw its contents. This will never do! she cried in dismay.

Mr. Lawrence peeped in over her shoulder, which was at no great elevation to him. The room into which they looked was indeed in shocking condition, containing nothing at all but a large pianoforte with one leg off, and a very great deal of dust.

Do not, I beseech, distress yourself on my account, Miles begged. I assure you, it is a great comfort to me to find that a Viscount may be obliged to live in even worse style than I do myself. I shall be very well contented to wait in the hall, if it is all the same to you.

Well, it is not, said Gillian frankly, but I do not see what else there is for it. She smiled at him—a rare event for her, and a truly delightful one—and added, you are most kind, sir. I am excessively sorry.

Excessively is just the word for it, Miles returned with a slight bow. He stationed himself at the foot of the staircase and watched her as, after a little curtsy, she ascended it.

My dear Miles, said the Viscount when, a few minutes later, he appeared at the top of the flight with arms outstretched towards his guest. How very good you are to come, how very considerate, how very welcome to these undeserving eyes! He descended the stairs as he spoke, then shook Mr. Lawrence’s hand with hearty vigour and beamed upon him largely. You look exquisite, of course. I daresay every girl in London is scheming to attract you?

O, said Miles, with a self-effacing gesture, I expect the girls themselves might not be too averse to my attentions, but their Mammas are a good deal wiser. Filthy lucre, you know, my dear fellow; I’ve very little of it.

Ah yes, Valerian returned, with a nod of deep understanding, you have my sympathies most entirely. Such a foul medium, so base, so vile, so, in short, indispensable. How do we make do without it, I wonder?

Quite honestly, my dear Uncle, I seem to manage somewhat better than you. In fact, I was just telling Miss Spencer how gratifying it is to me to look upon your greater poverty.

Indeed, Valerian returned ruefully. But do not, I pray, call me Uncle! I have told you again and again: anything, sooner than that. It implies such a settled state, so much inexorable kinship, so much, may I say, decrepitude! It is too solid for me, too staid, too sober, too—

Avuncular, Miles supplied obligingly.

Just so! Too avuncular. Kindly do me the favour of calling me Valerian. It is what most of the world uses.

I shall be happy to. And now, my dear Valerian, is there a room in your house which is fit for occupancy? For I must confess I should be most glad to sit down for a moment.

Ah—! My poor fellow, what you must be thinking of me! Do come into the drawing room. It is not fit, perhaps, but it is, at least—adequate.

Which is to say, there are chairs in it, Miles commented, sitting down upon one after making a bow to the ladies, who were still there. These, I take it, are my cousins.

Quite, said Sherbourne, gesturing at them in turn. Cordelia and Felicity. And this is Miss Spencer—but I suppose you must already have met her.

I have, indeed, said Miles, turning his warm gaze upon that lady. "Well, I must say, you shall have no difficult task in disposing of these beauties on the marriage mart. I expect you will feel quite guilty accepting money for it!"

That is an event which I anticipate without much apprehension, Gillian replied. If, begging your Lordship’s pardon, I may be said to anticipate it at all, she added.

His Lordship regarded the tops of his own boots with serene dispassion.

Your daughters have just been informing me that they have no outfits at all with which to greet London society, my Lord. This is a situation which, I trust, you intend to remedy?

O yes! exclaimed Sherbourne. I am sure—well, confound it all, he broke off, as long as we are all here I think we may as well have a conference. Miss Spencer, Miles here is acquainted with our circumstances, and has been kind enough to promise to procure us a number of invitations to the most desirable social functions. He can do it, you know, he added moodily, because he has such outrageous good looks. Now I myself have charm, and that is a very convenient thing, but Miles has both charisma and countenance, and that is a great deal better. You have remarked, no doubt, that when he looks at you you feel quite enchanted—as well as enchanting?

Miss Spencer hesitated.

Yes, of course you have, my dear, and so have an hundred other people. It is his most valuable asset.

Sherbourne, I must protest—

The Viscount waved Mr. Lawrence’s objections away with an effortless gesture. "Useless, my dear boy, useless. However, Nature’s hand is ever unequal, and it is not for us to question. I point your gifts out merely to reassure Miss Spencer that our entrée to the ton has been taken care of, in spite of the fact that I have not dared to come down to London these five years."

Not dared, Papa? Felicity interrupted, puzzled.

Ah yes, my dear girl. You would not think it, for I have tried to keep it from you, but your Papa is in a great deal of trouble.

Oh, Father, do not say so! cried Cordelia in dismay.

But I must say so, I must. I am required to…bound to…obliged—though I loathe it—to say so. Therefore, allow me to continue. Mr. Lawrence, as I was explaining, assures us of some invitations, and of any other aid he may offer. It is not, however, within his power to offer us money—and there, if I may say so, is the rub. Having liquidated nearly all my assets—except my charm, as I pointed out before, and my title, of course—I am in possession of approximately four hundred fifty pounds, no shillings, four pence. This, my dear Miss Spencer, is my entire personal fortune—which I am prepared, if I may so express it, to wager upon my daughters’ expectations.

Valerian, Miles interrupted at this point, something just occurred to me. Could not you dispose of, say, Catteroyes, or this place? I daresay the money would be of greater use to you than they are.

I daresay, the Viscount agreed. But to dispose of Catteroyes—well, you cannot be expected to partake of the feeling with which I regard Catteroyes. It has belonged to the Sherbournes for generations, centuries! It speaks to me of the past, it whispers of elegance gone by, time lost, mysteries and secrets buried with my ancestors! Besides, he continued, a faraway look in his eyes, it is such a dismal wreck, one would have to be mad to buy it.

I see, said Miles. And The Haven?

Indispensable to our plan! cried the Viscount, with sudden energy. An address such as this is not to be regarded lightly! It is yet another of those intangible assets—like title, and charm—with which, my dears, we are going to create an atmosphere, an impression, an illusion of the most comfortable wealth. I propose, you see, that we refurbish but two of our rooms here—the front hall and this chamber. A butler must of course be hired, to satisfy the chance caller, but a cook we shall do without. The remainder of our—if I may say so—wretched fortune will be used to acquire such garments as Miss Spencer tells me are necessary to the girls.

And food, my Lord? ventured that lady. And transportation?

Ah yes, he agreed, those also.

Gillian shook her head unhappily. I am afraid, my Lord, that you are a deal too sanguine.

But not at all, the Viscount replied, forcing himself to enthusiasm. All that is wanted is spirit. ‘Screw your courage to the sticking-place,’ my dear ma’am!

It does sound rather as if you may starve, Miles remarked.

Nonsense! Fustian! An outmoded concept altogether, no longer done in any of the best circles! The only thing we have to fear, if one observes the situation quite reasonably—which, I trust, I do—is Mr. Grouse.

Mr. Grouse? came a chorus of inquiries. Mr. Grouse, the Viscount repeated, nodding heavily. Mr. Thomas H. Grouse.

Chapter II

As the Viscount lapsed into an heavy silence upon these words, it was left to Felicity to inquire, If you please, Papa, who is Mr. Grouse?

Sherbourne seemed to rouse himself a little, and lifted his eyes to meet his daughter’s. He is, my dear, a merchant, a banker, a man of affairs; what is called, in London, a Cit. He is also my creditor—O, how very much my creditor!—and my especial plague upon this earth. It is his hand, if I may so express it, which extends itself to help me down the last rung of the ladder of ruin. It is his foot, if I may extend the metaphor, which hangs poised in this air, waiting to boot me at last into the inferno of debtors’ prison. It is his money, finally, upon which we have been subsisting the past four years. Were he not so eminently fleshly in appearance, I should call him the very Devil himself; and glad I would be to sell my soul, could such a bargain rid me of the evil shadow of Mr. Thomas H. Grouse!

O my! was all Felicity could think to say.

O my, indeed, my dear. But you will find, when you have grown a little older, that the world is full of Mr. Thomas H. Grouses. Not for nothing do they call them mushrooms. They spring up between the cracks in pavements; they drape themselves vegetatively upon the walls of stately mansions. Like yellow fog, they creep and seep under the very doorways! Like witches’ familiars, they are everywhere and nowhere. Covens of them are found in coffee-rooms; the city swarms with them, as Egypt did with locusts. And these, my dear, are men of substance! These, I am told, are the vertebra of British stability. These, scions of the gutter, are yet become so militantly respectable—respectable!—that they forbear, on principle, to laugh before breakfast! The Viscount all but shook with the vehemence of this oratory, and subsided into silence for a moment. An instant later, however, he had recovered his customary composure and smiled bravely. However, this is neither here nor there, he said. What is important is that we keep me from Mr. Grouse, and Mr. Grouse from me, for as long as he is in doubt of our circumstances, I trust he will do nothing rash. That, my daughter, is another quality of these sober, solid-silver gentlemen: They do nothing, nothing at all, without due—and dreary—consideration. So, you see, he finished, looking round brightly at the company, so long as we act quickly, and wisely, and well, we shall yet be saved.

Your Lordship, said Miss Gillian Spencer, checking an impulse—the fourth or fifth of that day—to run in terror from the house, let us begin our work directly.

Miss Spencer, remarked Mr. Lawrence, you are a woman either of great courage, or of questionable sanity. In either case, I salute you.

And so do I, called the Viscount. A round of applause for Miss Spencer!

The drawing room echoed briefly with the sound of clapping. Gillian, feeling that she was abandoning herself entirely to folly, curtsied briefly and sat down again. Now, she said briskly, let us plan our strategy. Mr. Lawrence, when is our first engagement?

Oh, not for a se’ennight, he reassured her. Lady Mufftow is planning a ball for 30 May, but it is only the 23rd today, I believe.

Good, she approved. Things could be better, but we shall make shift somehow. Now, the first order of business, she continued, getting up and walking about the room in a somewhat military fashion, is to get the girls out. Nothing, clearly, can be done until they have made their debut. A large affair would be desirable, but that is quite out of the question. We shall be obliged to arrange a small party, perhaps even a dinner, unless—Lord Sherbourne, you do not suppose you could prevail upon one of your London acquaintances to lend us his house? If an established hostess could be found who would present the girls, perhaps a relative—

The Viscount made an odd, rather stifled sound, which he followed by the words, Really, I don’t think…

As he appeared to have nothing more to say, Gillian took up where she had left off: No, no more did I. Well, it was a pleasant thought, in any case. I expect I should divide our responsibilities and assign them; that has a very efficient sound to it, has not it?

The Viscount indicated his agreement with another strangled noise and watched Gillian as she reflected. I, of course, shall see to the girls—their clothing, coiffures, conduct, et cetera. Your Lordship, if you will pardon me for ordering you about, I think you had best arrange for the renovation of The Haven—this room and the front hall, as you say. How we shall keep visitors from the rest of the house I do not know, but I expect we shall find a way. She paused, considering for a moment. You did inform me, after all, that you know a bit about everything. I assume that the art of decorating is a part of that?

His Lordship answered with a third little choke, and seemed about to speak at last when Gillian interrupted him. She had been frowning meditatively at the fireplace, and therefore did not notice the extraordinary expression on his countenance.

Mr. Lawrence, she said, you have been so kind in proffering your services already, one hesitates to entreat yet more of you. However—you see how we are constrained—so would you do us the favour of seeing to certain of our domestic exigencies? For example, I have no notion how to go about engaging a butler, or a coach…I should be most obliged to you if you could but advise me.

My dear Miss Spencer, he answered, say no more. I consider it a great honour to serve under your generalship, and shall be more than happy to attend to whatever small details you see fit to entrust to me. He ended with a smile and a smart salute.

Mr. Lawrence, you are a deal too kind; however, I must confess that I am not quite comfortable with the military status you are so good as to confer upon me. It implies a tendency to manage which, I have no doubt, you disapprove of in a female.

My dear ma’am, I beg you will not concern yourself with my opinions! They are quite insignificant.

Perhaps they are, she replied, beginning to feel some real, and irrational, annoyance, but I do not care to appear to disadvantage.

Disadvantage! Miss Spencer, I grieve to hear you say so! Why, on the contrary, I think you a model of efficacy, and am all admiration.

Dear sir, I hope you will not misunderstand me if I tell you that it has never been my fondest desire to be admired for my efficacy, or my generalship, or for—any practical quality, she finished inadequately.

And yet, you are so very capable, I am persuaded such qualities have often been remarked in you!

By which you mean, I presume, that I am universally feared as the most managing female between London and Bath?

By which I mean, simply, that you are most—irresistible—in your pragmatism.

I believe we are wasting time with this trifling, Mr. Lawrence, Gillian said coldly.

Now, there you are! I should never have noticed the time we were wasting at all, you see? Gentlemen, I rest my case.

Gillian was so thoroughly ruffled by now that she did not trust herself even to attempt an answer. It was unlike her to refine so much upon the opinions of others, especially strangers, and equally unusual for her to allow herself to be bested in an argument. She returned, in silence, to her reflections regarding the girls’ come-out, but these were immediately disrupted by the Viscount, who had developed a state that may only be termed a positive fit of inarticulateness.

I think my Father wishes to say something, Cordelia observed at last.

What is it, dear Papa? Felicity seconded.

Sherbourne continued his chokings for some minutes, but finally overcame them and whispered, There is one circumstance which I—may I say, forgot?—to mention. The girls’ come-out…

Yes? Gillian prompted, as his voice faded away.

Is scheduled for tomorrow evening. At ten. Exactly.

There was a stunned silence.

Tomorrow evening? Miss Spencer repeated at last. Tomorrow evening? she said, changing the emphasis as though that might change the meaning. She sat down upon a chair. My Lord, how did this come about?

Well, I felt, he began slowly, while we were at Catteroyes, you know, that there was not much I could do to—to forward our enterprise, except…well, I began to feel chafed with inactivity, you see, frustrated with the boundaries of time and space, so I…I sent out invitations to my dearest and oldest friends. There are about twenty of them, I should think. Coming tomorrow, he closed, with unwonted brevity.

My Lord, this is, Gillian searched for the words, the most unkindest cut of all!

Do not, I beg, turn my own dear Shakespeare against me! I am miserable, abject, in an agony of contrition, I do assure you! I never thought—it never occurred to me—I had no idea so much preparation would be necessary! Please, can you ever accept my most servile, my most obsequious, my most humble apologies?

But as Gillian considered this, she remembered, absurdly, that it was her employer who spoke to her thus, and she laughed aloud. I believe your Shakespeare also said, ‘Things without all remedy should be without regard; what’s done is done,’ did not he? Then let us proceed as before.

But quick-march this time, Miles interjected wickedly. "Double-time, General Spencer, n’est-ce pas?"

Mr. Lawrence— she commenced awfully, turning upon him. But we have not got the time for that now, she broke off abruptly.

A thousand pities, he responded, with a dazzling smile.

The next hour was devoted to the planning of strategies. It was followed by an afternoon of frantic comings and goings, limitless frustrations, and expensive expeditions. Mr. Miles Lawrence made himself very useful, indeed. In fact, it occurred to Miss Spencer to wonder how he came to know so very much about dress-shops, and milliners, and so forth. The Viscount spent most of his time at the furniture makers; Mr. Lawrence disappeared at about four o’clock and was not heard of for several hours; Miss Spencer, finding a hack by a lucky accident, managed to enrage quite a number of shopkeepers by demanding their immediate and complete attention. The girls found their day divided between the chusing of satins and lace and the scrubbing of floors. At about eight in the evening the party reassembled in the drawing room of The Haven to take stock of what had been accomplished, or, as Miles phrased it, to regroup their forces. He also brought with him what he termed mess, which consisted of some cold meats and other picnic fare, and which was most welcome. It was after this repast had been disposed of, while they all sat keenly regretting the absence of coffee, that Miss Spencer began to call the company to account.

My Lord, she said, tell us please how you got on with the furnishings.

Very well, indeed, he answered. Tomorrow this floor will be covered with a blue-and-gold carpet—soft, and very elegant, I trust. The upholsterers have promised to come and see what can be done about recovering the chairs and settee, and the drapers are even now, I expect, stitching busily upon a set of blue brocaded curtains. It was unthinkable, of course, to leave the walls bare in their present condition, so I bespoke a number of tapestries to hang upon them. Perhaps you are thinking that I bought these things with no attention to the cost, that I have been extravagant, exorbitant, but I assure you it is not so! Indeed, I took the trouble of searching through the attic—frightfully dusty, I must say—and there I found quite a passable landscape, in an adequate frame. So you see, I have actually made economies!

I am glad to hear it, sir, said Gillian, when Felicity had finished raving about how lovely the drawing room would soon look, but may I inquire, for the purposes of our budget, exactly how much you did disburse?

Why, nothing; nothing at all.

That is a very good price, my Lord, was Miss Spencer’s only comment. She knew his Lordship well enough by now to recognise that by saying he spent nothing, he meant he had purchased everything on credit, and therefore felt none the poorer. Very likely, too, he had bought without regard to cost, since it was all free, or as good as free. And it did not take her long to decide that she had rather not know, after all, exactly how large a sum was in question.

You did not forget the front hall, did you, Father? asked Cordelia.

Why, no, my sweet! Of course not. It is to have a red carpet, and crimson hangings, and will soon be as snug as ever it was. The Viscount fairly beamed with pleasure as he reflected upon this prospect.

Mr. Lawrence, Gillian said, I hope you have done as well as his Lordship?

Very well, indeed, said Miles, stretching his long legs out in front of him. At noon tomorrow you may expect Mr. Trigg—a butler of the most extreme dignity—and Mrs. Trigg, his good wife, who has consented not only to prepare some nourishment for your guests, but to serve it as well. You will find them excessively affable, I hope.

And not too shockingly expensive? Gillian inquired.

Not too. You, by the way, have done wonders with this chamber—as one knew you would, my dear ma’am. It looks cleaner and shinier than one would ever have expected! Did you do all that labour yourself?

I had the girls to assist me, and very helpful they were.

Really? And how do you come to be so handy at housework, my little cousins?

O, Felicity exclaimed, we have never had many servants, so we are quite accustomed to it.

Cordelia glowered at her. Papa believes in the value of labour, she explained austerely to Mr. Lawrence. It strengthens one’s character, you know.

No! he answered, as if enchanted, I did not know! But how very delightful. And where, if I may ask, did you find the firewood? It does cheer the room a great deal.

But Miss Spencer did not answer this question, nor would she allow Felicity to do so. The truth was that she had sent that young lady into the next yard, where she had filched it log by log. She had planned, if anyone had espied her young charge, to reprove her volubly and publicly, and hoped thus to persuade their neighbours that what was in fact thieving was merely mischief. She had been quite astonished to find the notion in her head, for she could not recall having done anything dishonest since her infancy, but once having conceived it, she decided she might as well put it into practice, and indeed it had served very well. She did not, however, care to reveal all this to Mr. Lawrence, and had sworn Felicity to secrecy. Now she merely answered vaguely, Necessity, you know, and turned the discussion to other topics.

It was quite early when all the company began to yawn. Mr. Lawrence took himself off at about ten o’clock, leaving the party at The Haven to bid one another good night and to trudge wearily up to their draughty chambers and damp beds. It was hardly a surprise to Miss Spencer when Felicity descended the next morning with a bright smile and a case of the sniffles, but these disappeared sometime before noon, at which hour punctually the doorbell croaked and Cordelia announced the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Trigg.

You the Missus? asked Mrs. Trigg, a rough, round sort of woman with untidy hair, when Gillian had been summoned.

No, said she, introducing herself. You will take your orders from me, however, she stipulated, and apply to me with all questions.

We don’t regularly have no questions, Mr. Trigg informed her tersely. Being the thinking sort.

Devil of a mess this house is in, ain’t it, Christopher? said Mrs. Trigg, jabbing a rounded elbow into her spouse’s side.

Devil of one, that gentleman agreed, nodding his dry head emphatically. Desprit straits, is my guess.

Aye, answered Mrs. Trigg, adding a gratuitous poke in her husband’s ribs, as if to underscore her assent.

You will find the kitchens quite spacious, Gillian remarked.

And filthy, I imagine, was Mrs. Trigg’s reply.

Well, they—they have been in disuse quite some while, Miss Spencer admitted, but, after all, you are not required to cook so very much. Merely some biscuits, and some tea and coffee.

It’ll all taste like dust, you know, Mrs. Trigg countered, less’n it’s cleaned. No fault of mine, Miss!

No, not yours, my dear, Mr. Trigg agreed.

Gillian regarded them in silence.

Oh, desprit straits indeed, Christopher! Mrs. Trigg repeated in high glee, poking her husband mercilessly until the pair of them broke out into shouts of laughter. This merriment lasted some thirty seconds and ended as if on cue, Mr. Trigg being still in the middle of a roar when his wife shut her mouth and he shut his. There’s work to be done, said Mrs. Trigg.

Aye, he assented, nodding vigorously and staring with a mournful expression at Gillian. She, not knowing what on earth to make of them, had been standing quite motionless all this while, but now she beckoned and turned, leading them to the kitchen wordlessly. There they parted company, and Gillian quite forgot about them for the next four or five hours. There were upholsterers to be seen to, and tradespeople of all sorts; there were deliveries, and errors, and fittings, and re-fittings, until Gillian thought she would drop long before the first guest arrived. She had her reward, however, and about fifteen minutes to savour it: By eight o’clock that evening, part of The Haven and most of its occupants had been transformed. The front hall looked warm and welcoming, the drawing room breathed comfort and luxurious ease, the girls were scrubbed and coiffed, and their gowns hung in readiness upstairs. Gillian sat upon the velvet settee and tried hard not to notice the scratches in the highly polished wood under her arm. Instead, she watched Felicity and Cordelia make curtsies to one another, which they did very well, and ask each other how they did, which seemed to occasion much giggling and giddiness. She had not much time for her own affairs, but she trusted to her lace cap to hide her hair somewhat, and to the dimness of the candles to conceal the faded colour of her gown.

Her placidity was short-lived, however. An altercation had developed. The Viscount and Mr. Trigg entered the drawing room, both talking at once.

I was not, Mr. Trigg stated baldly, hired to tie no cravats. And I won’t neither.

Miss Spencer, talk some sense into this man, I beg! cried the Viscount. I cannot tie my own cravat; I never have known how. And if he will not do it, how will it get done?

Don’t know, said Trigg. Don’t care much, neither.

My Lord, Gillian intervened, who ties your cravat at Catteroyes?

Good God, you do not suppose I wear a cravat there! he exclaimed. It is a ruin, my dear ma’am. We simply do not dress at Catteroyes. It would be ridiculous, absurd, preposterous.

And are you quite certain Mr. Trigg knows how to do it?

Oh, I knows all right, but what of it? said that worthy, nodding energetically.

Devil fly away with you, my man! exploded Valerian.

If you wish it, said Trigg, with sudden servility. Of course his Lordship does not mean for you to go, said Gillian, as Trigg prepared to take his leave.

You will return to the kitchen, or wherever you were when his Lordship found you, and I will attend to this matter.

Can you tie a cravat? asked Valerian, as Mr. Trigg departed.

No, indeed I cannot, but I trust Mr. Lawrence can, she answered. I suggest you await him; he promises to arrive early. In the meantime, she continued, you might try not to offend the Triggs.

Insolent rogue! said the Viscount. How dared he refuse me so calmly, I wonder?

I believe the Triggs have a pretty fair notion of our circumstances, Gillian replied shrewdly. We will do best to tolerate them for this evening at least. She felt that they had been very fortunate indeed to avoid disaster over the matter of the cravat. Do sit down, my Lord, and await Mr. Lawrence; he will be here at any moment, I promise.

And indeed, the doorbell groaned resoundingly a few moments later, but it did not herald the arrival of Mr. Miles Lawrence. In fact, it was a gentleman of quite a different style who appeared on the doorstep before Mr. Trigg; and it was with the deepest alarm that Miss Spencer read upon the card that was handed in to the drawing room, Mr. Thomas H. Grouse, Cornhill and Russell Square.

Chapter III

The appearance of Mr. Grouse’s card was followed directly by the appearance of Mr. Grouse, and very singular it was indeed. He was a smooth little man, some fifty years of age, and quite amazingly rotund. So short were his arms that, as they lay upon the generous curves of his sides, they scarcely reached past his waist. His cheeks were unusually fresh for a man of his years, and glowed like a pair of full-blown roses. Stuffed into them at all times were the extremities of the most peculiar smile Gillian had ever seen. It seemed to be saying a number of things all at once, it was pleasant and unpleasant, wise and foolish, and a certain sparkle upon the teeth revealed behind it suggested most discomfortingly that Mr. Grouse knew something about you that you did not even know yourself. What private intelligence he could have had, Gillian could not guess, but she was sure it was bad—possibly shocking, in fact—and the toothy smile implied that its revelation to the world would inevitably be followed by disaster.

His eyes, however, modified this insinuation somewhat. Small, round, and sharp, they were pushed well back under his brow, and while their glance was by no means benign, they did seem to communicate that your secret was safe with him. So long as you yourself were not fool enough to admit it, it would remain in perfect confidence. Gillian found herself sighing with relief as she read this assurance in his expression; this was followed immediately in her sentiments by a confused irritation, for she was certain she had never met Mr. Grouse before.

The Viscount stood staring at his visitor for a moment, dismay depicted in his every feature. Gillian suspected he was measuring the distance to each window, deciding which would afford the quickest means of escape. He gained control of himself shortly, however, and, schooling his countenance to its most cosmopolitan expression, advanced upon his guest. Mr. Grouse! he cried, both hands extended, "what an event, what a pleasure, what, in short, a surprise! Do come in, sir. Most correct of you to brush past the butler. After all, we are old acquaintances now!"

This inadequately veiled criticism of Mr. Grouse’s conduct had the desired effect of making that gentleman feel awkward in the extreme. Ill at ease to begin with—and it was in fact his uneasiness that was responsible for the disquieting smile—he was now quite at a loss, and seemed almost to have forgot how to sit down. He did at last seat himself, however, and with an astonishing lack of grace, upon the velvet settee recently vacated by Miss Spencer; and there he stopped, looking like nothing so much as a gigantic egg deposited and abandoned by an ostrich. May I give you some sherry? the Viscount offered.

No, said Mr. Grouse, finding his tongue at last. No, I thank you. He grinned, belatedly and awfully, upon Miss Spencer. How d’ye do, ma’am? he inquired.

Very well, thank you, Gillian lied. Taking her cue from Sherbourne, she continued to press hospitality upon him: If you will not take a glass of sherry, sir, perhaps a biscuit and some coffee? Anything at all?

No, he repeated baldly. Then, thinking such a refusal might be considered impolite among the ton, he amended, Maybe a biscuit, then.

Miss Spencer excused herself and went off to raid the refreshments that had been baked for the girls’ come-out. Valerian, having no choice, braved Mr. Grouse alone.

A wonderful woman, he informed him, as Gillian departed, truly a delight. Capable, dignified— He broke off as he realized that this effort to divert his creditor was not succeeding. But how is your daughter? he demanded quickly, attempting desperately to recall the colourless girl he had met, by accident, some five years before. Do tell me how she goes on; such a sweet girl, so unassuming, so modest, so, may I say, selfless.

She does pretty well, I thank you, though the house is a bit lonely since Mrs. G. departed.

Departed? asked the viscount.

Departed this life, y’know. Sad demise, y’might say.

Mr. Grouse, I am so sorry to hear of it!

Happened four years ago come next July, Mr. Grouse pointed out gruffly.

Indeed, said Valerian, cursing his memory with violence, can it have been so long? Such a sad event; one shuts these things out of one’s remembrance, you know. But I understand, Mr. Grouse, indeed I understand what it is to be a widower with a daughter. How the house seems hollow without the presence of the dear departed one, how the sound of her voice is echoed in her offspring’s, how the wind seems to whisper her beloved name! A very sorrowful state, a very dolorous one, a very, as you say so succinctly, sad one.

Yes, Mr. Grouse agreed, from within his ambiguous smile. Still, life goes on, don’t it?

Still it does. How well you put it! the Viscount exclaimed. ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, Creeps in this’

About tomorrow, Mr. Grouse interrupted.

Yes?

Tomorrow is when you owe me some money, Grouse said flatly.

Tomorrow! cried Sherbourne, all amazement. Can it really be tomorrow? Are you certain—but here is our dear Miss Spencer, come to bring us sustenance.

Gillian entered the drawing room bearing a tray covered with a napkin; it was so concealed because it was made of brass and had acquired, through neglect, a greenish patina that nothing could remove. She set it down on the table before Mr. Grouse, and he rolled forward and helped himself to a biscuit. He took it up gingerly, careful to bite off only a small piece, but all his caution was useless. The pastry crumbled directly he bit into it, leaving him with a lapful of dry morsels and a mouthful of embarrassment. Chewing slowly, he stared ruefully at his knees and wondered what on earth to do. The crumbs were sliding mercilessly from his legs to the floor; more of them had gathered in his hand and stuck to his palm. He dared not brush them off; he dared not pick them up. Having no other choice, he fixed his debtor with a thin, evil grin and rose immediately, leaving the crumbs to see to themselves. I’ll be taking myself off now, he announced. Just stopped in to be sure you knew the date. His stubby fingers were itching to be able to reach his knees, to brush off the crumbs he was sure still clung to them, but they could only writhe helplessly at the ends of his insufficient arms. Good-by, he said. He gave Mr. Miles Lawrence a brief nod as he passed him in the hall and disappeared into the night, forgetting as he did so to claim his hat and stick from Mr. Trigg.

Who was that? asked Miles as he entered the drawing room. Good God! he continued, cutting off any reply, you’ll have to keep these doors open this evening. The paint on the other side is abominable.

Gillian nodded agreement wearily and directed his attention to the Viscount, who was crumpled in an armchair and running his hands despairingly through his curly hair.

Difficulties, Sherbourne?

O no! said his uncle, with a feeble attempt at jocularity, "merely a man so wanting in refinement, he could not even pronounce the word delicacy, let alone possess it." He dropped his head between his hands again and sighed audibly.

Grouse? Miles inquired of Gillian.

The same, she replied. My Lord, she went on after a moment, I thought I heard you speaking of Mr. Grouse’s daughter as I went to the kitchen. Is that correct?

Yes, Valerian groaned, but what you mean is, you stood and eavesdropped for a moment after you had gone, don’t you?

Gillian confessed.

So what of her? said Sherbourne.

Well, my lord, she began tentatively, I do not precisely know, but it seems to me…is she still Miss Grouse?

"Still Miss Grouse? Eternally Miss Grouse is my guess! A blander, more faded, less spirited mouse of a girl one would be hard put to find. There you are, he continued, rallying for a moment, she ought to be called Miss Mouse and not Miss Grouse."

But you are not certain? asked Miss Spencer, ignoring this sally.

No, not certain, but I should think he would have mentioned it if she had married. Or course, there is really no telling with these men. Very likely he views the marriage of his only daughter as yet another merger in the world of affairs, of which there is no need to inform anyone.

You are hardly in a position to criticise him for that, if it is indeed so, Miles pointed out unkindly.

Phaugh!

Because, my Lord, Gillian pursued determinedly, if he has a daughter, and if she is yet unmarried, it is possible—

No! the Viscount exploded. No! Not another word will I hear. Every sentiment revolts; the very notion is nauseating, abominable, unthinkable!

And yet you have thought of it without Miss Spencer’s even mentioning it, Miles observed. What exactly is this piece of strategy, ma’am?

Why, simply that the Viscount might—

Marry her, Valerian interrupted again. Marry her! I! Miss Spencer, you have not long been acquainted with me, and so I will excuse you your suggestion, but let me inform you for future reference that I am an ardent and active supporter of beauty and grace in every sphere of life. I believe in beauty, Miss Spencer; I am dedicated to the admiration and worship of all that is fine. All my life I have been—Ah! A priest in the temple of the muses, a sacrifice on the altar of loveliness, a supplicant to the god of elegance! To take sacred vows, to bind myself forever to a—a whey-faced chit of a woman…it is beyond contemplation, that is all there is to it; it defies consideration.

Have you quite done, sir? said Gillian, exasperated with this unnecessary spate of eloquence.

I think so.

Then all I ask is that you bear the possibility in mind.

The Viscount was about to respond indignantly to this, but Miles interceded, saying, She’s absolutely in the right of it, you know, and Sherbourne merely flung up his hands in silence. Gillian flashed Mr. Lawrence a grateful glance; however, she feared her scheme had been but ill-received.

This meditation was interrupted by the entrance, nearly simultaneous, of Felicity and Cordelia, who had been watching the street from a window upstairs. Someone is arriving, said Felicity, almost squeaking in her excitement. Miss Spencer, do I look pretty? That is, she corrected hastily, are my bows tied properly, and so forth?

You look very pretty, my dear, Gillian said obligingly, and so do you, Cordelia.

Thank you, Miss Collins replied.

You look pretty, too, Felicity added shyly.

Gillian smiled warmly but said only, That is neither here not there. If Mr. Lawrence would be so kind as to tie his Lordship’s cravat, I believe we will be quite prepared for our guests.

Tie your cravat? said Miles to the Viscount.

I do not know how, the latter answered sheepishly.

Much to Sherbourne’s discomfiture, Miles laughed long and loud at this gap in his uncle’s education. By standing behind the older man, however, he managed to tie quite a passable Waterfall, so that by the time Trigg appeared at the doors of the drawing room, the Viscount was able to greet Lady Letitia Vaughn and her son Winsted, Lord Vaughn, with tolerable composure.

This must be Delia, said Lady Vaughn, an imposing woman

Reviews for Fiona Hill Anthology

[mvmann · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Country Gentleman is one of the best regencies of all time. Highly recommend.

[deborah_568969447 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Couldn't get past the first novel. Way too much dialogue. It reads like a script. Also just ridiculous characters.