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“I have strict orders not to disturb the master.”

Aggrieved by his lack of helpfulness, she replied tartly, “I am not asking to disturb him! I am asking for my cat.”

“And I am afraid I cannot assist you,” the butler replied, his tone as immovable as before. “Good day, miss.”

Cordelia drew in a sharp breath as the butler closed the door with impeccable politeness. For several seconds, she could do nothing but stare at it.

Oh! Whichever cretin lives here has just declared war!

She remained upon the step, her hands clenched at her sides as she struggled to steady the frantic beat of her heart. The indignation lingered, righteous and hot, yet beneath it stirred something far more unsettling.

Sir Charles had never taken so readily to anyone before.

The thought troubled Cordelia as she turned away and made her way home, each measured step heavier than the last. Over the past couple of weeks, Sir Charles had begun disappearing for hours at a time, always returning as though nothing at all were amiss. She gently scolded him, fussed over him, and convinced herself he must have discovered some secluded corner of the house or gardens more diverting than the quiet rhythms of the townhouse. Never, not once, had it occurred to her that he might be venturing beyond their property.

He had found warmth and welcome beneath another roof.

Somehow, another household had become dear to him.

Her throat tightened painfully at the most unbearable possibility of all. Sir Charles might choose not to return home. The thought struck somewhere painfully tender inside her. Once inside her father’s townhouse, Cordelia moved instinctively toward the library. It was the handsomest room in the house and the one she loved most. Dark wood lined the walls, the shelves heavy with books her father had inherited along with the title. The familiar scent of leather and paper wrapped around her as she crossed to the window.

She pressed her fingertips to the glass.

Sir Charles, please come home to me.

For five years, Sir Charles had been Cordelia’s constant companion through lonely months in the country and lonelier Seasons in London, where society seemed determined to remind her of her shortcomings. He loved her without judgment or reservation, offering a devotion she had seldom encountered elsewhere.

And whenever the fear crept upon her that she might never marry, never find a gentleman of good character who did not possess the reputation of a libertine, never have children of her own, or experience the love, companionship, and family life she so quietly longed for, Sir Charles had filled some part of that aching emptiness with his steadfast presence and unconditional affection.

He had comforted her, too, through the unhappiness of those she loved. When letters arrived from her sister Katherine, professing a happiness Cordelia feared was false, or when her dearest friend Hyacinth retreated to the countryside after a callous gentleman broke their engagement, Sir Charles had invariably found his way into her lap.

Unable to ease their suffering, Cordelia had taken solace in the one creature whose affection never wavered. His quiet companionship had soothed hurts that no words ever could. She moved away from the windows, sank into one of the leather chairs, and folded her hands tightly in her lap.

Of course she would retrieve him. He belonged with her, and no stranger had the right to decide otherwise. Still, the fear would not leave her. She could not bear the thought that Sir Charles might never return, or worse, that whoever kept him might not be as loving or indulgent of his capricious moods as she had always been.

Cordelia straightened, her resolve hardening. Whoever lived next door, whoever had decided he had the right to keep what did not belong to him, had gravely underestimated both her devotion to Sir Charles and the lengths to which she was prepared to go to bring him home.

CHAPTER 2

Several hours later, Cordelia sat upon the cushioned window seat in her bedchamber, her shoulder resting lightly against the frame as she peered into the street below. Her mother’s voice drifted up from below, brisk and purposeful, accompanied by the lighter tones of her cousin. Footsteps followed, then the familiar sounds of preparation as cloaks were fetched and the carriage called round.

She had complained of a headache, an excuse her mother had accepted with surprisingly little protest. No one reminded her that an evening among society might improve her prospects, only an understanding smile before her mother turned her attention to Emelia.

Cordelia knew precisely why. No one in her family truly believed it possible for her to secure a suitable suitor now, and perhaps not ever. They loved her, she knew, but affection did not blind them to the realities of the marriage mart. The thought settled like a small, sharp pinch in her chest, followed by the familiar hollow ache she had grown adept at ignoring.

She closed her eyes briefly, willing away the familiar ache. At two-and-twenty, Cordelia had endured two full Seasons, and this reluctant return to London marked her third. She considered herself rather pretty and knew how to arrange her hair and choose colors that flattered her complexion, though she could not compare with the celebrated beauties of the ton.

Her limp, however, was impossible to conceal, and society seemed determined to make it the first thing anyone noticed. With a modest dowry of three thousand pounds and no particularly distinguished family connections, she had little to recommend her to gentlemen who saw her uneven gait and judged her wanting before she had spoken a word.

Cordelia had never understood why. Her limp caused her no pain, nor did it prevent her from riding with such confidence that her father often declared she sat a horse as well as any man. She was equally accomplished at archery, and both pursuits afforded her a glorious freedom she found nowhere else. Yet whenever she spoke of these interests to gentlemen at balls, their polite smiles seldom concealed their indifference.

Her father's finances were stretched thin, and with each unsuccessful Season, his hopes for her marriage had diminished. More than once, Cordelia had overheard her mother and aunt-in-law discussing her prospects as though her failure upon the marriage mart were already assured. Whatever money and effort might once have been devoted to securing her future had gradually been redirected toward Emelia, whose chances of making a good match were considered far more promising.

Emelia, after all, was ravishing.

Almost daily, fresh flowers arrived for her cousin, along with invitations to Hyde Park, picnics, and visits to the British Museum. Emelia’s life unfurled in a series of effortless delights, and Cordelia bore her no resentment for it. Still, it was difficult not to feel the contrast and deeply wish that, for once, she might be the recipient of such flattering attentions from an honorable suitor.

A knock startled her from her thoughts, and Emelia swept inside in a golden gown that flattered her figure, her ringlets bouncing and blue eyes sparkling with excitement. Her beauty and quick wit had already captivated many gentlemen of the ton, much to Cordelia’s mother’s delight. She hoped these charms would outweigh the disadvantage of Emelia’s father being a physician, with Lord Maubry, her uncle, as her principal connection to society.