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“Not in a thousand years.” Alan snorted at his brother’s transparency. On principle, he should seize the box. But Claud might very well enjoy the game. And the time with his father.

“Consider the set his.” He met Geoffrey’s gaze. “It’s a gift, not a gambit,” he added in a quieter voice. He wouldn’t use Claud to gain advantage in this idiotic struggle.

“Of course,” said Geoffrey, too smoothly.

Alan turned from him abruptly, stepped to the closest window. The view of the grounds—the vast green sweep of the lawns, the brilliant flowers, the easy movement of whoever roamed below—contoured the stifling confinement of the bedchamber. Tantalized with its beyond. He’d grown up with the same vista.

Today, only one person roamed below. A woman, walking along the forking path. Her white cap perched precariously on her head. She carried a valise. Miss Finch. Freshly dismissed and failing dismally to vacate the property. She was going the wrong way, heading not toward the gate, but toward the rose garden. She’d wander in circles until sunset.

He watched her tidy, determined, misdirected movement a moment longer, then turned and started for the door. He paused only briefly as he passed Geoffrey.

“I’ll write with a list of items for the auction house. Unless you write to me first and suggest an alternative.”

“I’d rather write the Reaper,” growled Geoffrey.

“Soon, Claud,” Alan called to his nephew as he opened the door. “This summer will be the summer of the pudding kick.”

Chapter Three

Alan caught up to Miss Finch in the center ring of the rose garden. She’d set her valise on the ground and was staring down into the lower basin of a tiered fountain like a disappointed lover resigned to drowning.

“My God,” he said as he approached. “It’s not so bad as that.”

She started, spun around, saw him, and started again.

“It’s not,” she agreed after a short pause. Her hand drifted up to her cap, and she scowled. “And I’m not exactly the Ophelia type, either.”

She’d removed her soiled apron, but the white cap, black dress, and white collar and cuffs announced her degree. A servant. Plain in appearance, unprepossessing. A far cry from a beautiful young noblewoman of Denmark.

Her look dared him to argue.

He didn’t. Purveyor of uncomfortable truths, and all that. No flattery. Besides, what had Ophelia to offer but the poetry of a romantic death?

“Splendid,” he said simply. “Hers is a fate to be avoided.”

“Hey nonny-nonny.” Miss Finch muttered it and directed another longing look at the fountain. “I wasn’t about to cast myself into the water. I was wondering if it’s good to drink. I feel I’ve a hedgehog in my throat.”

He smiled at the image. He appreciated a picturesque turn of phrase. And a puckish delivery.

He’d been hasty, perhaps, in judging Miss Finch plain. Worse than hasty, in fact. He had followed the herd and defaulted to the current vogue. Yes, Miss Finch lacked the emphatic bone structure and jewel tones prized in society. But her spirit and her mobile expression gave her ordinary features a lively cast. Despite her mouse brown hair and her gloomy livery, there was nothing drab about her.

“Good to drink?” Alan shifted his attention back to her words. “I’ve never tried it.” He peered at the fountain. Portland stone and marble. He’d wager drinking from the basin was far more wholesome than drinking from the standpipes that sourced poorer Londoners with their water. Not Nina Finch. He’d wager that as well. Her accent wasn’t polished, but neither was it rough. She had a clear, pleasant voice, sonorous vowels. Familiarity with the works of Shakespeare. Too much pride to bow and scrape to a bully, even though that bully paid her wages.

Many servants hailed from the country, or from rookeries, or descended from maids and footmen. He discarded each possibility, particularly the last.

No one with forebears in service would ever have dropped a tea tray. Twice.

Daughter of a clerk perhaps, fallen on hard times.

Miss Finch sighed and picked up her valise. “I’ve had enough in the way of unpleasant surprises for one day. I’d rather not get a mouthful of mud and tadpoles.” She took one last longing look at the fountain, then she squared her shoulders. “I won’t die of thirst.”

The breeze picked up. It carried the heated, drugging scent of the young roses, the earliest of the year. A strand of hair floated across her face, where it grazed the curve of her cheek.

Rosy cheek. Overly rosy, perhaps. She’d been walking quickly, and to no purpose, for at least a quarter hour.

“That is, if I ever get out of here,” she added, pivoting to examine the curving hedge—a solid wall of green—for hidden openings. “Clara told me the garden gate would be open for her grace’s guests. But I can’t find the gate.” She made a face. “And by now, it’s probably stuffed up with countesses.”

Alan raised his eyebrows. Countesses crushing into the garden for the duchess’s tea. Like something out of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.