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Edward Finch, her cousin, appeared in the doorway, rain-damp and grinning. At one-and-thirty Edward was the eldest of Sir Lionel’s sons, tall and rangy rather than broad, with the Finch chestnut hair, and the weathered complexion of a man who preferred horses, fishing streams, and tenant farms to London drawing rooms.

“Yes?” she asked without rising.

“The hunters have been recovered.”

Judith closed her eyes briefly once more.

Edward leaned against the doorway, watching her gather porcelain fragments. “Another catastrophe? You thrive upon catastrophe.”

“I am good at managing catastrophe,” she corrected. “There is a distinction.”

Before he could answer, hooves sounded upon the gravel outside. Naturally. What the morning wanted was another guest, Judith thought wearily.

She rose at once, handing the porcelain remains to a waiting footman just as Simmons appeared again.

“Major Baines has arrived, miss.”

Judith recalled only vague details from her uncle’s explanation. Intelligent, well connected, recently in London, and socially agreeable. The last description made her immediately suspicious.

Truly agreeable men rarely required prefaces beforehand.

Meanwhile, Edward looked delighted. “An officer. Excellent. We require diversion.”

“Nonsense.”

“You always say that directly before becoming fond of them.”

The entrance doors opened before further argument became possible. Cold rain-scented air swept into the hall as servants hurried forward. A gentleman entered, removing travelling gloves with the easy assurance of a man entirely accustomed to arriving everywhere welcome.

Judith’s first impression was that he was dangerously handsome. Her second was worse—he knew it.

Major Baines stood taller than most men, broad through the shoulders in a manner impossible to mistake for anything but military bearing. Rain darkened his coat at the edges and dampened black hair already inclined toward careless disorder. His features possessed too much character to qualify as merely pretty. He had a strong mouth, a sharply cut jaw, and eyes the colour of storm-clouds over the northern sea. He also had laughing eyes.

Men with solemn faces usually announced vanity plainly. Men who appeared perpetually amused persuaded others to lower defences before discovering too late they had been thoroughly observed, and this man observed everything.

Whilst handing over gloves and acknowledging servants, he had already taken in the hall, the staircases, the muddy riding boots, the sleeping spaniels, Edward, and herself.

“Miss Finch, I presume,” he said, with a precise bow. His voice carried warmth beneath a faint Scottish cadence softened by years elsewhere.

Judith folded her hands calmly. “Major Baines?”

“Just Baines, if you have any compassion.”

“I generally reserve compassion for genuine suffering, sir.”

One corner of his mouth lifted immediately.

Beside her, Edward made a suspicious choking sound.

“Ah,” said Major Baines softly, “Colonel Renforth warned me you were formidable.”

“Did he also warn you against excessive familiarity before noon?”

“He warned me against many things.”

That answer came too quickly—the Major was a practised flirt, then.

Judith recognized the type immediately. He possessed easy smiles, careless elegance, dangerous confidence, and entirely too much awareness of female reactions. Ordinarily, she dismissed such gentlemen within minutes. Unfortunately, Major Baines complicated matters by seeming genuinely entertained rather than merely self-satisfied.