He smiled down at her. Something had tugged at his heart when he saw this little girl with the too-serious expression playing with his indomitable sister. She was a funny-looking little creature, but there was something quite lovable about her big, soulful brown eyes.

"What are you called?" Miranda asked.

He smiled at her direct manner. "Turner."

For a moment he thought she might not answer. She just stood there, utterly still save for the blinking of her eyes. And then, as if finally reaching a conclusion, she said, "That's a nice name. A bit odd, but I like it."

"Much better than Nigel, don't you think?"

Miranda nodded. "Did you choose it? I've often thought that people ought to choose their own names. I should think that most people would choose something different from what they have."

"And what would you choose?"

"I'm not certain, but not Miranda. Something plainer, I think. People expect something different from a Miranda and are almost always disappointed when they meet me."

"Nonsense," Turner said briskly. "You are a perfect Miranda."

She beamed. "Thank you, Turner. May I call you that?"

"Of course. And I didn't choose it, I'm afraid. It's just a courtesy title. Viscount Turner. I've been using it in place of Nigel since I went to Eton."

"Oh. It suits you, I think."

"Thank you," he said gravely, completely entranced by this serious child. "Now, give me your hand again, and we shall be on our way."

He had held out his left hand to her. Miranda quickly moved the ribbon from her right hand to her left.

"What's that?"

"This? Oh, a ribbon. Fiona Bennet gave two dozen of them to Olivia, and Olivia said I might keep one."

Turner's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he remembered Olivia's parting words. Don't worry about what Fiona said. He plucked the ribbon out of her hand. "Ribbons belong in hair, I think."