She’d always had an uncanny ability to probe where he was most sensitive. “Odd.” He shifted in his chair, stared into his half-empty cup.

Impossible to explain the feeling that had enveloped him when he’d walked up the front steps and through the massive front door earlier that day. The earldom and the Abbey were his. Not just them, but the lands and the responsibilities that came with both, and more-the Abbey was not just his childhood home but the home of his ancestors, the place in which his family had its deepest roots. This was home, and its protection and fostering had fallen to him; to him fell the challenge of seeing it and the estates pass to the next generation not just intact but improved.

The feeling was as compelling as any bugle call had ever been, yet the impulses it stirred were not as yet so clear. Nevertheless, more than anything else, his need to respond by finding his countess, by properly linking himself back into this world, had brought him home; Dalziel had just provided a fortuitous excuse.

“I still find it hard remembering Filchett and Crewther are trying to get my attention when they say ‘my lord.’ ” Filchett and Crewther were his butlers, here and in town respectively.

He’d told her enough. He drained his cup, intending to start his side of the interrogation.

She stopped him with the words, “I heard you and some others had formed a special club to help each other in your search for brides.”

He stared at her, simply stared. “Have you been to London recently?”

“Not for seven years.”

He’d accepted Dalziel knew all about the Bastion Club, but…“How the hell did you know?”

She set down her cup. “Marissa had it from Lady Amery.”

He sighed through his teeth. He should have remembered Tony Blake’s mother and godmother were French, part of the network of aristocratic emigrées who’d come to England years before the Terror. As was his mother. He frowned. “She didn’t tell me she knew.”