Waring looked at Gyles. “If you wish, I could send a man down to assess the situation locally. Discreetly, of course.”

Gyles considered. Impatience-to have the whole business of his marriage safely dealt with and behind him-flared. “No-I’ll deal with it myself.” He glanced at Horace and smiled cynically. “There are some benefits to being head of the family.”

After commending Waring for his excellent work, Gyles saw him into the front hall. Horace followed; he left on Waring’s heels, stating his intention to return to Lambourn Castle the next day. The front door closed. Gyles turned and climbed the wide stairs.

Discreet elegance and the unmistakable grace of established wealth surrounded him, yet there was a coldness about his house, an emptiness that chilled. Solid and timelessly classical though it was, his home lacked human warmth. From the head of the stairs, he looked down the imposing sweep and concluded that it was, indeed, past time he found a lady to correct the fault.

Francesca Hermione Rawlings easily topped the list to be invited to undertake the task. Aside from anything else, he truly wanted the deed to the Gatting property. His list had other names on it, but no other lady matched Miss Rawlings’s credentials. She might, of course, prove to be ineligible in some way; if so, he’d learn of it tomorrow.

No sense in dallying and allowing fate an opportunity to stick her finger in his pie.

He drove into Hampshire the next morning, reaching Lyndhurst in the early afternoon. He turned in under the sign of the Lyndhurst Arms. Bespeaking rooms there, he left his tiger, Maxwell, in charge of settling his greys. Hiring a good-looking chestnut hunter, he set off for Rawlings Hall.