According to the garrulous innkeeper, Gyles’s distant kinsman, Sir Charles Rawlings, lived a reclusive life in the depths of the New Forest. Nevertheless, the road to the Hall was well graded, and the gates, when Gyles came to them, stood open. He rode in, the chestnut’s hooves beating a regular tattoo along the graveled drive. The trees thinned, then gave way to extensive lawns surrounding a house of faded red brick, some sections gabled, others battlemented with a lone tower at one end. None of the building was new, not even Georgian. Rawlings Hall was well looked after but unostentatious.

A parterre extended from the front courtyard, separating an old stone wall from the lawns surrounding an ornamental lake. Hidden behind the wall, a garden ran alongside the house; beyond it lay a formal shrubbery.

Gyles drew rein before the front steps. Footsteps pattered. Dismounting, he handed the reins to the stable lad who came pelting up, then strode up the steps to the door and knocked.

“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”

Gyles considered the large butler. “The Earl of Chillingworth. I wish to see Sir Charles Rawlings.”

To give him credit, the butler blinked only once. “Indeed, sir-my lord. If you will step this way, I’ll advise Sir Charles of your arrival immediately.”

Shown into the drawing room, Gyles prowled, his impatience fueled by an inexplicable sense of being just one step ahead of fate. Devil’s fault, of course. Even being an honorary Cynster was tempting fate too far.

The door opened. Gyles swung around as a gentlemen entered-an older, softer, more careworn version of himself, with the same rangy build, the same chestnut brown hair. Despite the fact he had not previously met Charles Rawlings, Gyles would have instantly recognized him as a relative.