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pleased right under his father’s nose. Lord Bratford, indeed. Maybe this was his way of trying to get his father’s attention . . .
    She shook her head uneasily, then left the doorway and went looking for her sire. Along the way, she lifted a glass of wine from a footman’s tray and took a large sip to steady her nerves, for she was still a little shaken by her deliciously sinful rendezvous.
    As she hurried through the glittering crowd, she was shocked at herself for feeling a trifle smug as she passed the glamorous, highborn ladies who had been thronging the Order hero. It was wrong of her to gloat that she was the one who had secretly won his kiss—and secret it had better stay. She had worked hard to earn her reputation as a paragon, and she intended to keep it.
    Shaking off a shiver of remembered pleasure, she put the ex-spy forcefully out of her mind.
    There’s Papa. Standing on her tiptoes, she spotted her father near one of the refreshment tables before the shifting crowd hid him from view again.
    She began weaving her way toward him, sipping her wine again to keep from sloshing it on herself or others in the noisy throng.
    When she reached the edge of the group where the amiable minister was deep in conversation with several other gentlemen, she envied his ability to make friends wherever they went.
    It was not as easy for her, with her shy streak.
    She was still on the outside of the male gathering when she heard him at it again, an excellent conversationalist on any number of topics.
    “If you are handy with such things, my lord, I know the perfect property you should consider,” he was saying. “Back in our own home village in Leicestershire near Lord Lievedon’s country seat, there’s a fine old farmhouse called the Grange. It’s fallen into a state of disuse since the previous owner’s death and could use a skillful hand to bring it back to life. I’ve been inside the place,” Papa continued. “Excellent linen-fold paneling. Brickwork ’round the hearth that dates back to the Tudor age, if it can be preserved.”
    “And what is the name of your village, Reverend?” another man nearby asked.
    “Thistleton. The Grange has some of the most fertile acreage still to be had in the Midlands.” He took a drink and continued. “The house sits on the brow of a hill, northward facing, a very agreeable location. The fields have long lain fallow, which would ensure abundant crop yields for years to come. The pastures are suitable for cattle, horses, sheep. It has an orchard, well established, and a fine brook full with fish. The old colonel was very fond of his fishing stream.”
    “You sound like you’d rather buy the Grange yourself, Reverend.”
    He chuckled with a mild wave of his hand. “I’m just a humble minister to my flock, gentlemen. Besides, at my age, all that work sounds exhausting. But you may be just the man for the task, Montgomery.”
    Grace gasped as her father stepped across the open circle of the dozen or so men who had gathered around, and handed a small piece of paper to none other than Lord Trevor Montgomery.
    She only just managed to duck out of sight again behind some portly fellow taking a pinch of snuff.
    Oh, God. What is he doing back here? I thought he left!
    “The food at the Gaggle Goose Inn isn’t half-bad—that’s Thistleton’s only coaching inn,” her father was explaining. “But if you do decide to come out and see the Grange, by all means, call on us at the parsonage. My daughter and I would be pleased to invite you to supper.”
    “You’re very kind, sir, thank you.” Lord Trevor tucked the card into his breast pocket.
    “Ah,” her father said, turning and spying her, but missing her look of panic, “here’s my daughter now.”
    Grace froze as he beckoned her over with a smile.
    Lord Trevor’s eyebrow arched high when he saw her.
    “Grace, my dear, where have you been? I was missing you,” her father said affectionately.
    She turned a guilty