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controlled click that was a well-bred woman’s alternative to slamming it. Settling back in his chair, he took a measured sip of brandy and muttered a few things that it was as well Almeria couldn’t hear. What the devil was he to do now?
    He had to wonder if every god in the pantheon had conspired against him. His laudable plan of reconciling Almeria to Max’s marriage was clearly misfiring. Instead of accepting his own delight in the match, the mere sight of him was enough to stir up all her outrage at the ruin of his supposed expectations. Worse, she was now about to fling fifty thousand pounds’ worth of heiress at his head. Although probably not with Aberfield’s blessing.
    In fact, Aberfield would probably succumb to apoplexy if he knew what Almeria was up to. A viscount, and a wealthy one at that, Aberfield didn’t have a seat in the cabinet any more, but he wielded a fair amount of influence with those who did.
    Almeria was howling at the moon. Aberfield would never accept a match to a younger son, remarkable only for living within his means, his fortune respectable but no more, and about as much interested in a political career as he was interested in succeeding to his twin’s title—to wit, not at all. All Richard wanted was a quiet, private life improving his recently purchased acres and reading his books.
    Nigel Lallerton was a younger son. He dismissed that as irrelevant. Lallerton had been set for a safe seat in parliament, supporting his father’s interest. Not to mention Aberfield’s interest.
    Lallerton’s father, Lord Chasewater, had been an old political crony. No doubt the match was stitched up between them as mutually beneficial. It had probably been sheer luck that Thea had cared so deeply for Lallerton.
    Stretching out his stiff leg, he considered his options.
    If he returned to the country, Almeria would think it was because of what she’d said about Verity.
    Richard frowned. Max could look after Verity, but even so, he hesitated to expose his sister-in-law to any more of Almeria’s rancour. Nor did he wish the rift between Max and Almeria to widen.
    Besides, Almeria would be hurt if he left. She was actually fond of him, he reminded himself firmly.
    When he’d broken his leg, she had come up to town and had him to stay as soon as the doctors said his leg had healed enough for him to travel. Not that a twelve-year-old with a broken leg, wondering if he would ever walk again, had been precisely grateful for that, but nevertheless she had been kind to him. Buying him as many books as he could read, insisting that the kitchen made his favourite cake at least once a day. She had even put up with his dog, although she hated dogs in the house.
    He grimaced. His own mother, while professing to be utterly devoted to her sons, had attended a succession of house parties that summer. He hadn’t understood why at first…Almeria had taken over. Brisk, no-nonsense and frequently acerbic on the subject of his idiocy in trying to ride that damned hunter in the first place, but she had been there, while his own mother wafted through London several times between gatherings and recommended laudanum when she thought he looked out of sorts. She had invariably been accompanied by Lord Ketterley—he grimaced.
    Ketterley had seemed such a decent fellow…it had been Max, cynical, rebellious Max, who had worked it all out…
    Almeria hadn’t even complained when she discovered that he had inveigled Myles into playing chess with him. Her face when she caught them, though! Three days later she had appeared triumphantly with her other godchild, five-year-old Thea Winslow, announcing that Dear Dorothea is come to stay as well, and she is most interested in learning to play chess… The twelve-year-old Richard had barely choked back his disgust at having dear, little Dorothea foisted upon him. He’d taught her to play chess in sheer self-defence.
    He found himself smiling as he remembered the little girl who had