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she’s not the only female you’ve seen naked, or the only one who’s tried to seduce you into marriage.”
    “It’s not that. It’s the being trapped, and it’s that bloody finishing school education. They’retrained from birth to hound us and hunt us down. Thank God for fast horses and Haverly.”
    “They’re not all like that, I’m sure. The Academy here has a fine reputation.”
    “Caroline attended it.”
    The viscount sat straighter. “Damn. Well, just because you’re jaded beyond redemption doesn’t mean I’m becoming a monk—even for a short stay in Hampshire. Why don’t—”
    “No females,” Grey stated, as annoyed hazel eyes flitted across his vision. “There’re too many here already.”
    “Humph. You might at least thaw enough to go see that play. Maybe you’ll realize females aren’t all feather-brains and lavender-scented snares.”
    Grey lifted an eyebrow. “Which play?”
    “I don’t remember which one it was. The one at the girls’ school.”
    Grey leaned back, feigning resignation. This was going to be even easier than he’d anticipated. “If it’ll stop you from complaining, I suppose I could manage to attend,” he grumbled.
    “Good. Another evening playing whist with Alice, and I’d be ready for the priesthood.”
    The duke glanced at his friend again. “There’s no reason you can’t go back to London, Tris. I told you Hampshire didn’t have much to offer in the way of excitement.”
    Tristan lifted a duck-shaped, bronze paperweight from the desk. “I just hate to admit when you’re right about something.”
    Greydon grinned. “You should be used to it by now.”
    The butler scratched at the half-open door. “A letter has arrived for you, Your Grace.”
    Curiosity stirring, he gestured for Hobbes to bring it in. “Who knows I’m here?”
    “Your mother?” Tristan suggested dryly.
    “Good God, I hope not. I’m not ready to be discovered yet.” Suppressing a shudder, he removed the missive from the butler’s tray and flipped it over to see the address.
    “Miss Grenville’s Academy?” Tristan read, leaning over the desk. “Who in the world do you know there?”
    Grey knew precisely who must have written it. His pulse heated, and he had to stifle the urge to smile. “Hm? Oh, I’m attempting to settle a rental dispute for Uncle Dennis.” He broke the plain wax seal and unfolded the missive. “This is undoubtedly the headmistress’s reply to my query.”
    “Your uncle’s letting you deal with a girls’ school?” the viscount asked skeptically. “ That girls’ school?”
    “I think I’m qualified.”
    Tristan watched as three pages of closely spaced writing unfolded. “That’s quite a reply.”
    “Rental dispute, indeed.” Alice swept into the room, an arch smile on her face. “I’ve figured you out, Wycliffe. You’ve led us all here so you can carry on some clandestine affair with one of the pretty young schoolgirls at the Academy.” She snatched the letter from his fingers before he could even read the salutation. “Let’s just see, shall we?”
    In London, she would never have attempted such a stunt. Obviously desperation had outweighed her scanty common sense. “Miss Boswell,” Grey said, anger dropping his tone by half an octave, “I don’t recall asking you to view my private correspondence. There are several fine volumes of poetry in the library if you want something to read.”
    “I’m only bored, Grey,” she tittered, but with a swish of her skirts she returned the missive to the desk. “Beast.”
    “Hm. He seems terribly sensitive about something,” Lady Sylvia said silkily from the doorway. “Wouldn’t you agree, Cousin?”
    Grey cursed under his breath as Charles Blumton strolled into the office behind Sylvia. Now Tristan was eyeing him, as well. Damnation, all he wanted to do was read a blasted letter in private. With a heavy sigh, he folded the missive and dropped it beside the stack of ledgers. “You lot are