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fribbles and flibbertigibbets infesting London society, but she’d long ago recognized the pique behind his derision. His lordship wasn’t sparkling company and wouldn’t shine outside antiquarian circles. Even in scholarly circles, he earned respect more for his family and fortune than for his intellect. While he was far from a stupid man and he had a magnificent collection that she’d been privileged to work on, Lord Neville remained a dilettante.
    Mr. Evans sipped the fine claret that Lord Neville supplied to her father and answered with a coolness that only emphasized his lordship’s churlishness. “We were at school together. I’m proud to call him my friend.”
    “Where are your people, Mr. Evans?” Until now, Aunt Lucy had sat quietly. The price of sharing her brother’s roof was enduring arcane discussions that held no shred of interest for her. “Evans is a Welsh name, is it not?”
    “My family is in Shropshire. Perhaps we were Welsh originally.” His voice warmed as he addressed her aunt.
    “Wouldn’t an enthusiastic amateur historian investigate?” Genevieve had no idea what Mr. Evans hoped to gainfrom his association with her father, but she’d wager every penny she had that he harbored no genuine interest in the Middle Ages.
    Her question didn’t unsettle him. She reached the conclusion that Mr. Evans would retain his sangfroid standing naked between the French and English lines at Waterloo. While she’d never met a rake, something told her that Mr. Evans played the rake to perfection.
    If he was a rake, perhaps he contemplated seduction. But surely she was beneath his touch and the only other female under thirty in the house was Dorcas. The idea of elegant Mr. Evans pursuing the scatterbrained maid tempted her to giggle into her gravy.
    “I’m hoping your distinguished father will guide my research.”
    “Hunting a noble ancestor?” Lord Neville scoffed, earning a frown from Aunt Lucy. “Some Welsh princeling?”
    Mr. Evans’s affability didn’t falter. “We’re not a grand family.”
    But wealthy with old money, Genevieve could tell. It wasn’t just that everything about him screamed expense. It was also his assurance, as though he found a welcome everywhere because of who he was. This man had never had cause to doubt himself.
    “What about your wife, Mr. Evans?” Aunt Lucy asked with wide-eyed innocence.
    Genevieve kicked her aunt under the table. Or at least that was the plan. Mr. Evans released a soft huff of surprise and shifted in his seat. Dear Lord. Now she’d demonstrated that she had the manners of a drunken cowherd. She must be as red as a tomato.
    “Alas, I’m not married, Mrs. Warren. Perhaps I’ll discover some lovely ladies in Oxfordshire.” His lips curved inpure devilment. “Of course, no ladies could be lovelier than the two sharing this table.”
    “Sir, you flatter us,” Aunt Lucy simpered.
    She’d been a pretty girl, the toast of Taunton. Much as Genevieve discounted Mr. Evans’s flummery, she couldn’t begrudge her aunt the chance to relive her youthful triumphs. The soldier she’d married had died within a year on the Peninsular campaign. Aunt Lucy was born to mother a brood of children and cosset a doting husband. Instead she’d landed up as companion to an eccentric, self-centered brother and his gawky daughter.
    “Not at all, Mrs. Warren.” Mr. Evans raised his glass. “To my beautiful hostesses.”
    “Stuff and nonsense,” her father interrupted with his usual insensitivity. “Lucinda’s too old for such flannel. Fifty if she’s a day.”
    Genevieve bit back a remonstrance.
    “True beauty knows no age,” Mr. Evans said firmly.
    The flash of anger in his blue eyes mitigated Genevieve’s hostility, although it didn’t make her trust him any further. She still couldn’t work out why a man who looked ready to grace a royal banquet sat at her lowly table.
    Richard enjoyed his evening more than expected, although meeting the beauteous