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Miss Bunting provide you with her first name?”
    “Indeed, Lady Evelyn. She had no calling card, but I believe she said it was ‘Jane.’”
    How was it possible that such an utterly dreadful day had somehow culminated in Jane standing in the most lavish entry surely on the face of the earth, holding a basket of fresh-baked biscuits and waiting for the man who had single-handedly caused the loss of an eye-watering portion of the day’s profit, half her mother’s china, and a good deal of Jane’s dignity?
    Jane adjusted her hold on the heavy wicker basket, fighting against the exhaustion that draped her limbs like a rusted coat of armor. She had never worked so hard or so long in her life, and almost every part of her ached for rest. But she had come to the earl’s house tonight because she could scarcely do otherwise.
    After all, she was in the wrong.
    And as much as she disliked the earl and his catastrophic effect on her day, he had been trying to help. No matter how unwanted—or destructive—that assistance was. The upper crust of society may blithely ignore any wrongs they had done to others, but Jane actually had a conscience. She wouldn’t be able to sleep until she apologized to her own personal bull in her bakery shop.
    But now that she was here, witnessing firsthand the unbelievable opulence of Lord Raleigh’s home, something akin to panic crept up her spine, weakening her resolve.
    She had never known such luxury existed, let alone thought to stand so close to it. Nervously, she surveyed the soaring ceiling, painted in a charming scene complete with cupids and Grecian-outfitted lovers frolicking through the clouds. Elegant and elaborately carved molding framed the whole scene, and the walls below were blanketed in a shimmering, dove gray velvet that looked to be so soft, she had the most absurd desire to press her cheek against it.
    Beneath her feet, nearly flawless black-and-white marble tiles extended in all directions, disappearing out of view into the rooms adjacent to the entrance hall in which she waited. She was starting to feel a little faint. What was she doing here? He had probably already forgotten about the whole thing. And even if he hadn’t, a man who lived in this kind of extreme wealth wouldn’t want a woman like her sullying his rose-scented air with her presence. She pressed an icy hand to her flushed cheek. Why hadn’t she just sent Weston with the biscuits and a note?
    She should leave. Tomorrow, she could send a note of apology and be done with it. She hesitated for a moment longer, listening to the echoing sounds of activity filtering down from the first floor. Clearly the household was preparing for something. Besides the veritable meadowful of freshly cut flowers decorating the grand space and dozens, perhaps hundreds, of candles lighting the place like day, soft, shuffling footsteps came and went as servants dashed from room to room, not one of them slowing to speak to, or even look at, her.
    She was only in the way here.
    With unease fluttering deep within her, Jane turned to the door and took a few tentative steps toward freedom. Oh, jam and splash, the biscuits. She glared down at the tidy wicker basket, the handle of which rested in the crook of her elbow. If she came all this way, she should at least leave the conciliatory offering—especially since she had told the butler their purpose. Ignoring the need to flee, she looked around for a suitable place to unload the basket. A few feet away stood a delicately carved table that looked more like a work of art than a serviceable piece of furniture.
    It would have to do.
    She hurried to it, her practical leather half boots tapping along the shining marble tile. In all her life, she had never felt more out of place. As the daughter of a respected businessman, she had lived a relatively privileged life before Papa’s death, but the fine homes and lovely furnishings of her father’s wealthiest acquaintances, mostly tradesmen,