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sadly foxed, Meriden, and so you would own if you had the least grain of truth in you.”
    “Aye, so I was. I own it freely. Needed all the courage the lads could pour into me—”
    “You did not. You’d have taken the bet stone sober.”
    He chuckled. “Right you are, Emmy love.”
    “Don’t call me by that detestable name!” She was remembering all too clearly how tempted she had been to slap him at Woburn, how pleased she had been with her self-control when she had not done so, and how much she had regretted the lost opportunity later.
    “Right.” He frowned at her. “Suppose we get back to the subject at hand. Just what makes you think for a moment that I will permit you to interfere with my affairs here?”
    “They are not entirely your affairs,” she said, wishing he would sit properly or at least move a little so that she might stand up and put some distance between them. “My sister has every right to confide in me and every right to request my help with the bumblebroth you have created here.”
    She suddenly got her wish, for Meriden stood abruptly and walked away toward the shelf-lined wall behind his desk. “You may well call it a bumblebroth,” he muttered.
    “Just so,” she agreed, getting to her feet and moving to stand behind her chair, placing her hands upon the chair back as she added, “You have turned everything upside down, sir, but I believe it has not been from lack of good intent. I daresay you never have had such responsibility thrust upon you before, which is why you have set up Oliver and Dolly’s backs and frightened poor Giles and Melanie out of their senses. As for dear Sabrina, you simply must realize—”
    “Enough!” He turned to face her again, his hands on his hips, his gray eyes flashing fire from their depths. “Not another word,” he bellowed when she opened her mouth to protest. “I realize all I need to realize, Miss Wingrave, and despite any opinion you may have formed to the contrary, I know precisely what I am doing. Responsibility is no stranger to me, though I’ll confess that when my father passed to his reward, he did not leave me with such an unholy mess as that which my idiotic cousin left me to sort out.”
    “Laurence was not an idiot,” Emily said sharply, “and it does not become you to speak ill of the dead.”
    “Oh, forgive me, ma’am, for trampling on that precious convention, but if anyone has the right to speak ill of Laurence Rivington, it is I, who have inherited those responsibilities he never chose to shoulder. And under that heading, I must respectfully include his wife and his offspring.”
    “You are insulting, sir.”
    “I am truthful.” He glared at her. “Look here, why don’t you just pick up your skirts and get back to your sister’s drawing room. I don’t mind if she pours her megrims into your ears rather than to mine. In that respect, you can be useful.”
    “Sabrina asked for my help,” Emily said angrily, “and I intend to look after her interests. She believes she ought to have been named guardian to her own children, and I—”
    “And you, Emmy love?” His expression changed again. “You will have altered a good deal if you can look me in the eye and tell me in all candor that my cousin would have done better to have named Sabrina to act instead of me.”
    She grimaced but remained firm. “He certainly ought to have named her co-guardian, at least, to her own children.”
    “Nonsense, he’d have done us both a great disservice thereby. Your sister is incapable of making a decision. She thinks mostly of herself and is accustomed to depending upon others to look after her. She cannot even decide what gown to wear without discussing the point at length with anyone who will listen and advise her.”
    “Perhaps there is some truth in what you say,” said Miss Wingrave, nettled but fair, “but you have treated Oliver—”
    “Oliver is as self-centered as his mother without possessing an ounce of her