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a granite sarcophagus dating from the Old Kingdom. He didn’t trust those two not to damage one of these rare objects out of spite.
    Offering a chilly farewell, Oscar and his wife minced down the wide corridor with its massive white marble pillars. They immediately began chattering in low, peevish tones that echoed off the stone walls. Miles watched until the couple disappeared around the corner. He didn’t need to hear the conversation to know they were airing their grievances about him. Let them complain; he would not change his mind.
    A blasted ball! No doubt the notion had been hatched by Helen. What was it with women that made them so hostile toward the priceless remains of an ancient civilization? His mother had not cared for them, either, preferring to stay in the country until her death ten years ago. Every lady who had ever crossed his threshold had gazed askance at the many Egyptian objects that were scattered throughout the house. Several had even hinted at the need to redecorate in the latest style.
    He grasped the door handle. By damn, he’d turn the key in the lock this time. There must be no more interruptions for the remainder of the afternoon. The tantalizing hieroglyph awaited his decryption, and the prospect of identifying its meaning filled him with vigor.
    But as Miles began to close the door, he spied a footman in crimson livery at the end of the long, stately corridor. The servant was carrying a silver salver and walking toward the ballroom.
    Bollocks, Miles thought, clenching his jaw. Hopefully, it was only a letter. Surely he could not be plagued with yet another visitor. It was high time the staff was reminded of their duty in turning away all uninvited callers.
    The carpet muffling his swift steps, he met the footman halfway. “George, I need a word—”
    It was then that Miles noticed the woman.
    She was creeping down the corridor in a clandestine manner, slipping from pillar to pillar. A gold sash cinched the waist of a gown the color of deep bronze, and the wide brim of her straw bonnet formed a semicircle around her face, shading her features from his view. Even as he narrowed his eyes at her, she ducked out of sight again, apparently flattening herself against the wall.
    He took a step forward. “Who the devil is that?” he bit out.
    George glanced back over his shoulder. “Beg pardon?”
    â€œThe woman hiding behind the pillar. She was following you.”
    The footman’s face went as pale as his powdered white wig. He presented the salver. “Er—you’ve a visitor, Your Grace. She was most insistent on an audience. I bade her wait in the antechamber.”
    Miles snatched up the pasteboard card. The neatly penned letters read Miss B. Jones.
    The name meant nothing to him. But he had a grim suspicion of her purpose. Over the years, ladies of the ton had used a variety of excuses to worm their way into Aylwin House. One had conveniently sprained an ankle while strolling past the house. Another had claimed to bear a private message from the bailiff on one of his estates. Yet another had purported a friendship with his late mother. Their scheming minds shared one belief: that a bachelor duke must be in want of a wife.
    â€œShall I send her away, then?” the footman asked rather nervously.
    Miles crushed the card inside his fist. “No. I’ll deal with her myself.”
    Flinging the crumpled bit of paper back onto the salver, he stalked down the corridor to her hiding place. The thick carpet muted the sound of his footfalls. Miss B. Jones must not have heard his approach, for she peeked out from behind the colossal pillar.
    Her widened gaze lifted to him. The crimped edge of the bonnet formed an oval frame for her features. In an otherwise unremarkable face, her dark blue eyes had the depth and richness of lapis lazuli.
    He stopped, curiously stunned. His tongue felt incapable of producing speech. She was no naïve debutante,