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but a mature woman. For a moment they stared at each other, Miss Jones hugging the pillar and himself struck by the odd impression of a connection between them. He sensed a vague familiarity about her, something deep and mysterious, something that pulled at him.
    What nonsense. Aside from her eyes, she wasn’t even pretty.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he demanded.
    Her gaze flicked to his informal garb. Then she stepped out from her hiding place. “I am on my way to see the Duke of Aylwin. I have an appointment with him.”
    â€œLiar. I’ve no appointments on my schedule today.”
    â€œOh! Surely you’re not … but perhaps … you are the duke?” Her cheeks took on a becoming blush. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Miss Jones. Miss Bella Jones.”
    She dipped an awkward curtsy, then thrust out her hand, not in the limp, delicate manner of a lady, but like a man, brisk and purposeful. He found himself grasping her gloved fingers in his. They felt strong yet feminine, the fingers of a determined woman.
    A devious woman.
    He released her hand at once. “You were prowling through my home without invitation,” he stated coldly. “I’ve no wish to speak any further with you. The footman will show you to the door.”
    George discreetly appeared at her side. “This way, miss.”
    She ignored him. Her blue eyes intent on Miles, she said, “Pray forgive me. I followed your servant only because I feared that you might refuse to see me. I’ve a matter of great importance to discuss with you.”
    â€œYou’ve wasted your time. Leave this house. And never return.”
    Pivoting on his heel, Miles started back toward the ballroom. The audacity of her manner irked him beyond measure. And those eyes—gazing at him with such boldness. As if he were the one at fault for refusing to be duped by her scheme. He hadn’t gone more than three steps when her voice called out to him.
    â€œWait, sir … Your Grace! I’m no stranger to your family. My father was Sir Seymour Jones. He was a colleague of your father’s in Egypt.”
    The bottom fell out of Miles’s gut. He turned slowly around to face her again. Disbelief warred with astonishment. Was that why he’d sensed a connection between them? Because they’d met as children?
    More than twenty years had passed since that tragic episode in Egypt. He tried to reconcile her features with the hazy memory of the six-year-old girl who had followed him everywhere in the encampment. Bella … Isabella. That was what she’d been called back then. The child he’d known had had blue eyes, too. But he recalled little else. He’d only been thirteen at the time and prone to ignoring pesky infant girls.
    And Sir Seymour! He had seemed a friendly, honest fellow, always patient and helpful whenever Miles asked questions about the excavation of the pharaoh’s tomb. He could still picture the man, his bearded face browned by the hot Egyptian sun, his white teeth flashing in a smile.
    By God! Miles had naïvely trusted the rascal even after his own father had been murdered by grave robbers. Not twenty-four hours later, Sir Seymour had abandoned him. He had taken his wife and daughter and vanished into the night, never to be seen again.
    Miles could still feel the crushing weight of despair and grief at being left alone and fatherless in a foreign country. Even worse was the burden of his own guilt. If not for the quarrel they’d had, his father would never have left the encampment that fateful night. He would never have died …
    The memory threatened to suck him down into a black hole.
    Miles drew a deep breath. He cautioned himself not to take this woman at her word. Her claim might yet be a trick. A clever ruse concocted for the purposes of ingratiating herself with him.
    But if Miss Bella Jones really was Sir Seymour’s