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day.”
    â€œMiss Cole—”
    â€œGood day,” she repeated firmly. “James, hand me up, if you please.” When one of the coachmen looked as though he’d like to take his fancy lordship down with his fives, she shook her head. “No, leave him be, Thomas—Lord Lyndon is dangerously deranged.”
    Once home, Tony relived every moment of the humiliating experience until he could stand it no longer. He’d made a cake of himself, and for the life of him, he could not quite decide how he’d come to do it. He’d meant merely to discover her direction, to converse with her, and to pursue her in leisurely fashion, but some devil in him could not wait, and he’d blurted out his intent like a green youth. He, Tony Barsett, the accomplished flirt, had succumbed to those gray eyes like a boy in the first throes of summer love.
    And for the life of him, he could not fathom why he’d done it. If only she’d played the game—played the coquette a little—then there would be less to blame. But she hadn’t. She hadn’t encouraged him in the least. And in his eagerness to have her, he’d overlooked the obvious: he did not know her because she was a Cit. Drinking deeply of a glass of sherry, he stared morosely into the empty fireplace.
    The door creaked open beneath a knock behind him. Reluctantly he swung his tall frame around. “What is it?”
    â€œMy lord … ?” It was the footman, Dilkes, easing into the room like a rabbit ready to run. “My lord, there is a person here to see you.”
    â€œThen send him away.”
    â€œHe was most insistent—said his name was Jeptha Cole, sir, and that he had business of some importance with you.”
    Jeptha Cole. For a moment Tony couldn’t place the name, and then recognition dawned. Old King Cole, they called him in honor of the fortune he’d made at the docks. His fleet of trading vessels plied the seas independently of the India Company, carrying cargoes of sugar, Spanish tobacco, Jamaica rum, timber, and rice. But what the deuce was he doing at Lyndon House? Although Tony had heard of him, they’d never actually met.
    Then a horrible suspicion reared in his mind. Jeptha Cole. Cole, as in Leah Cole. With the perversity of one who seeks punishment, Tony nodded. “Send him in—and bring another bottle and a glass.” Resolutely he drained the last of his sherry and prepared to face an irate father.
    â€œLord Lyndon?”
    Tony acknowledged the greeting with a nod. “Mr. Cole?”
    â€œAye.”
    Cole was shorter than he’d imagined him to be—a plump, plainly dressed, balding man with sharp, penetrating eyes. He crossed the room to pump Tony’s hand perfunctorily, and stated without preamble, “I believe you have made the acquaintance of my daughter, Leah.”
    The wine could not prepare him for the impact of those words. To hide his embarrassment over the earlier incident, Tony rose and gestured to the nearest chair, offering, “Er … would you care to take a seat and have some sherry?”
    â€œDamme if I won’t. Sit yourself.” Cole dropped his bulk into the deep leather upholstery and drew out his handkerchief to mop his brow. “Fine-looking girl, my Leah—don’t favor me at all,” he began without preamble. “Looks like her mother, my late wife, God rest her soul.” Looking across at Lyndon’s totally arrested expression, he hastened on. “Oh, do not be thinking I mean to waste your time, my lord, ’cause I don’t.”
    Cole reached to take the glass of sherry from the footman and waited for the fellow to withdraw. Tasting the wine, he savored it, nodding his approval. “Good stuff, my lord. Here, take a seat yourself, that I may look at you. Aye, that’s better. Thing is, Leah’s my only issue, my lord,” he explained between sips. “Been reared like a