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underestimate this Duke. Despite having only since this morning to think about it, he had missed very little. And, as he held the purse-strings, he could call the tune. As she had foreseen, life as the wards of a man as masterful and domineering as the present Duke of Twyford was rapidly proving to be was definitely not going to be as unfettered as they had imagined would be the case with his vague and easily led uncle. There were, however, certain advantages in the changed circumstances and she, for one, could not find it in her to repine.
    More people were appearing in the Park, strolling about the lawns sloping down to the river and gathering in small groups by the carriageway, laughing and chatting.
    A man of slight stature, mincing along beside the carriage drive, looked up in startled recognition as they passed. He was attired in a bottle-green coat with the most amazing amount of frogging Caroline had ever seen. In place of a cravat, he seemed to be wearing a very large floppy bow around his neck. “Who on earth was that quiz?” she asked.
    “That quiz, my dear ward, is none other than Walter Millington, one of the fops. In spite of his absurd clothes, he’s unexceptionable enough but he has a sharp tongue so it’s wise for young ladies to stay on his right side. Don’t laugh at him.”
    Two old ladies in an ancient landau were staring at them with an intensity which in lesser persons would be considered rude.
    Max did not wait to be asked. “And those are the Misses Berry. They’re as old as bedamned and know absolutely everyone. Kind souls. One’s entirely vague and the other’s sharp as needles.”
    Caroline smiled. His potted histories were entertaining.
    A few minutes later, the gates came into view and Max headed his team in that direction. Caroline saw a horseman pulled up by the carriage drive a little way ahead. His face clearly registered recognition of the Duke’s curricle and the figure driving it. Then his eyes passed to her and stopped. At five and twenty, Caroline had long grown used to the effect she had on men, particularly certain sorts of men. As they drew nearer, she saw that the gentleman was impeccably attired and had the same rakish air as the Duke. The rider held up a hand in greeting and she expected to feel the curricle slow. Instead, it flashed on, the Duke merely raising a hand in an answering salute.
    Amused, Caroline asked, “And who, pray tell, was that?”
    Max was thinking that keeping his friends in ignorance of Miss Twinning was going to prove impossible. Clearly, he would be well-advised to spend some time planning the details of this curious seduction, or he might find himself with rather more competition than he would wish. “That was Lord Ramsleigh.”
    “A friend of yours?”
    “Precisely.”
    Caroline laughed at the repressive tone. The husky sound ran tingling along Max’s nerves. It flashed into his mind that Caroline Twinning seemed to understand a great deal more than one might expect from a woman with such a decidedly restricted past. He was prevented from studying her face by the demands of successfully negotiating their exit from the Park.
    They were just swinging out into the traffic when an elegant barouche pulled up momentarily beside them, heading into the Park. The thin, middle-aged woman, with a severe, almost horsy countenance, who had been languidly lying against the silken cushions, took one look at the curricle and sat bolt upright. In her face, astonishment mingled freely with rampant curiosity. “Twyford!”
    Max glanced down as both carriages started to move again. “My lady.” He nodded and then they were swallowed up in the traffic.
    Glancing back, Caroline saw the elegant lady remonstrating with her coachman. She giggled. “Who was she?”
    “That, my ward, was Sally, Lady Jersey. A name to remember. She is the most inveterate gossip in London. Hence her nickname of Silence. Despite that, she’s kind-hearted enough. She’s one of the