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mother’s grasp and allowed her hands to drop to her lap. The wave of horror that overcame her whenever she thought of her parents’ baffling willingness to fall in with the plans of George’s father was quickly followed by a new sensation: anger. She loved her parents dearly and knew they only wanted what was best for her and could never be angry with
them
. No, her anger was for Harry, who had allowed himself to become a fop and a dandy. What had happened to the young man with whom she had enjoyed swimming, riding, and shooting? Certainly ‘Bertie’ wouldn’t dream of engaging in any of those activities. How could he possibly with so much lace dripping from his wrists?
    As she turned her own attention to the landscape outside, Mira mused on what might have happened to Harry to turn him into such a travesty. It clearly occurred whilst he was away, so perhaps something had happened to him either at Eton or on the Continent. Since her brothers attended Harrow, there was no guarantee they would know how much responsibility could be laid at the door of Eton in particular, and since they were still very much the same boys they had been prior to boarding school, she decided boarding school in general could not be the problem.
    George was an
alma mater
of Eton as well, and as he was precisely the same creature he had been prior to his years there, it most likely had nothing to do with the school in particular. She supposed she might ask George about the rowing accident since it was clear her parents had said all they would on the subject. However, she must first weigh it all out in her mind so as not to lead George to believe her interest in Harry was anything but perfectly idle. Being that her interest was far from it, this could prove difficult to accomplish. At the same time, were she to approach him with a question of any kind, he would doubtless take it as a token of esteem, and she had no wish to encourage George in the slightest degree.
    Finally, she threw up her hands in exasperation, startling her genuinely slumbering father out of somnolence, before she gave her thoughts over to the far less demanding task of mentally choosing the fabric to be made into her court gown. She owned that it was a bit hypocritical of her when she had been so hard on ‘Bertie’ and his fussy ensemble, but surely a woman was allowed more contemplation of clothing than the stronger sex. Besides, if both man and wife were entirely caught up in their wardrobes, they would soon be bankrupt. Thank goodness Mama did not feel the need for dozens of gowns or there would be little left in the coffers for Mira’s clothes once Papa had made his usual inroads. At least he eschewed lace at his cuffs … mostly.
    Mira hadn’t time to dwell much longer on her attire for there came a knock on the window glass. Mira opened the window, and George made it known that the carriage would any moment be coming to a halt at the next establishment so as to take refreshment.
    “Look there, my darling,” her father said as he gazed out the window. “It is not called the same yet it is … yes! The very same inn!”
    “What inn is that?” Mira asked.
    “Oh, it is merely an establishment at which your father and I partook of a meal on a very memorable occasion. I do hope they have since improved the place,” Lady Crenshaw said, misgiving lining her face.
    As Mira wondered what defined a ‘memorable occasion,’ the carriage pulled into the yard, and the steps were let down. She was startled when it was her turn to disembark, and George offered her his arm, insisting she take it for the journey across the yard and through the front door of The Cygnet and Lute.
    “You must familiarize yourself to my ways, Miss Crenshaw,” he said with an oily smile. “It would not do for the Duchess of Marcross to take herself through the door when I am at her disposal.”
    It was with great reluctance that Mira took his arm. “I fail to see what your mother has to do with