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charge. That brief meeting on the road had sparked his interest. Learning that Fiona was being brought out by the Tribbles nearly extinguished it, for everyone knew the Tribbles only dealt with ‘difficult’ cases. But what was wrong with Fiona? Her manners were graceful and she danced like an angel.
    ‘I wonder, Miss Macleod,’ ventured Lord Peter, ‘why your parents, or perhaps, your aunt and uncle, found it necessary to put you in the care of the Misses Tribble?’
    ‘Why, my lord?’ asked Fiona.
    ‘It is rumoured they advertise for ‘‘difficult’’ misses. Pray, is there anything scandalous about you that I should know, Miss Macleod?’
    Fiona wrinkled her brow. ‘My parents are both dead,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I am considered a difficult case because I smell of the shop.’
    ‘Indeed!’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said Fiona blithely. ‘My father was in trade. Jute mills.’
    Lord Peter cynically examined his own slight feeling of shock and dismay. That huge and often prosperous class, damned as being in trade, usually were clever enough to keep their ungenteel origins a secret. There were splendid mansions springing up in the suburbs where shopkeepers lived. It was called ‘sinking the shop’. The shopkeeper had the decency to pretend to be a gentleman once he shook the dust of central London from his boots. Miss Macleod must be aware of the social stigma of trade. Perhaps she was naive.
    ‘I would not talk about your father being in trade if you wish to make a society marriage,’ he said.
    Fiona, who had turned back her gloves to eat, held up one small hand and ticked off two fingers. ‘Item one,’ she said. ‘I do not wish to marry. Item two, I do not wish to get on in society.’
    ‘Then what are you doing with the Tribbles?’
    ‘Peace and quiet,’ said Fiona candidly. ‘It is always better to go along with what other people want to a certain extent.’
    ‘But every young lady wants to get married,’ he protested.
    ‘My lord,’ said Fiona firmly, ‘I am very hungry and I cannot eat and answer questions at the same time.’
    ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said stiffly.
    ‘Your apology is accepted,’ said Fiona calmly. ‘I shall tell you when I have eaten enough and then you may question me again.’
    He found himself becoming angry. But good manners prevented him from letting his anger show in his face or in his manner. She ate a large quantity of food, very daintily, but with amazing speed.
    Then she put down her knife and fork, dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, took a sip of wine, and half-turned to him. ‘You may continue, my lord.’
    ‘Perhaps it would only be polite to give you a chance to ask
me
some questions,’ he said.
    ‘Very well. Are you married?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do you intend to marry?’
    ‘No, Miss Macleod.’
    ‘Then we are two of a kind. How odd it is to meet someone who does not wish to marry either!’
    ‘Not odd in a man. Very odd in a woman.’
    ‘I do not have to marry, you see.’
    ‘Meaning you are rich. Then why this charade?’
    ‘Because I do not gain control of my money until I am married or reach the age of twenty-one.’ Fiona sighed. ‘Two years. Only two years to go.’
    ‘But what of love, Miss Macleod?’
    ‘You are hardly in a position to talk about love, my lord.’ Fiona looked highly amused.
    ‘Am I so ugly?’ A tinge of resentment was beginning to show in his eyes.
    ‘Of course not, my lord. On the contrary, you are handsome, reputed rich, and titled. Had you fallen in love, then you would have been married. You as yet know nothing about love, obviously.’
    He studied the elfin face which a short time ago had so enchanted him. He found her self-assured manner highly irritating. He thought he knew why she had been foisted off onto the Tribbles and it was nothing to do with trade. He had a longing to tease and annoy.
    ‘But you are
so
wrong,’ he murmured. ‘I
have
been in love . . . madly.’
    There was a certain stillness about her,