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your lordship has not waited long.”
    â€œNo more than a quarter hour,” Rothwick growled.
    The butler’s face went white then red, and his eyes widened in terror.
    Rothwick, who often had this effect on servants and, sometimes, his relatives, took no notice of the butler’s panic but stomped in, leaving a trail of muddy puddles behind him on the marble floor. A footman hovering nearby hurried to him. The marquess took off his dripping hat, peeled off his saturated gloves, allowed the servant to relieve him of the sopping overcoat, and turned the entire sodden mess over to him.
    Rothwick wondered where they’d been, not to hear his knock. True, no one would expect visitors on this miserable day. Given the rain’s ferocity, he doubted anyone would have seen him coming even if they’d happened to look out of the window. Had the rain drowned out his knocking as well?
    Or perhaps, he thought grimly, a family emergency had the staff all running frantically about the place. He could picture Mrs. Findley in hysterics, and Findley waving his fist in impotent wrath—a state to which his family often reduced him.
    â€œI wish to see Miss Findley,” Rothwick said, advancing into the entrance hall to the chimneypiece, where a fire blazed. The Findleys heated every room of the house, whether it was in use or not. That was one luxury he could not afford. One of many.
    The butler hurried after him. “Miss Findley, my lord?”
    Rothwick caught the panicked look the butler shot at one of the doors. Down that corridor lay the library. Given the thick walls and the pounding rain, it was hard to be sure, but the marquess thought he detected the sound of voices raised in argument.
    â€œIs that not what I said?”
    â€œY-yes, my lord.”
    â€œYou will not tell me Miss Findley isn’t at home. She can’t have gone out in this filthy weather.”
    â€œNo, indeed, my lord, but—but . . . I do apologize, my lord, but the family is not receiving—” He broke off as a young man hurried in through the door Freets was so uneasy about.
    Fourteen-year-old Philip stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the visitor, and his green eyes—so like Barbara’s—widened. “Lord Rothwick!”
    â€œKindly inform your sister,” Rothwick said in his haughtiest drawl, “that I wish to speak to her. Privately.”
    Philip turned and ran back through the door. Begging his lordship’s pardon, Freets followed the boy at a slightly more dignified pace.
    Though the quarreling seemed to have increased in volume in the last minute, the voices were still muffled. Rothwick couldn’t hear, precisely, what the row was about, but he could guess.
    He’d been right, then. Those servants who weren’t fetching and carrying for the palpitating Mrs. Findley must have been eavesdropping with all their might. Small wonder the door had been left unattended.
    Small wonder in this household, at any rate.
    In exactly the time it would have taken Philip to reach the room and relay the message, a sudden dead silence fell.
    Rothwick held his numb hands to the fire and stared into the glowing embers, resolutely ignoring the hurried pounding of his heart.
    This couldn’t happen.
    He wouldn’t let it happen.
    An eternity passed.
    Freets returned. “If it pleases your lordship, Mr. Findley sends his apologies for keeping you waiting, and Miss Findley will see your lordship in the south parlor.”
    B arbara Findley closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. She needed more than one deep breath, but the footman Joseph pulled open the south parlor door before she had time for another.
    Her coiffure, she knew, was not elegant. Between Mama falling into hysterics and Papa on the brink of apoplexy and even Philip sulky and reproachful, she’d wanted to tear her hair out. She’d only dislodged some pins, but that was enough. Now it must look like