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majority…”
    “Your uncle would inherit,” Galen finished for her. “So you have to worry that the boy is not getting the proper care and treatment, correct? Would the lad not have done better under your supervision?”
    “Perhaps, if I could have afforded specialists and consulting physicians. But my uncle gave me no choice except to leave. Uncle Manfred decided I should marry his neighbor, a pox-ridden old miser who had buried three wives before. Uncle Manfred owed him money, you see, and Lord Grinsted was willing to forgive the debt, for my hand.”
    Galen leaped to his feet. “Grinsted? That loose screw?” The very idea of that filthy old man touching his wife—he was already thinking of Miss Montclaire, no, Miss Penrose as his wife—was an abomination.
    “Uncle said I could marry him or leave. I think he knew I would leave, which was all he wanted. I could not take Ansel, of course, for I had no way to support him, nor the legal right to his wardship. I could have gone for a governess, I suppose, keeping my reputation, since I am fluent in three languages and know music and the globes and some mathematics, but that would have availed Ansel nothing. By singing, I can earn enough to send money back to the Penrose Hall housekeeper, to keep me informed, to buy whatever my brother needs that Uncle Manfred refuses to provide. I was hoping to earn enough to purchase a cottage somewhere, so that I could eventually have Ansel with me if I could steal him away from my uncle.”
    Galen bent and took both her hands in his, prying the mangled ribbon out of her fingers. “Miss Penrose, Margot, listen to me. If we marry, your brother becomes my brother. He will never want for anything.”
    Margot had to reclaim her hands so she could wipe her eyes. Galen offered his handkerchief and waited while she blew her nose. “Uncle will not give him up easily. He threatened to send poor Ansel away if I interfered.”
    “I promise you, the boy will be at your side within the week, with the best physicians in London in attendance, and your uncle be damned. I doubt he’d want to face me at twenty paces otherwise.”
    “You would do that, for me?”
    She looked up at him through blue eyes glistening with tears, like a spring day after a rain shower. Galen would have done anything for her at that moment, adopted seventy sickly waifs, despatched a hundred heinous uncles. The extent of his newfound dedication shocked even himself. Hell, he was supposed to be offering the chit a bargain, not his life’s blood. To lighten the tenor of the conversation, he quipped, “Of course you’ll be getting my sister in return. You’re definitely getting the worst of the deal.”
    “There’s more.”
    “What, an evil uncle and a maltreated heir and a selfless sister aren’t enough? Are you sure you are not writing for the Minerva Press?”
    “I only wish I were making this up. Uncle Manfred swears he will have Ansel declared unfit to hold the title.”
    This was no laughing matter. Galen could have supposed her maunderings the imagination of a doting sister wanting to coddle the boy, although his own sister had never shown anything resembling such tender feelings. But to steal the lad’s heritage? And just what was wrong with the little baron that his uncle could declare him incompetent, as Prinny kept trying to label his poor, mad father? “Sickly” could mean a great many things. “Is he fit?”
    “What, to take his place in Parliament? To oversee his estate? Of course not. Ansel is eleven years old, my lord, a little boy who has lost both his parents and now his sister. He is naturally upset, finding himself at the mercy of a bully. But he is bright and well-mannered. He can converse in Italian as well as English, and he is remarkably talented.” Margot stood and moved toward the fruit painting. “That is one of his works.”
    “It is certainly remarkable,” was the only comment Galen felt able to make, praying she did not insist