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would do this.” Growling, Sarala stormed out of the drawing room and back up to her bedchamber. Her parents could call her whatever they liked; she certainly couldn’t stop them. As for herself, she’d grown up as Sarala, and that was who she would remain.
    If she went by Sarah in her own mind and in her own heart, the next thing she knew, she would become one of those English ladies who didn’t conduct business. A blink after that, she would be selling the blasted silks to Charlemagne Griffin for a shilling. And that was not going to happen. Ever.



Chapter 3
    “I ’m merely pointing out the fact that tariffs don’t concern my business. I raise English cows on English grass and sell English butter and cream to proper English households.” Smothering a grin behind a mouthful of roast pheasant, Lord Zachary Griffin lifted both eyebrows.
    “That’s the stupidest, most short-sighted economic argument I’ve ever heard,” Charlemagne retorted. “Pass the salt.”
    “It’s not an economic argument. Those give me a headache. It’s a statement about how much I don’t care about whatever it is you and Melbourne are arguing over.”
    “Twit.”
    Melbourne’s daughter, Penelope, lowered her glass of lemonade. “Papa, Uncle Shay said ‘twit.’”
    “Yes, I heard him, Peep. Thank you very much. Mind your tongue, Charlemagne.”
    “That’s right,” Peep continued. “There are ladies present.”
    “Oh, I don’t mind,” Lady Caroline, Zachary’s auburn-haired bride, said with a chuckle.
    “Me, neither.” Eleanor, Lady Deverill, handed the salt down the long table to her brother. “In fact, I’d have to say that I agree with Shay’s assessment. You are a twit, Zachary.”
    “Thank you, Nell,” Charlemagne returned, “both for the salt and the agreement.”
    Pasting an affronted expression on his face, Zachary leaned forward to gaze at their brother-in-law, Deverill, the only one who hadn’t contributed to the conversation. “And what do you say, Valentine?”
    “You’re a twit.” The marquis returned to his pudding.
    “Oh, thank you very m—”
    “Papa, now everybody’s saying it!”
    “Yes, everyone has appalling manners,” the duke agreed. “Desist. Valentine, do you know of anything that might persuade Morgan to change his vote in Parliament tomorrow?”
    “I presume you mean blackmail,” the Marquis of Deverill replied. “I’ve heard that he finds ladies’ night rails very comfortable.”
    Peep giggled, wide-eyed. “He wears ladies’ clothes?”
    The marquis lifted an eyebrow. “Only at night.”
    Melbourne cleared his throat. “I was actually asking about political activities. But given our audience,” he continued, with a pointed glance at his seven-year-old daughter, “we can continue this later.”
    Valentine nodded. “You started it. I’m perfectly happy to stay out of the Griffin dynastic struggle. I have your sister, and that is all I require.”
    “God, you sound domestic,” Zachary chortled.
    “At least I’m not obsessed with cows.”
    Generally Charlemagne enjoyed these evenings, when the extended Griffin clan came together for dinner before a soiree or an evening at the theater. Tonight, however, his thoughts were already on the ball at Lady Mantz-Dillings’, and more specifically, on who else might be attending. He hadn’t seen the devious chit in a day, and only the devil knew what she might have done with his silks in that time.
    “Yes, Shay, we do get first pick of your silks, don’t we?” his sister, Eleanor, was saying.
    He shook himself. “Certainly. As soon as I get them sorted out, Nell, you and Caroline may select a bolt each.”
    “Is the quality as fine as you’d hoped?”
    Lady Caroline Griffin, the newest member of the family, thankfully had a wit and intelligence that more than equaled her husband Zachary’s, but she still showed a bit of reserve in Melbourne’s presence. Charlemagne couldn’t blame her for that; her claim to