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the Earl of Langley’s permission to take Charles out of London, and while he had sent her a signed copy of the guardianship document within an hour of that fateful visit to the park, she hadn’t heard a single word from him since.
    In point of fact, she had been waiting all of five days for an answer to her note requesting such permission, and both her nerves and her temper were beginning to fray at the edges. On the one hand, she felt as if her entire life were in a state of suspension waiting for a glimpse of the arrogant earl; on the other hand the very thought of facing him and his inevitable questions sent her into panic.
    If she made one slip that revealed the truth about her parentage, she felt certain he would take Charles away from her and forbid her to ever see him again. For what member of London’s prestigious ton would consider the daughter of a Spanish gypsy mother and an Irish smuggler father fit to raise a future peer of the realm—even if that member were as rumor had it, the most notorious rake in London with a penchant for loose-moraled opera dancers.
    Elizabeth came up with one excuse after another for the earl’s neglect of his ward. “You did tell him you required nothing but his signature on the guardianship document, your grace. In fact, you were most specific about wanting to raise Charles entirely by yourself.”
    Moira could not argue the truth of that, any more than she could justify the deep, unreasonable anger she felt toward him for blithely taking her at her word. She told herself her resentment toward the earl stemmed solely from her concern for Charles. And she almost believed herself. For it was all too obvious that in the few minutes the lonely little boy had spent with his guardian, he had developed a serious case of hero worship. The least the insensitive lout could do was devote half an hour to visiting his young ward and giving his permission for him to be removed to safety.
    “But the earl may be unable to visit,” Elizabeth said when Moira gave vent to her frustration. “I fear he may have injured his leg more seriously than we realized.”
    “An injured leg would not keep him from taking pen in hand to grant me the permission I need,” Moira snapped. “And I do not intend to cool my heels much longer waiting to hear from him.
    On the morning of the sixth day after the incident in the park, she decided enough was enough. Calling her household staff together, she informed them, “I am planning to leave for Cornwall within the week and have no plans to return to London in the near future. Therefore, before I close up the town house and leave it in the hands of a caretaker, I shall want it cleaned and polished from top to bottom, which includes cleaning every chimney, washing every window, and covering every stick of furniture with dust covers.”
    Moira knew her demands were excessive since old Chawleigh, the duke’s butler, headed as competent a staff as anyone could wish for. But she was the consummate housekeeper—probably because she’d spent half her life contending with the careless slovenliness of her gypsy relatives. The duke had often teased her about her obsession, claiming he despaired of buying her expensive French perfume since he was convinced the only scent she truly appreciated was lemon oil.
    She was an obsessive bill payer as well, having spent the other half of her life fleeing from village to village with a father who was always just one step ahead of his creditors. She often wondered what kind of person she would have been if she’d led a safe, conventional life like the one Elizabeth had described to her.
    Now, as the staff cleaned and polished, she set about settling all her London accounts and penning final instructions for both her solicitor and man-of-affairs.
    She worked steadily for nearly two hours at the desk in the library where the duke had so often sat when they were in residence in London. As always when in this room which so plainly