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title when he died. He would probably be content to see Winifred married to any man of good family and honorable profession. Her brother Andrew was a captain in the Horse Guards, and the marquess himself had served briefly with the colors during the Zulu war, something in which he took inordinate pride. There was food for thought there. He smiled warmly at Winifred, and she smiled shyly back. An easy bit of fruit to pluck from the tree, but of course he could do nothing positive about it unless or, rather, until Charles informed his parents that he would never become engaged to the girl, no matter what pressures they put on him.
    Fenton stood up and gave a slight bow. “I leave you to breakfast. Perhaps we can form teams later for croquet.”
    â€œHow marvelous! We will enjoy that, won’t we, Winifred?”
    â€œYes, Mama,” Winifred said.
    â€œAll right with you, Roger? You could team up with Lady Mary and show off your considerable skills.”
    Roger looked quizzical. “Fine. Although I must say, Fenton, I find your own skills to be downright humbling.”
    Ivy hurried up the back stairs cradling a stack of linens in her arms. The stairs were narrow and steep and the sheets and pillowslips felt like a ton weight by the time she reached the second-floor passage in the west wing. She opened the door slowly and peered hesitantly around it. The long corridor was empty. The housekeeping rules were emphatic: Maids must not draw attention to themselves, if at all possible. Should family or guests be seen standing in the halls, the maids should draw discreetly out of sight until the hallway is empty. There were so many rules that Ivy’s head spun, trying to keep track of them all.
    She looked to the left and to the right. The hallway that she was facing was known as the west wing gallery, an outer passage with tall mullioned windows on one side. She remembered those windows from the day before, when she had come this way to help Doris make up Miss Alexandra’s bed. The room that she was looking for was to her left, past Miss Alexandra’s suite and then down a short hallway which ran at right angles to the gallery. She stepped resolutely out of the stairwell, closed the narrow door behind her, and hurried toward her destination. As she passed Miss Alexandra’s bedroom, the door flew open and the earl’s daughter poked her head out.
    â€œVelda?”
    â€œNo, ma’am.”
    â€œI can see that ,” the girl said petulantly. “I heard footsteps. Where’s Velda?”
    â€œI don’t know, ma’am.” She had never heard of anyone named Velda.
    The Right Honorable Alexandra Greville took a step into the corridor and glanced up and down. “Oh, bother!”
    Ivy stared at her in awe. She had only seen her from a distance before this. So pretty—like the portrait on a candy box. A slim, oval face . . . blue eyes . . . thick blonde hair curled into ringlets. And she smelled lovely, too—an odor of lavender soap and eau de cologne. Her dress was open down the back, revealing silk lingerie fringed with frothy lace.
    â€œYou must help me,” Alexandra said quickly. “Hurry up, or I shall be late.”
    â€œWhat?” Ivy said dully, gawking at this girl who was prettier than any princess in a storybook.
    â€œDon’t just stand there! Help do me up. I shall be—” The sound of a car horn cut off her words, and she rushed across the corridor to the windows and looked out. “Oh, she’s here! Drat that Velda!” She whirled in a fury of motion back toward the open doorway. “Quickly! Quickly!”
    Ivy had no idea what she wanted her to do. She stood rooted, the linens in her arms. Alexandra disappeared from view for a second and then reappeared in the doorway, hands on her hips.
    â€œI shan’t ask you again. Now please do me up. Drop what you’re carrying and come here.”
    â€œYes,