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pen. “What do you think?”
    Emma read through the sheet that now held numerous deletions and additions. She could not deny that the resulting requirements described a replacement for Mr. Nightingale very well, mostly because they described Mr. Nightingale himself.
    “I will give you the name of a solicitor who will act as go-between. He will ensure that obviously inappropriate prospects do not darken your door,” Cassandra said.
    “I think you will have to be with me when I speak with any man that he does send to me. Perhaps Mr. Riggles should be there too.”
    “I do not believe that he will contribute anything positive. We don’t intend to lie about the situation, Emma, but I fear Mr. Riggles will not communicate the tone that we will want.”
    “Are you saying that he may not agree when I describe Fairbourne’s future with boundless optimism?”
    “He may also demur when we imply that a life of ever-growing prestige and wealth awaits.”
    Emma pictured Obediah at the interviews. Cassandra was correct. He did not dissemble well and would not contribute much that was positive. “I will have the advertisement printed early next week. Shall we agree to meet here a week hence, to discover who sees himself in this description?”
    “A fair number shall, I think,” Cassandra said. “I just hope that one of them suits you and also has the style that is needed.”
    “Suits Fairbourne’s, you mean.”
    Cassandra absently wound a finger through one of her long raven curls. “Of course, that was what I meant. Absolutely.”

Chapter 4
    D arius swung off his horse in front of the house on Compton Street near Soho Square and approached the door. He did not relish the day’s mission, but it should not be put off any longer. It was time to explain to Emma Fairbourne the reasons why her father’s auction house had to be sold.
    Not all of the reasons, of course. He saw no advantage in itemizing his suspicions about Maurice Fairbourne, suspicions that had crystallized during his visit to the coastline in Kent the last week. While there, he had visited the place from which Maurice had fallen during that evening stroll. Upon examining both the location and its prospects, he had concluded it was only a matter of time before rumors about that accident, and why Fairbourne was on that path, found their way to London.
    There was no proof of anything untoward. If the auction house were sold or closed, there most likely never would be. The reputations of both Maurice Fairbourne and his business would probably remain unblemished, as would that of anyone associated with it. Like the Earl of Southwaite.
    Memories of his last meeting with Miss Fairbourne made him pause at the door. He would make sure she did not distract him this time. However, he doubted that being forceful in his manner would serve his purpose well either. Firm and consistent, but gentle, might work best, much like dealing with a spirited horse. Even so, he expected resistance from her. A lot of it. A battle loomed.
    He might feel better prepared if he had not endured some ridiculous dreams about that last meeting with her, dreams in which things ended very differently than they had a week ago in that storage room. As a result some very arresting images of Miss Fairbourne naked and in total surrender to him had stuck in his mind, and even now wanted to intrude.
    That he was plagued by erotic night fantasies could be attributed to his recent abstinence, in turn due to realizing that his last mistress’s sly manner of angling for expensive gifts had ceased being adorable.
    That Miss Fairbourne played a starring role in the new fantasies had no explanation at all, however.
    She was not the kind of woman that a man took for a mistress, even if he wanted to. Although not a girl, she was neither a widow nor the object of scandal, so hardly fair game. As the daughter of a merchant, she most likely had very conservative ideas about sexual congress and would expect it to be