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of being in the vicinity when her upset got the better of her. She would not appreciate him witnessing any loss of composure, and he would not like her for subjecting him to such a display. “I’ll find a footman to bring the teapot. I’m sure whatever troubles you, Tante will want to know of it.”
    He escaped with all dispatch and closed the door behind him, sending the tweenie trotting down the steps for the ubiquitous pot of tea. Rather than a scepter and orb, King George ought to rule the empire with a teapot and sugar tongs.
    Sebastian was about to call for his horse—the morning was pretty enough to inspire riding out both before and after breakfast—when Freddy emerged from the study.
    “There you are. Summon the phaeton, Sebastian, and prepare to drive Miss Danforth to Chelsea.”
    This was an order. Freddy enjoyed giving orders, but Sebastian could not oblige her.
    “I’ll have the coach brought around instead, the weather being unpredictable. The press of business is such that—”
    Tante advanced on him, hands on her hips. A line of Shakespeare flitted through his head, about the lady being small but fierce.
    “She has lost her only friend, Sebastian. Miss Danforth’s aunt, her only supporter in this world, has gone to her reward, and the girl buried her other aunt only three months past. She is alone , but for what kindness we can show her.”
    An aunt. Merde. It would be an aunt. “John Coachman knows the roads—”
    She jabbed him in the sternum with a bony, surprisingly painful finger. “ You are competent to get the girl to Chelsea. John Coachman’s gout is acting up, and the undercoachman takes a half day today, along with the footmen. Call. For. Your. Phaeton.”
    Four more jabs right to the sternum. Sebastian had never had any call to jab a man in the breastbone before, but if he were still in the interrogation business, he would have added it to his repertoire of torments.
    “Perhaps she should wait a day, Tante . Her composure will benefit from waiting a day.” And the undercoachman would be back from swilling his wages or spending them on a pretty little tart.
    She smoothed a hand down the lace of his jabot. “Coward.”
    Ruthless besom.
    “Such an endearment will surely addle my wits.” Though her epithet was not strictly fair, unless she referred to his unwillingness to take his own life.
    “Please, Sebastian? She says if she doesn’t retrieve a few mementos from her aunt’s cottage, her cousins will sell them all, and there’s some elderly fellow who was sweet on the aunt. Milly is desperate to look in on him.”
    Milly. He’d forgotten that was her name—put it from his mind the way he could put entire years of his life from his mind—and he was not a coward.
    He was a dutiful nephew and a gentleman. In this case, it mattered not whether he was a French gentleman or an English gentleman. Either doomed him to surrender.
    “Have a hamper packed for the bereaved old fellow—a bottle of spirits to ease his loss, a decent blanket against the winter cold, comestibles, sweets, that sort of thing—and tell Miss Danforth to be ready in half an hour.”
    In half an hour, he hoped the English weather might oblige him for once and produce a steady downpour.
    Alas, that hope, like most of Sebastian’s hopes to date, was not to be realized.
    ***
    Milly did not want to tool out to Chelsea in the baron’s smart phaeton. She did not want to sit beside him in all his understated elegance, while she presented as the dowdy poor relation she was, an insult to the glorious, sunny day in her drab brown. Most of all, she did not want to risk her cousins catching sight of her.
    The neighbors had not sent word of Aunt Hyacinth’s death until Milly had no chance of attending the services or the wake, which was likely a mercy, but one Milly bitterly resented.
    “Do you have need of my handkerchief, Miss Danforth?”
    The baron posed his softly accented question as he clucked the horses into a