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Violet Ashcroft was poised to bolt. And he couldn’t allow that to happen.
    Philosophy. Truth be told, he abhorred the stuff—
    he wasn’t drawn to anything that couldn’t be proven.
    But it seemed the woman might have a brain in her head—uncommon, in his experience. He’d always gravitated toward the frilly and fun in female companionship, and sought his male colleagues for intellectual stimulation. When it came to women, he was looking for a diversion, not a meaningful conversation.
    Tabitha had been quite a gorgeous diversion. Yet not particularly useful, and he’d decided his only interest in women from now on would be for reasons of practicality. For instance, Hilda—his housekeeper—
    was a useful woman to have around.
    And Lady Violet . . . With her shining light brown hair and eyes the color of his favorite brandy, Violet was pleasant looking, although not the sort of beauty who would turn men’s heads. Which was fine with him, since the last thing he wanted was his head turned. He wanted it right here, thank you, square on his shoulders, where he could use it to concentrate on his experiments and inventions.
    He’d sworn off women, but if he could convince this Violet to stay a while—and maybe even come back with Rowan tomorrow—he could finally find time for his work.
    Now, that was his idea of a useful woman.
    He barged into the kitchen.
    ‘‘Yes, my lord?’’ His housekeeper looked up from polishing the silver, one gray eyebrow raised in query.
    ‘‘Are the refreshments ready?’’
    Hilda never answered a question—she always had one of her own. ‘‘Is Lady Trentingham here?’’
    ‘‘No,’’ he said, wondering where Harry, her husband, had gone off to this time. The two of them might be servants, but their marriage mimicked most of the nobility’s—which was to say they stayed as far from each other as possible.
    ‘‘Lady Trentingham is at home,’’ he told her. ‘‘The woman’s daughter came instead. Lady Violet Ashcroft.’’
    ‘‘The practical one?’’
    Spotting a tray of biscuits on the kitchen’s scarred wooden worktable, he inched his way over. ‘‘Come again?’’
    ‘‘The oldest, right? Lady Trentingham calls her ‘the practical one.’ The middle girl—Rose, I believe—is
    ‘the wild one,’ and the youngest, dear Lily, ‘the sweet one.’ ’’
    ‘‘She has three daughters? All named for bloody flowers?’’ What sentimental frivolity. The mere thought gave him a headache.
    ‘‘Are you not aware that her husband enjoys gardening?’’
    ‘‘Yes. I am.’’ He slid one of the small, round biscuits off the tray and popped it into his mouth. ‘‘How do you come to know all this?’’
    Hilda frowned. ‘‘Why should I not know my neighbors?’’ She shoved at the gray hair that had escaped her cap, then went back to polishing the silver. ‘‘Lady Trentingham, she’s a perfumer, you know. Every once in a while, she drops by with a new bottle. Spiced Rosewater, I prefer.’’
    ‘‘Spiced Rosewater?’’ He reached for another biscuit.
    She slapped at his hand. ‘‘Leave it, will you? I laid them out in a pattern.’’
    He scrutinized the tray, but his mathematical mind could discern no regular design.
    ‘‘Do you not like Spiced Rosewater?’’ she asked.
    He leaned close to one wrinkled cheek and sniffed.
    ‘‘ ’Tis lovely.’’ In truth, she smelled like a cinnamon bun. But whatever made her happy.
    ‘‘When Lady Trentingham brings it by, she likes to sit a spell and chat. I’ve heard all the stories of her girls as they’ve grown.’’
    ‘‘Lady Trentingham sits and talks to the household help?’’ Now he was the one reduced to asking questions.
    ‘‘And why not? We’re people too, you know.’’
    Of course they were—he just didn’t think about it much. And he was woefully ill informed about his neighbors. Apparently Lady Trentingham was well-nigh as eccentric as the earl.
    ‘‘Here comes Harry,’’