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Hours later Harriet took a last look around Lady Luxborough’s second-best drawing room, the customary gathering place for Harriet and her charges when the Luxboroughs were engaged elsewhere for the evening. A young footman named Timothy cleared away the evening tea things while Harriet collected the playing cards and various items the girls had left behind. Though the marchioness might wear marvelous hats, her interference earlier in the day still rankled. Harriet wondered at the woman’s motive for disparaging English governesses. It was a small drop of malice in an otherwise satisfying day, and she tried to laugh at herself. The woman was no one to her, and perhaps national pride made the marchioness think French governesses superior to their English counterparts. Harriet doubted they were so very different.

Once she’d tidied up, she could retire to her room, read her book, and forget the marchioness. If anything, the day had proved the worth and value of her work. Anne and Camille had been thoughtful and generous to Octavia, and besides the ball gown, Octavia had been willing to purchase some Genoa velvet and kerseymere to be made up into warm dresses. Satisfied with the state of the room, Harriet turned to leave as the door opened.

Lady Luxborough’s butler, Blakemore, announced, “Miss, you have a caller.”

“At this hour?”

“Lord Wynford, miss. He asks you to meet him in the yellow room.”

Harriet tried to remain calm as she descended the stairs. Only the lateness of the hour suggested any cause for alarm.

The little room was as cold as she remembered. Three candles in a silver stand on the mantel gave a weak yellow light. With her entry, Wynford turned from staring into the dark hearth. He was dressed for an evening engagement, everything about him easy and elegant except for a number of fobs and rings and another shocking waistcoat, this one of scarlet velvet.

London delighted in eccentrics, many of whom paraded their particular oddities at the fashionable hour in the park, but Harriet had never seen Wynford make a display of such quirks. She wondered if he’d traded waistcoats with one of the famous Bow Street Runners, but the gravity of his expression when he looked at her drove such levity from her mind.

“What is it?” she asked, stepping closer and drawing her burgundy India shawl around her to keep from reaching out to him.

“I need to know where you take my sister and with whom she is in company at all times.”

Harriet stepped back abruptly as if slapped.

“You object to Lady Luxborough’s drawing room and the linen draper’s?”

“In future I wish you to send word of exactly where you mean to go and with—”

“We did, my lord. Your sister is very much in need of clothes more suited to London than those she brought with her.”

The severity of his frown did not lessen, the dark brows drawn together, his posture rigid and haughty. “Nevertheless, the utmost care must be taken with her acquaintance.”

“To whom in Lady Luxborough’s circle could you possibly object?”

His expression hardened, and he turned his angry, tight-lipped countenance away.

Harriet recognized his cold manner from the day before at the Royal Institution. “Oh, this is about the marchioness,” she said.

His gaze swung back to her, and he uttered one clipped syllable. “Yes.”

“You cannot imagine I would willingly seek to bring Octavia into contact with a woman of such bold assurance. She may be your cousin, but in my considered opinion, as a governess,” she said it proudly, “with some years of experience, the marchioness is no model for a girl making her first entry into society.”

“But you did meet her at the linen draper’s.”

“Who told you?”

“The marchioness herself.”

Harriet could not immediately speak. It seemed an admission of the worst sort of hypocrisy men practiced. They could mingle with persons of every rank and circumstance, from prizefighters to opera dancers, while insisting that their wives, sisters, and daughters restrict their own company.

“When?” she asked.

“Tonight.”

“You rail at me for what—a chance encounter in a reputable establishment, frequented by dozens of ladies of quality—while you freely meet this woman wherever...” She waved a hand at his flaming red midsection. “Dressed like a circus performer.” Hot anger made her heedless of her tongue and carried her forward in the little room. They stood in the circle of candlelight, breathing as if from the exertions of a dance. She ought to find it disagreeable to stand so near him, but her senses reeled from the impression of his height, his warmth, and the charged male energy of him. He regarded her as if he were really seeing her. His gaze settled on her mouth.

Harriet stepped back first.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I meant no insult. Only—”

Harriet did not let him finish. The injustice of the charge still stung. “Two days ago, you came to me as a cousin to ask a favor, and now I’m merely the careless governess unfit to guide your sister—though the worst thing I appear to have done is to meet one of your more lofty relations in a linen draper’s shop. I think, Lord Wynford, our agreement must come to an end.”