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“Thank you for the kind invitation. We won’t interrupt your...” She wanted to call it work, for that’s what it seemed to be. “Neither Cat nor I,” she looked at her damp hem flecked with mud, “is in a fit state for a visit.”

Wynford glanced at the dog. “What are the chances you can convince him to leave?”

He was maddeningly right. She had for years been the only person in the household outside of Jasper who could get Cat to obey voice commands. Now she had been replaced by a new idol. The awkwardness of her situation deepened.

“Perhaps...”

“Let me come with you. We should talk in any case.” He shrugged out of his dressing gown. The careless gesture cast aside whatever he had been doing with Perry and claimed her whole attention.

“You will be safe with me in the street, you know. There’s no mistletoe hanging from the lampposts.”

Color rose hotly in her cheeks, as if there were any danger of a kiss from him now that he had remembered who she truly was. “Do you want to talk about your sister?”

He shot her a glance that saw through the evasion and turned to give a few quick orders to his servants. A coat, hat, and gloves appeared. He donned them and gave the dog a look. Cat rose obediently and trotted to the door. Wynford offered Harriet his arm, and they set off.

The street had begun to fill with people. Servants shoveled snow from walkways and rooftops. Rattling carts and smooth-rolling carriages carved a dark, wet path through the white center of the street. Cat danced and ran in circles, returning excitedly to Wynford.

“Did my sister tell you how I offended her?” he asked. She was grateful for his willingness to shift the conversation from their own history to a less unsettling topic.

“Apparently you ‘spied’ on her post,” Harriet said.

There was a check in his stride at the word “spied.” They went some ways in silence before he spoke again. “Have I blundered irretrievably with her?”

“Irretrievably? The brother who saved his sister’s life on a beach in France?”

“She told you our history then.” His gaze sobered.

“She did.”

“And?” he asked. “Did my past actions earn me forgiveness in the present?”

“Understanding, perhaps, if not yet forgiveness.” Harriet faced him directly. “It is I who must beg pardon of you for thinking you an unnecessarily protective brother. If the dangers of a London Season are not those of Bonaparte’s France, your desire to protect Octavia from them is entirely reasonable.”

“Dance with me,” he said, a gleam of laughter lighting his eyes. “And anything may be forgiven.”

“I thought we had an understanding on that point.” He set her off-balance again. He could not wish to dance with her now that he remembered their first meeting.

“I have the full support of Lady Luxborough, you know.”

Harriet did know. “Yes, and I’ll thank you not to join forces with my employer against my peace of mind and strength of resolution.”

“You won’t discourage me by letting me know that I am a temptation,” he said with a grin. “What did she say to make you laugh like that yesterday?”

“Oh,” said Harriet. “It was her description of Lady Hardwicke as a woman with a secret ambition to run a theater, who considers her guests the cast of a three-act farce and arranges her parties to promote scenes of discord. Lady Luxborough said I could very much oblige her by providing Lady Hardwicke with the spectacle of a governess flouting convention.”

“And are you game to do it?” he asked.

“If we are bargaining for a dance, I must state my conditions as well.”

“Name them,” he said.

“If you will be serious for a moment.”

“I am likely to be all too serious about a dance with you.”

They had reached Mount Street and were now only steps from Luxborough House. “Your sister’s account puzzles me. She necessarily relies on others for the story and accepts it with all its improbable details.”

“You think it improbable that a band of rogue soldiers killed a defenseless woman?” He did not meet her gaze.