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would. But females aren’t sensible. Sophie is sure to make a fuss over it, but—but I can do something about that.”
    Rothwick looked at him doubtfully. “Perhaps we should talk with your father.”
    Richard shook his head. “Oh, no! After all, it is not as if Sophia did not have an army of admirers. She will be speedily consoled.” Privately he thought his father would have little effect on Sophia’s actions. He believed he could make her break off the engagement, but a little doubtful part of him was sure his sister would even the score if he succeeded. But oh, how wonderful it would be to manipulate Sophia for a change!
    * * * *
    Linnea’s breakfast was taken from her chamber almost untouched. When Rothwick came to see how she did, he found her curled up on a large armchair by the fireplace. She had a faraway look in her eyes as she gazed into the fire, but it was a sad look as well—or so he fancied, he told himself.
    Miss Ashley did not look up at him immediately when he came near. “You did not tell me you were betrothed,” she said quietly, still staring at the fire.
    “I did not deem it necessary,” replied Rothwick. “The saving of your reputation was of more import than any social announcement, I think.”
    “That poor girl,” said Linnea, and she finally looked at him. The flames in the hearth had far less heat than the anger in her eyes. She stood up. “I think she is well out of the betrothal, my lord, indeed I do! To carry off a woman with the intent to make her your mistress, just when you are newly betrothed!” She raised her hand to her cheek to damp a rising blush and turned away. “It is despicable!”
    She did not know what to expect—excuses, protestations. Instead she heard only the crackling fire in the short silence between them, and then: “You are right.”
    Linnea turned back slowly, then searched his face for any trace of insincerity. There was none. Rothwick’s eyes were grim, his mouth turned up in a self-mocking smile. “I am wholly despicable, am I not, for trying to separate my rich and gullible nephew from what I thought was scheming Covent Garden ware. And what a horrible beast I am, for trying to teach that bit of muslin such a salutary lesson that she would never manipulate a member of my family again.”
    “How could you mistake me for a, a—Surely there was nothing in my dress, or my manner, that could have, have—”
    Lord Rothwick grimaced. “No, there was not, especially now that I look back on it. But my sister described an attractive young woman in half mourning, who was setting herself up as a widow—”
    “You must have been mad to have carried me off on that description alone!” gasped Linnea. “Why, there must be hundreds of young women in half mourning in London!”
    The earl had the grace to look uncomfortable but said: “Paul is not in the habit of escorting hundreds of young women in half mourning, and he had his usual besotted look that he gets when he is falling into calf-love. I assumed, therefore, that you were Cassey Pickens.”
    “You assumed! Could you not even have asked my name?” cried Linnea.
    “I am not in the habit of conversing with courtesans in the presence of family,” Rothwick replied stiffly.
    “‘You are not in the habit—”‘ Linnea stared at him, nonplussed. She felt for the armchair and sat down suddenly. She covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders started to shake.
    “My dear Miss Ashley!” exclaimed Rothwick, and put his arm around her shoulders. “You have had some severe shocks, I know. But you must not cry. I know you are a woman of sense; your situation is salvageable, you know.”
    Linnea pulled away and to Rothwick’s astonishment raised eyes full of tears of laughter, not of sorrow. “I think—I think,” gasped Linnea, “I must be living in a farce. First you mistake me, a vicar’s daughter, for a fallen woman; you then abduct me, and heap all sorts of abuse upon me; then, after you