It suited Marcus’s purposes to have a more or less constant stream of guests at the estate, providing ample company for the hunting and sports that he loved, and also allowing for quite a bit of financial and political maneuvering. All kinds of business were done at these house parties, at which Marcus often persuaded a certain politician or professional man to side with him on important issues.

This party should be no different from any other—but for the past few days, Marcus had been deviled by a growing sense of unease. As a supremely rational man, he did not believe in psychic premonitions, or any of the spiritualist nonsense that was becoming fashionable of late…but it did seem as if something in the atmosphere at Stony Cross Park had changed. The air was charged with expectant tension, like the vibrant calm before a storm. Marcus felt restless and impatient, and no amount of physical exertion seemed to pacify his growing disquiet.

Contemplating the evening ahead of him, and the knowledge that he would have to hobnob with the Bowmans, Marcus felt his unease sharpen into something approaching anxiety. He regretted having invited them. In fact, he would gladly forgo any potential business deal with Thomas Bowman if he could just be rid of them. However, the fact was that they were here, and would stay for well nigh a month, and he might as well make the best of things.

Marcus intended to launch into an active negotiation with Thomas Bowman about expanding his soap company to establish a production division in Liverpool or, perhaps, Bristol. The British soap tax was almost certain to be repealed in the next few years, if Marcus’s liberal allies in Parliament were to be trusted. When that happened, soap would become far more affordable for the common man, which would be good for the public health and, conveniently, also good for Marcus’s bank account, hinging on Bowman’s willingness to take him on as a partner.

However, there was no escaping the fact that a visit from Thomas Bowman meant enduring his daughters’ presence as well. Lillian and Daisy were the embodiment of the objectionable trend of American heiresses coming to England to husband-hunt. The peerage was being set upon by ambitious misses who gushed about themselves in their atrocious accents and constantly angled for publicity in the papers. Graceless, loud, self-important young women who sought to purchase a peer with their parents’ money…and often succeeded.

Marcus had become acquainted with the Bowman sisters on their previous visit to Stony Cross Park, and had found little to recommend either of them. The older one, Lillian, had become a particular focus of his dislike when she and her friends—the wallflowers, they called themselves (as if it were something to be proud of!)—had engineered a scheme to entrap a peer into marriage. Marcus would never forget the moment when the scheme had been exposed. “Good God, is there nothing you won’t stoop to?” Marcus had asked Lillian. And she had replied brazenly, “If there is, I haven’t discovered it yet.”

Her extraordinary insolence made her different from any other woman of Marcus’s acquaintance. That, and the rounders game they had played in their drawers, had convinced him that Lillian Bowman was a hellion. And once he had passed judgment on someone, he rarely changed his opinion.

Frowning, Marcus considered the best way to deal with Lillian. He would be cool and detached, no matter what provocation she offered. No doubt it would infuriate her to see how little she affected him. Picturing her irritation at being ignored, he felt the tightness in his chest ease. Yes…he would do his utmost to avoid her, and when circumstances forced them to occupy the same room, he would treat her with cold politeness. His frown clearing, Marcus guided his horse over a series of easy jumps; a hedge, a fence and a narrow stone wall, rider and animal working together in perfect coordination.

“Now, girls,” Mrs. Mercedes Bowman said, regarding her daughters sternly as she stood in the doorway of their room, “I insist that you nap for at least two hours, so that you will be fresh for this evening. Lord Westcliff’s dinners usually start late, and last till midnight, and I don’t want either of you to yawn at the table.”

“Yes, Mother,” they both said dutifully, regarding her with innocent expressions that did not deceive her in the least.

Mrs. Bowman was a rampantly ambitious woman with an abundance of nervous energy. Her spindle-thin body would have made a whippet look chubby. Her anxious, hard-edged chatter was usually directed toward advancing her main objective in life: to see that both her daughters were brilliantly married. “Under no circumstances are you to leave this room,” she continued sternly. “No sneaking about on Lord Westcliff’s estate, no adventures, scrapes, or happenings of any kind. In fact, I intend to lock the door to ensure that you stay safely in here and rest.”

“Mother,” Lillian protested, “if there is a duller spot in the civilized world than Stony Cross, I’ll eat my shoes. What possible trouble could we get into?”

“You create trouble from thin air,” Mercedes said, her eyes slitted. “Which is why I am going to supervise the pair of you closely. After your behavior on our last visit here, I am amazed that we were invited back.”

“I’m not,” Lillian rejoined dryly. “Everyone knows that we’re here because Westcliff has an eye on Father’s company.”

“Lord Westcliff,” Mercedes corrected with a hiss. “Lillian, you must refer to him with respect! He is the wealthiest peer in England, with a bloodline—”

“—that’s older than the queen’s,” Daisy interrupted in a singsong tone, having heard this speech on a multitude of occasions. “And the oldest earldom in Britain, which makes him—”