Lillian knew if she asked her husband to end the friendship he would do so for her sake, but she loved him too much to make such a demand. And St. Vincent was good for Marcus. With his wit and perceptiveness, he helped to bring a measure of balance to Marcus’s overburdened life. Marcus, as one of the most powerful men in England, was in dire need of people who didn’t take him too seriously.

The other point in St. Vincent’s favor was that he appeared to be a good husband to Evie. He seemed to worship her, actually. One would never have thought of putting them together—Evie the shy wallflower, St. Vincent the heartless rake—and yet they had developed a singular attachment to each other.

St. Vincent was self-assured and sophisticated, possessing a male beauty so dazzling that people sometimes caught their breath when they glanced at him. But all it took was one word from Evie to make him come running. Even though their relationship was quieter, less outwardly demonstrative than those of the Hunts or Westcliffs, a mysterious and passionate intensity existed between the two.

And as long as Evie was happy, Lillian would be cordial to St. Vincent.

“Thurso,” Lillian repeated suspiciously, glancing from St. Vincent to her husband. “That doesn’t sound English to me.”

The two men exchanged a glance, and Marcus replied evenly. “It’s located in Scotland, actually.”

Lillian’s eyes narrowed. “Llandrindon is Scottish? But he doesn’t have an accent.”

“He spent most of his formative years at English boarding schools and then Oxford,” St. Vincent said.

“Hmm.” Lillian’s knowledge of Scottish geography was scant, but she had never even heard of Thurso. “And where is Thurso precisely? Is it just past the border?”

Westcliff didn’t quite meet her gaze. “Somewhat more north than that. Near the Orkney islands.”

“The northern edge of the continent?” Lillian couldn’t believe her ears. It took a great deal of effort to keep her voice to a furious whisper. “Why don’t we just save ourselves some time and banish Daisy to Siberia? It would probably be warmer! Good God, how can the two of you have agreed on Llandrindon as a candidate?”

“I had to throw him in,” St. Vincent protested. “He owns three estates and an entire string of thoroughbreds. And every time he comes to the club my nightly profits go up at least five thousand pounds.”

“He’s a spendthrift, then,” Lillian said darkly.

“That makes him even more eligible for Daisy,” St. Vincent said. “Someday he’ll need your family’s money.”

“I don’t care how eligible he is, the object is to keep my sister in this country. How often will I get to see Daisy if she’s in bloody Scotland?”

“It’s still closer than North America,” Westcliff pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone.

Lillian turned to Evie in hopes of enlisting her as an ally. “Evie, say something!”

“It doesn’t matter where Lord Llandrindon is from.” Evie reached over to gently untangle a strand of dark hair that had caught in Lillian’s earbob. “Daisy’s not going to marry him.”

“Why do you think so?” Lillian asked warily.

Evie smiled at her. “Oh…just a feeling.”

In her desire to finish the game and return to her novel, Daisy had picked up the knack of lawn-bowling rather quickly. The first player rolled the white ball, called the jack, to the end of the lane of grass without going over the edge. The object was to roll three wooden balls, called bowls, until they ended up as close as possible to the jack.

The only difficult part was that the wooden bowls were deliberately less rounded on one side, so they never quite rolled in a straight line. Daisy soon learned to compensate for the bowls’ asymmetry by casting a little to the right or left, as needed. It was a fast green with short grass and hard-packed soil, which was a good thing since Daisy was in a hurry to be done and return to Honoria and the ghost.

Since there was an equal number of women and men, the players were divided into teams of two. Daisy was paired with Llandrindon, who was a proficient player.

“You’re quite good, Miss Bowman,” Lord Llandrindon exclaimed. “Are you sure you’ve never played before?”

“Never,” Daisy replied cheerfully. Picking up a wooden sphere, she turned the flat side to the right. “It must be your able instructions, my lord.” Taking two steps forward to the edge of the delivery line, she drew back and released the bowl in a deftly spun roll. It knocked one of the opposing players’ bowls smartly out of the way and ended up exactly two inches from the jack. They had won the round.

“Well done,” said Mr. Rickett, pausing to polish his spectacles. Replacing them, he smiled at Daisy and added, “You move with such grace, Miss Bowman. It is a delight to witness your skill.”

“It has nothing to do with skill,” Daisy said modestly. “Beginner’s luck, I’m afraid.”

Lady Miranda, a slender blond girl with a porcelain complexion, was examining her delicate hands with concern. “I believe I’ve broken a fingernail,” she announced.

“Let me help you to a chair,” Rickett said in instant concern, as if she had broken an arm rather than a fingernail, and the two made their way off the green.

Daisy reflected ruefully that she should have deliberately lost the game, and then she wouldn’t have to play another round. But it was unfair to one’s teammate to lose a game on purpose. And Lord Llandrindon seemed positively delighted by their success.