“That’s pretty,” she amended quickly, pretending to examine the volume’s engraved leather binding. She gave him what she hoped was a poised smile. “Are you an avid reader, my lord?”

“I try never to be avid about anything. ‘Moderation in all things’ is one of my most valued mottoes.”

“I don’t have any mottoes. If I did I would forever be contradicting them.”

Llandrindon chuckled. “Are you admitting to a mercurial nature?”

“I prefer to think of it as being open-minded,” Daisy said. “I can see wisdom in a great variety of beliefs.”

“Ah.”

Daisy could practically read his thoughts, that her so-called openmindedness cast her in a less-than-favorable light. “I should like to hear more of your mottoes, my lord. Perhaps during a stroll through the gardens?”

“I…er…” It was unpardonably bold for a girl to invite a gentleman on a walk instead of the other way around. However, Llandrindon’s gentlemanly nature would not allow him to refuse. “Of course, Miss Bowman. Perhaps tomorrow—”

“Now would be fine,” she said brightly.

“Now,” came his weak reply. “Yes. Lovely.”

Taking his arm before he had a chance to offer it, Daisy tugged him toward the doorway. “Let’s go.”

Having no choice but to allow the militantly cheerful young woman to drag him this way and that, Llandrindon soon found himself proceeding down one of the great stone staircases that led from the back terrace to the grounds below. “My lord,” Daisy said, “I have something to confess. I am hatching a little plot and I was hoping to enlist your help.”

“A little plot,” he repeated skittishly. “My help. Quite. That is, er—”

“It’s harmless, of course,” Daisy continued. “My objective is to encourage a certain gentleman’s attentions, as he seems to be somewhat reticent when it comes to courtship.”

“Reticent?” Llandrindon’s voice was a bare scratch of sound.

Daisy’s estimation of his mental capacity sank several degrees as it became apparent that all he could do was repeat her words in a parrotlike fashion. “Yes, reticent. But I have the impression that underneath the reluctant surface a different feeling may exist.”

Llandrindon, usually so graceful, tripped on an uneven patch of gravel. “What—what gives you that impression, Miss Bowman?”

“It’s just a woman’s intuition.”

“Miss Bowman,” he burst out, “if I have said or done anything to give you the misapprehension that I…that I…”

“I’m not talking about you,” Daisy said bluntly.

“You’re not? Then who—”

“I’m referring to Mr. Swift.”

His sudden joy was nearly palpable. “Mr. Swift. Yes. Yes. Miss Bowman, he has sung your praises for endless hours—not that it has been disagreeable to hear about your charms, of course.”

Daisy smiled. “I fear Mr. Swift will continue being reticent until something happens to flush him out like a pheasant from a wheat field. But if you wouldn’t mind giving the impression that you have indeed taken an interest in me—an outing in the carriage, a stroll, a dance or two—it may give him just the impetus he needs to declare himself.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Llandrindon said, apparently finding the role of co-conspirator far more appealing than that of matrimonial target. “I assure you, Miss Bowman, I can give a most convincing appearance of courtship.”

“I want you to delay your trip for a week.”

Matthew, who had been fastening five sheets of paper together with a straight pin, accidently shoved the point of one into his finger. Withdrawing the pin, he ignored the tiny dot of blood on his skin and stared at Westcliff without comprehension. The man had been closeted away with his wife and newborn daughter for at least thirty-six hours, and all of a sudden he had decided to appear the night before Matthew was to leave for Bristol and issue a command that made no sense at all.

Matthew kept his voice under tight control. “May I ask why, my lord?”

“Because I have decided to accompany you. And my schedule will not accommodate a departure on the morrow.”

As far as Matthew knew, the earl’s current schedule revolved solely around Lillian and the baby. “There is no need for you to go,” he said, offended by the implication that he couldn’t manage things on his own. “I know more than anyone about the various aspects of this business, and what it will require—”

“You are a foreigner, nonetheless,” Westcliff said, his face inscrutable. “And the mention of my name will open doors you won’t otherwise have access to.”

“If you doubt my negotiating skills—”

“Those aren’t at issue. I have complete faith in your skills, which in America would be more than sufficient. But here, in an undertaking of this magnitude, you will need the patronage of someone highly placed in society. Someone like me.”

“This isn’t the medieval era, my lord. I’ll be damned if I need to put on a dog-and-pony show with a peer as part of a business deal.”

“Speaking as the other half of the dog-and-pony show,” Westcliff said sardonically, “I’m not fond of the idea either. Especially when I have a newborn infant and a wife who hasn’t yet recovered from labor.”