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“Promise me you will not consume brandy in company, Mama.” Phoebe’s demand, the last of many, was made as Daphne Cargill’s coach rattled through the gate posts of the Earl of Montmarche’s estate.

The usual lions couchant sat atop the usual pillars leading onto the usual crushed shell drive.

“I make you that most solemn oath.” Daphne had sneaked a draught of Lady Bellefonte’s excellent brandy on an occasion two years past. How was she to have known that Miss Threadlebaum and Miss Anastasia Arbuckle had been lurking among the racy French poets?

“And you won’t start political arguments either, Mama.”

“I never start political arguments. Some fool makes a deliberately provocative statement and requires correction.” Usually a male fool, those being generally more vocal than the female variety, and in polite society, more abundant as well.

Phoebe rubbed gloved fingers across her forehead. “The Earl of Montmarche is not a fool, Mama. He’s wealthy, titled, respected, and the uncle of the bride. You vex our host at my peril.”

“ I am wealthy, titled, and respected.” A slight mis-statement. Daphne was monied and a viscount’s widow, which meant her idiosyncrasies were tolerated by her in-laws, provided she remained within the bounds of decorum.

The Earl of Montmarche, whatever his other qualities, owned a beautiful corner of England. The coach wound through acres of grazed parkland, fluffy sheep dotting a green expanse. Stands of trees interrupted the rolling carpet of grass, and a sizeable lake mirrored the blue summer sky.

“This terrain has not been forcibly landscaped,” Daphne observed, pushing the leather curtain farther aside.

“The hand of man did not fashion this ground to suit human aesthetics.” In the last century, taming nature had become an expensive passion among the very wealthy, with the result that many estates had taken on the quality of a youth forced to sit for a portrait.

Dull, predictable, and to Daphne’s eye sullen and blighted. Montmarche’s property was still exuberantly bucolic, bordered by woods that doubtless threatened to encroach on the meadow year by year.

“Mama, please . You must school your features to a pleasant expression. Nobody likes an eccentric grouch.”

“I’m lost in thought,” Daphne replied. “Where to put my easel, which vista to capture first? You needn’t fret, my dear. I will behave.” For her children’s sake, Daphne had been behaving for years.

Phoebe’s expression was more worried than pleasant.

“Three Seasons, Mama. I’m an heiress who has failed to secure a match despite being out for three Seasons.

I have all the pretty dresses, I am accounted a competent horsewoman.

I practice my pianoforte diligently, and never stumble on the dance floor.

If I am not married by next spring, or at least engaged, I must retire to the country. ”

Such a dire fate, to be surrounded by rural friends, peace, and fresh air.

“I did not meet your father until I was three-and-twenty, Phoebe.” A reminder that never seemed to comfort the firstborn of that union, but Daphne did not know what else to say.

Phoebe’s fear of spinsterhood was reinforced at every social gathering, in every gossip column, and by an endless stream of unkind talk.

“You were fabulously wealthy, Mama. You could be choosy.”

The coach swayed around a bend in the lane and the enormous yellow granite facade of Marche Hall came into view.

The building was like the landscape—asymmetric, unapologetic, and quietly magnificent.

Previous earls had clearly added on and added on again, though they’d done so with an eye toward balance and form.

The grounds flowed into manicured parterres and low hedges flanking the circular drive, and sunlight bounced off scores of gleaming windows.

“I shall be lost before supper,” Phoebe observed.

“You will have time to rest before we meet the other guests,” Daphne retorted as the coach slowed to take its place behind two others. “Grand edifices like this usually follow a logical plan, and the only complicated parts are where one wing joins another. I won’t let you become lost.”

At some point in the past three years, Phoebe herself had nonetheless become bewildered, and Daphne didn’t know what to do about that either. Daphne had been a spectacularly wealthy bride, true, but Phoebe’s status as an heiress was also beyond dispute.

And yet, Phoebe viewed herself as a wallflower-in-waiting.

“He’s on the terrace.” Phoebe let the window shade on her side of the coach drop. “The earl himself is greeting guests in person. Mama, I look a fright, and he’s Miss Gavineau’s uncle. I shall make a terrible first impression.”

“A gracious host greets guests, Phoebe. That’s no great feat of hospitality.” Montmarche was in riding attire, a tall, trim figure going gray about the temples. He bowed over the hand of a woman in a blue coaching dress, the gesture correct without being fawning. “Mrs. Cavanaugh is here.”

“Her younger sister is one of Miss Gavineau’s friends. I like Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

Meaning Mrs. Cavanaugh had never been caught tippling brandy because monthly pangs of the womb threatened to rob her of consciousness half-way through a dinner party.

“She is all that is admirable.” Emma Cavanaugh had buried two husbands after providing them each an heir and a spare. At thirty, she was pretty, charming, and once again out of mourning.

Daphne wished her good hunting.

“Montmarche is handsome,” Phoebe said, peering through the gap between the shade and the window glass, “in a distinguished sort of way.”

Daphne left off gathering up her reticule, bonnet, and gloves long enough to study Montmarche. He was still chatting with Mrs. Cavanaugh, and they’d been joined by a younger man who bore a resemblance to the earl.

A portrait of Montmarche indoors would feature the usual testaments to aristocratic male consequence: A bust of some philosopher, learned tomes, heavy furniture, and heavier symbolism.

Out of doors he’d be posed with a handsome fowling piece, a loyal hound or two, and very likely another marble bust. Perhaps a snorting steed might figure into the composition, because some aspect of an outdoor portrait must have a bit of life.

All in all, he’d make a dull subject. He was not precisely handsome. His features leaned toward boldness—a slight hook to the nose, the eyes a trifle deep-set, the mouth severe—but a lack of animation took a fierce countenance and made it merely serious.

Phoebe was retying her bonnet ribbons, because even the size and angle of the bow beneath a young woman’s chin was a matter of importance to her, while Daphne looped her reticule over her wrist, grabbed her parasol and rose.

A liveried footman opened the door and lowered the steps, and Daphne prepared to negotiate her descent. Too many hours of sitting had taken a toll on her joints, and the afternoon sunshine was bright after the gloom inside the coach.

Nonetheless, fresh air was always a joy. Daphne gathered her skirts, took the footman’s gloved hand, and stepped down. She anticipated putting her boot on terra firma just as Phoebe’s foot came down on the back of Daphne’s skirts.

The result was an awkward careen into the footman’s chest, followed by Phoebe’s loudly distressed, “Mama! Have a care!”

Montmarche looked up from his conversation, though it was the young man at his side who bounded down the steps.

“Madam, is aught amiss? Why must coach steps be so treacherous? George Marche at your service. Welcome to Montmarche. Are you able to stand? I hope you haven’t turned an ankle. Please say you have not.” He was ginger-haired and painfully young, also—it appeared—sincerely concerned.

“I simply mis-stepped, Mr. Marche, a lamentably frequent occurrence. I am nonetheless happy to be free of the coach.” Daphne stepped aside so that Phoebe could exit the vehicle.

Nobody was on hand to make introductions, which was sometimes the way when a house party began. “I am Daphne, Lady Cargill.”

“Allow me,” Mr. Marche said, offering Phoebe his arm. “You must be Miss Cargill. Welcome to Montmarche.”

The Cargill title was one of few that exactly matched the family name, a situation that occasioned confusion more often than not. Mr. Marche had clearly acquainted himself with the guest list, which spoke in his favor .

The earl remained on the terrace, Mrs. Cavanaugh’s hand wrapped about his elbow. His lordship was neither smiling nor scowling, while Emma Cavanaugh had clearly enjoyed Daphne’s stumbling. Emma wasn’t mean, but she was shrewd and pragmatic.

“Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Daphne called. “A pleasure to see you.” A pleasure to surprise the woman with a bit of forwardness as well.

The proper, polite thing to do was wait for the earl to acknowledge his most recent arrivals, but standing around on the drive like a nervous candidate from an employment agency was not in Daphne’s nature.

“Lady Cargill.” Mrs. Cavanaugh curtsied and resumed her hold of the earl. “My lord, allow me to conduct introductions, if you and Lady Cargill are not acquainted.”

Daphne climbed the steps on the arm of the footman while Mr. Marche escorted Phoebe. Mrs. Cavanaugh was staking a claim, positioning herself as hostess, as the woman with authority to introduce Montmarche to his own guests.

Montmarche, for his part, looked oblivious to the fact that he was being claimed. If anything, he looked bored.

The introductions proceeded predictably, with Phoebe offering a painfully correct curtsey.

The earl bowed at the appropriate time, he recited an appropriate welcome.

His manner was dignified without being warm, and if he minded Mrs. Cavanaugh clinging to him like a limpet fastened to the only rock in the harbor, he gave no sign of it.

Daphne might have dismissed him as yet another dull aristocrat, except that when a shrill, protracted scream rent the air, he bolted into the house with the speed of a man half his age.

Not quite so dull, then, if he was willing to leave Emma Cavanaugh gaping alone on the steps. Not quite so dull, after all.