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Lady Cargill’s earlier comment came back to him: The second day of the gathering, and she had wanted to leave. That remark had soured Lysander’s mood, though given Offenbach’s behavior, he not only understood her sentiment, he shared it.

Offenbach was a problem, Mrs. Cavanaugh was a problem—also a potential solution—and that moment stolen with Lady Cargill in the woods was also, in a way Lysander didn’t want to examine, a problem .

He set the cat aside and strode into the stables, yelling for his horse.

“Perishing bloody nonsense, keeping country hours,” Offenbach said, wrapping another length of starched linen around his throat.

Five discards were draped over the wardrobe’s open door, like so many barber’s bandages minus the blood.

“How can a fellow enjoy himself when the livelong evening must be spent in company?”

Charles had been fascinated to observe the great dandy tying his own neckcloth the first three times that honor had befallen him.

By the sixth rendition of the ritual, he was bored.

The last two discards had been merely for the pleasure of aggravating the Montmarche servants, who were tending to Offenbach’s laundry along with their many other duties.

“I thought good company was how a fellow enjoyed himself,” Charles said. “You seemed to delight in Mrs. Ingersoll’s company on the way to the stables.”

Charles had recalled a pressing obligation to rehearse with his sister in the music room the moment Mrs. Ingersoll had let go with a certain laugh.

That laugh had been merry, but also naughty.

Phoebe could be counted on to back a fellow up and without asking questions, so Charles had spent an entire fifteen minutes with her choosing music they’d likely never perform.

Though he liked accompanying his sister. He hadn’t had that privilege since being shooed off to public school.

“Noticed Mrs. Ingersoll’s friendly nature did you?” Offenbach said, straightening to admire himself in the cheval mirror. “She might enjoy a romp with a lad new to his pleasures.”

Charles had yet to experience those pleasures, but he wasn’t about to undertake any romping with Mrs. Ingersoll.

“Poaching on another man’s preserves involves risk to a lady’s good name and the poacher’s continued existence.

” Charles regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth.

His father might have said something like this.

His mother had been less delicate. Don’t be so stupid as to get called out over somebody’s errant wife.

One always knew where one stood with Mama, even when one longed for a bit of ambiguity.

“Women are not preserves, young Cargill.” Offenbach slid a gold cravat pin through the lace at his throat. “They are wild creatures waiting for the hand of a man to tame them—for a time—then they bound away, back to the pretty parlors and comfortable boudoirs where they spin their schemes.”

That characterization very likely insulted the ladies as much as referring to them as preserves did, but Offenbach spoke with such authority Charles let the matter drop.

“That is my cravat pin, Offenbach. You must have picked it up by mistake.”

“Then thanks for the loan of it.” Offenbach smoothed his hand over lace and linen lying just so. “I shudder to think how many more cravats I’d go through if you made me remove a perfectly placed pin and start again. Let’s have a go at the maze, shall we?”

Offenbach always spoke with conviction, always laughed at his own jokes. What fascinated Charles was the degree to which this seemed to convince others that Offenbach was wise and witty.

“The maze is forbidden to guests. The gardeners told us that, and Miss Gavineau repeated the warning.”

“Because she and Prescott have doubtless taken advantage of its secluded charms. We’ll plead travel fatigue after supper.

Always hits a day or two after arrival, when the pleasure of making landfall has paled amid the boredom that inevitably follows.

While the other guests are yodeling in the music room and playing cards, or fawning over Killoway and Montmarche, we’ll have a lark. ”

Everything with Offenbach was a lark, and most of it was aimed at either scouting out trysting locations or cozening women into investigating them. “Thank you, no. I’ve promised my sister I’ll accompany her tonight if she sings for the other guests.”

Forgive me, Phoebe. Not quite a lie, also not the stinging rebuke Offenbach deserved.

“Suit yourself, my boy. I’m off to investigate the conservatory. I saw Mrs. Cavanaugh lurking in the laburnum alley, and looking a bit lonely. Ever gallant, I will attempt to provide her the companionship she so richly deserves.”

Ever randy . Offenbach was a sexual prodigy, if his own recountings were to be believed. He also knew to a vulgar degree of specificity what each lady’s settlements would afford her prospective spouse.

“I’ll see you at supper.”

“Be that way.” Offenbach bowed with a twirl of his lace-draped wrist. “You could learn a thing or two from me about how to approach the ladies, but instead you choose a priggish solitude. You’ll get educated out of that eccentricity at university.

The manly humors require regular activity.

I don’t suppose your dear mama is the lonely sort? ”

Stay away from my mother. The impulse to black both of Offenbach’s eyes was astonishingly fierce.

“Her ladyship prides herself on having a difficult nature. She’s loyal to my father’s memory and takes an exceedingly dim view of fortune hunters. Enjoy the maze, Offenbach.”

“My condolences on having a dragon for a mama.” Offenbach grinned and sashayed out the door.

Offenbach was repellant, with his loose talk, philandering, and trysting.

He was also fascinating, as a runaway coach was fascinating.

Would the passengers leap from the vehicle, risking broken bones or worse, or would they cling to the nearest handhold and pray the coachman prevailed over the fears of the horses?

Charles sought the library, which was impressive, and free of rakes and lonely women. He spared a thought for Phoebe, who should be warned of Offenbach’s propensities, and for Mama.

Who was difficult, but who was not lonely, as far as Charles could tell.

The house party meandered onward through another three days, during which Daphne chaperoned young women trying desperately to entangle themselves with young men.

She partnered Rehobeth Ingersoll at whist—ye trumpeting seraphim, that laugh —and watched Emma Cavanaugh advance her campaign to become the Countess of Montmarche.

Emma came down to breakfast at the same moment the earl did every morning. The implication was that they’d timed their arrivals by prearrangement, and that Montmarche sought the honor of escorting the lady to breakfast.

Mrs. Cavanaugh also lurked along the path between the stable and the house, a book in hand to excuse loitering where the earl was most likely to walk in the morning.

She involved herself with Lord Killoway, partnering him at cards, asking him to turn pages for her at the pianoforte, assuming a step-mama’s privileges before becoming his step-mama in truth.

Emma was nothing if not determined, and she was young enough to provide Montmarche more children, while Daphne was old enough to recognize foolish fancies and pay them no mind.

Daphne also tried to leave Charles as much to his own devices as she could, because he would turn sixteen next month, and a mama must not hover.

“Lady Cargill, good day.” Absalom Offenbach made her polite bow, stepping from the forest’s foliage as if a dark spell had conjured him. “Is that a gentleman’s hat you have?”

They were unobserved on this quiet trail between the cemetery and the folly, which made Daphne uneasy, despite the fact that he was young enough to be her son.

“This is my own hat,” she said. “It lacks ornamentation. I grew bored with the pheasant feathers. So overdone, don’t you agree? One finds feathers in the forest, if one finds them anywhere.”

The hat belonged to Lord Montmarche. He’d left it on the bench in the cemetery several days ago, though it appeared none the worse for having spent some time in the elements.

“Pheasant feathers are understated, and they go with almost any color save yellow. For you…” Offenbach gave her a perusal that bordered on insolent.

“Dark purple feathers. A mature woman can be a trifle daring if she’s looked after her figure, and your coloring would be flattered by such a hue.

With a blue or green habit, trimmings a few shades lighter than aubergine would be a nice touch. ”

This utter drivel was offered with the sort of thoughtful expression intended to turn it into a knowledgeable opinion.

“Thank you for that suggestion. I’ll wish you good day.”

“No need to run off alone,” he said, falling in step beside her. “I am ever willing to lend escort to a lady, regardless of differences in our age and station.”

Daphne nearly pitched the earl’s hat at him. He’d made that offer as if he held the higher station because she claimed the greater age.

“Aren’t you concerned you’ll be considered presuming, Mr. Offenbach?”

He winged his arm at her, she ignored him. “Madam, at the risk of offending, you are old enough to be my mother. In what manner could I be presuming in present company?”

What an absolute, warty, croaking toad. “A widow may choose the company she keeps, Mr. Offenbach. If you’d like my assistance gaining the favor of one of the young ladies present, you’re not making a very impressive case for yourself.

” She stopped short of pointing out the obvious: I am wealthy, titled, and landed in my own right. I can ruin you in a week’s time.

Antagonizing any man for no reason was foolish. Offenbach had little to lose, while Daphne had to protect both Charles and Phoebe.

“Perhaps my tastes run to an experienced variety of female.”

He oozed along beside her, hands behind his back. Daphne regretted this trip to the forest, but she’d recalled his lordship’s hat, and grabbed a bonnet before she could think better of the impulse.

“If you seek to attract the notice of an older woman, then you’d best not be caught behaving like a naughty boy.”

He laughed, putting Daphne in mind of Rehobeth Ingersoll.

“With the cigars, you mean? I wanted Charles to have relative privacy for his first venture into the manly art of smoking. It’s easy to make a fool of oneself, and smoking indoors is frowned upon.”

So drag the boy out to the garden and make a fool of him there? Daphne could think of no suitably vapid reply, so she trudged on, though the forest seemed to have grown endless.

“I must say Phoebe has a pleasant air,” Offenbach mused. “She doesn’t chatter, doesn’t put herself forward. One appreciates that in a female.”

He threatened with that compliment. Daphne grasped the threat, she didn’t know what to do about it. Warn Phoebe, of course, but what if Phoebe liked Offenbach?

“The bride is the focus of all attention for this gathering,” Daphne said. “The other young ladies seem to comprehend that, and to be genuinely happy for Miss Gavineau. We’re walking in the direction of the fishing cottage, Mr. Offenbach. I seek to return to the house.”

By myself.

“So we are,” he said, though Daphne was certain he had no clue where they’d wandered. “Shall I continue walking with you, Lady Cargill?” He smiled down at her. “I can be very delicate you see, quite the proper fellow, if that’s what pleases the lady.”

“No need to accompany me. This track to the left leads to the stable yard, and the gardens are a short trek from there. Enjoy your rambles.”

She curtseyed and moved away before Offenbach aimed any more smiles, insults, or innuendos at her. He could trouble Charles, and he could compromise Phoebe, which meant that he could create both difficulties and heartache for Daphne.

When she glanced over her shoulder, Mr. Offenbach was still standing where the paths intersected, his expression pensive.

She sped up, and didn’t slacken her pace until the stables came into the view.

The earl was climbing down from his great black beast, and the sight of him—dusty boots, hair windblown—was unaccountably reassuring.