Page 2 of A Lady’s Guide to Scoundrels and Gentlemen (The Harp & Thistle #1)

February 1889

T he carriage came to an unexpected halt, sending Vivian tumbling to the floor with a yelp of surprise. The Marchioness of Litchfield—or merely “Anne” to Vivian—helped her back onto the seat as a roar of shouts surrounded them. The street became so thick with people that the man closest to their carriage door had his cheek pressed up against the glass. Vivian’s eyes were wide at the sudden rabid activity, and she shot a look of distress in her brother’s direction, hoping he would know what to do. But Bernard merely laughed to himself while staring out the window, paying her no mind.

“Guess they found out.” Father shrugged.

Vivian swung her head in his direction. “That’s it? That’s your response? We shall be crushed out there!”

“It was like this when the Dowager Duchess of Hilbury died ten years ago, too. Just shove your way through. You might get a few elbows, though. One of her sons had his nose broken by a rogue elbow, if I recall.”

Vivian exchanged a look with Anne, whose pale-blue eyes were wide with worry, before staring out the window to the sea of hats. “But why do they care?”

“We’re from the aristocracy. People are naturally curious about us, I suppose. You can either fight it or embrace it, like Queen Victoria does.”

“Oh, yes, the queen.” Her voice filled with sarcastic admiration. “It’s because of her I was stamped ye olde spinster .” Vivian frowned at this and readjusted her feathered hat with a huff. Queen Victoria publicly disliked Vivian, thanks to the existence of Gran, and had gone as far as ignoring her debut and snubbing her for social events. Without uttering a word, the queen had told the aristocracy a marriage to Vivian would not be met with approval. Still, the fact her father was a duke and the family had money tempted some mamas into introducing their spare sons to Vivian. However, over time, all of those men had married other women.

Ever since, her fate had been sealed as a forgotten spinster.

Bernard finally turned his attention to them. Over the past few weeks, he had begun to look and act more like his old self. At his worst during Christmas, he’d appeared quite ill, with concave cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. Vivian had expressed concern, but he’d told her to quit her worrying. Today, to her relief, he looked the best he had in months. “I can almost see Gran cackling at the ruckus she caused. It’s a fitting grand, final send-off.”

Vivian couldn’t help but smile wistfully. “Yes, she would have been happy to go out with a bang like this, wouldn’t she?”

Father cleared his throat, capturing everyone’s attention. They began to bob and sway a bit as the crowd shoved against the carriage. “Before we go in…” Father tried to brace himself against the velvet-cushioned wall. “I want to warn you that your grandmother has left nothing of her property to me at my request, though I’m not sure she ever intended to include me. I have more than enough for myself. Other than that, I have no idea how she divided it. And I want to make a polite request to not fight. Wills have the uncanny ability to split families apart.”

Vivian frowned. “Fight? Really now, Father, I think we’re better than that.” She shot a look over to Bernard, who was positively blissful in the moment with a dreamy, vacant gaze. Of course, she knew why. Gran’s estate would go to him. He was the male heir, after all, if Father was being excluded. She only hoped that if anything, Gran had left her the seaside cottage—the former duke and duchess’s second summer home—and funds with which to run it. Vivian would be splendidly happy, perhaps even live there year-round. It would be nice to finally leave Father’s home for her own after twenty-nine years.

“Ready?” Bernard placed his hand at the door, his gaze over his shoulder at the family. Vivian swallowed, and Anne quietly took her hand. They held on tightly to each other.

The door opened and as soon as Bernard emerged, the shouting increased, and questions were pelted at them with alarming speed.

Vivian had thought they were surrounded by spectators. Curious, nosy people. But the reality was worse: it was newspaper journalists who were closing in on them.

“What will you do with the dowager’s fortune?” one journalist shouted at Father.

Father grumbled at them and pushed past. “It’s not going to me. Now out of the way!”

Journalists within earshot furiously scribbled this response onto their notepads and turned to Bernard, the rest of the family at risk of being swallowed up by the crowd.

“How does it feel to be one of Britain’s wealthiest men?” another called out to Bernard, pencil held up in the air.

While Bernard slowly made his way through, Vivian followed Father, with Anne close behind, holding her hat secure to her blonde head, lest someone knock it off. Never in Vivian’s life had she felt so claustrophobic. Someone elbowed her ribs, causing her to yelp with pain, and she glanced back at Anne, who clung tightly, pale with fear. They really could get trampled to death in a crowd like this.

Another question was thrown to Bernard, who stopped with a gleaming smile to speak with the journalists and shake their hands above the crowd. Unlike Bernard, Vivian was not amused by this attention in the least. In fact, she wanted to give the journalists her own elbow. Their grandmother had passed away! Had they no shame?

As they inched closer to Gran’s large Dower House, Vivian felt a tug on her skirt. She looked over, then down, to find a boy shoving his way alongside her, a pencil and pad of paper at the ready. “Yeah, uh, do you think you’ll be getting anything, Lady Vivian?” He looked up with hesitance, as if unsure he had identified her correctly.

“Are you a journalist? How old are you?”

“I’m a cub reporter, fourteen years!”

“You are not a day over twelve.”

He gave her a guilty grin. The boy still had to grow into his big front teeth.

“Well, if I get a penny, I shall be lucky: unlike my grandmother, who was an American and thus able to inherit from her father, English women don’t inherit.” She stumbled, but with so many people around, she was in no danger of falling anywhere.

The cub reporter scribbled her response down. “If you get the dowager’s entire fortune, what will you do?”

Vivian laughed as another person bumped hard into her. “That won’t happen.”

“But what if it did?” His brown eyes rounded in a plea, like an adorable puppy eager for a treat. Vivian suspected this was by design. “Come on, give me a good answer. You could send my career to the moon!”

Vivian laughed again. “Very well. If I received the entire dowager estate, that would make me Britain’s richest spinster. What does someone with such a claim do? I suppose read books and drink tea all by myself in this house.”

The boy gave her a loud thanks, tapped the brim of his hat, and crouched down to escape through the gaps between peoples’ legs.

By the time the Winthrops had reached the limestone house, the Metropolitan Police arrived to control the crowd. Journalists were directed to the house-side of the street, and spectators were forced to the side of Hyde Park. Gran’s butler, Heaton, hastened them inside while a footman yanked the front door closed behind them, sealing the Winthrops off from the wild ruckus. Startled by the sudden change in activity, the family glanced around at each other, wide eyed and out of breath, their hats and clothing mussed and askew.

As if perturbed himself, Heaton rushed a hand over his receding hairline to smooth out any out-of-place fine hairs before leading them into the drawing room where Gran’s solicitor was waiting. The solicitor Mr. Northcott, who had deeply creased frown lines at his mouth and no sign of smile lines at his eyes, looked more like an undertaker than a respected law professional. As Mr. Northcott rose to greet them, he lifted reading glasses from a table and secured them over his nose and ears. Greetings were quickly exchanged before they settled down to business matters. Bernard and Anne sat on one sofa, and Vivian took the sofa across from them. Father sat off to the side on his own.

The solicitor began reading over the legal documents and for a long while, it was rather dry. He listed off the contents of the estate, including the dower house and seaside cottage, then explained the full process of passing it on. Gran had left a heartfelt letter he read aloud, causing eyes and noses to be dabbed gently with handkerchiefs. And then, as the solicitor reached the end, he shocked Vivian.

He shocked all of them.

“‘And,’” the solicitor continued reading, pointing one finger for effect, “‘it is all to be left to my only granddaughter, Lady Vivian Winthrop.’” As this was the end of the reading of Gran’s will, Mr. Northcott stopped and pushed the glasses back up his nose as he eyed the family.

They sat in a stunned silence.

Vivian blinked, sure she’d misheard. But the quiet calm was short-lived.

“Excuse me?” Bernard shot up to his feet, his face purple. “Can you repeat that last bit? I’m sure I didn’t hear you correctly!”

The solicitor obliged, clearing his throat over and over, a nervous habit. Bernard stormed over to him, demanded to see for himself, then shot Vivian an angry look and skulked to the other side of the room.

“This is preposterous!” Bernard’s hands raked angrily through his dark hair. He began walking vicious circles around the room while Anne remained silent, her head bowed with defeat. “Vivian gets the entire estate? The entire estate ?” His voice cracked. “This house, the seaside cottage, and the fat bank accounts? How in the blazes did Gran have all of that? They’re part of the ducal estate!”

“In fact, that is not true,” Mr. Northcott said. “Your grandmother was an American, which provided her the ability to inherit from her own parents.”

“Yes, we know that!”

“What you must not have realized is everything she had was in a trust fund. With her father’s help, she bought the seaside cottage, as well as the Dower House, before she married your grandfather. Her bank accounts were also in the trust and located in Boston until her passing. The trust was not subject to English law, which meant only she had ownership of it and the former Duke of Chalworth could not touch it. This was all done purposely. I believe she called it…” Mr. Northcott thumbed through the papers before him, stopping when he found what he was looking for. “‘Scoundrel insurance.’”

Everyone looked at Father, as he must have known about all of this, but he was reading a newspaper, ignoring the entire saga.

“But… But Vivian’s a woman! In England!”

“More specifically, a spinster.” The solicitor peered at Bernard over the rim of his glasses. “And because of that, she can also legally own and possess all of the above.”

As Vivian listened to this exchange, she wanted to jump to her feet and shout back to Bernard. He already had a house, his own bank accounts, even a family! He was titled, and he would one day be the Duke of Chalworth as well. Bernard had everything and she quite literally had nothing. But she didn’t speak up—because she couldn’t. Bernard was the older of the two siblings, louder, much more self-assured. A man, while she was a woman. Second in every possible way.

“It’s not fair!” Bernard pouted.

“You sound like a five-year-old,” Vivian responded dryly. Sometimes, however, her mouth spoke before her mind could stop it.

He glared hard at her. “You would be upset, too, if a Mayfair home slipped through your fingers! I won’t have one of those now until Father dies!”

“I can hear you, you know.” Father said this without looking up from his newspaper. “And you only live one entire minute outside of Mayfair. You’re hardly in the slums.”

Bernard restarted his circling around the drawing room, mumbling and cursing to himself. Finally, without a further word to anyone, he stormed out of the room, out of the house, forgetting the salivating journalists out front. They surrounded him like the vultures they were and quickly deduced what had happened. It was impossible to misread Bernard’s outrage.

As if hoping to lift the air a bit, Father chuckled. “That went well.”

But Anne, whom Vivian had previously noted had frozen stiff, suddenly jumped up with a choked sob. Without uttering a word, Anne then sprinted out of the room, trailing after her husband. She had not uttered a single word during the entire saga.

Mr. Northcott cleared his throat, bringing Vivian’s attention back to the task at hand. He held out a fountain pen. “Anyway, Lady Vivian, could you please sign here and here?”

*

Because Vivian was a spinster, moving out of Father’s home and into her own was hardly anything at all. The few dresses she had were wrapped in tissue paper and packed in a trunk, her toiletries secured in a box, and she was moved and fully settled in the day after the will reading.

Upon her arrival, Heaton opened the front door. As Vivian walked in, she clutched her handbag tightly against her chest as footmen moved her belongings past her and looked up at the enormous size of the place with wonder, as if she had never been there before when in fact, she had been there countless times.

But now, it was hers.

“Welcome home, Lady Vivian.” Heaton shut the door behind her. The carpeting felt extra plush beneath her feet, and she followed the butler as he took her on a tour and introduced the entire staff, though Vivian was well aware of everything already. But he was solidifying her station, reminding the staff—and Vivian as well—that she was no longer the quiet little mouse who came by for tea on occasion, but the mistress of the home. It was such a small gesture, yet so thoughtful, Vivian immediately warmed up to the butler she had always thought so stoic.

Heaton’s tour ended in the drawing room, where he left her to her own devices. Vivian glanced around the opulent, pistachio-green room. A large, marble fireplace with carved vines and floral motifs had a warm fire already lit inside of it. Oil paintings, which had been collected by her late grandfather many years ago, dotted the room with misty hunting scenes of the countryside. Her eyes hovered over the sofa, where she’d received the life-changing news yesterday, but that was not where she intended to go.

There was a chair near the window. She grabbed a book from the bookshelf— Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, a favorite of Gran’s—and settled in as tea was brought in.

Yes, this is rather nice , Vivian thought to herself with a smile. I absolutely could spend the rest of my life doing exactly this every single day.

However, while Vivian quite enjoyed her solitude, just a few hours into her new life, Heaton walked in carrying a silver tray filled with calling cards.

As she had not seen any meant for her for so long, Vivian was a bit in disbelief about the sudden appearance of so many cards. She picked one up, the front of it an illustration of an ungloved hand holding a rose, a gentleman’s name printed on the back. “What is all of this?” she asked after reading through a few, recognizing some names from her debutante days but unable to recall faces.

“Gentlemen callers, for Lady Vivian Winthrop,” Heaton responded properly. “Those I allowed entry, anyway. Many more tried to pass through without a card. I assumed you would not associate with someone who didn’t use calling cards.” He sniffed at the idea.

Vivian gave him a questioning look. “But I didn’t ask them to visit me.”

“They are here to make your acquaintance.”

“Because I moved in?”

He nodded, but something lay beneath the slight hesitance in the action.

“Heaton.” Vivian took a patient breath. This was all new to both of them. “Please be forthright with me. Why are they here?”

Heaton looked directly into her face, a bit more casual in his stance. “Lady Vivian, you’ve been named Britain’s richest spinster thanks to your American grandmother’s money. These gentlemen are here with hopes of marrying you.”

“ Marrying me!” Vivian’s eyes widened. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

Vivian had had some gentlemen callers when she’d been a debutante. But now, she had a whole mess of them. Curious, and a bit in disbelief, she stood and hurried out into the hallway, Heaton trying his best to keep up. As she approached the receiving room, she could hear loud conversation spilling out past the closed doors. But as soon as she opened them and stepped inside, the room cut to silence and the dense crowd of men turned to stare at her. Bewildered, she froze and stared back. That is, until they began to shout like the journalists did, waving their arms in the air, no doubt hoping to capture her attention from the others.

“Lady Vivian! Our fathers are acquainted!”

“Lady Vivian, I played cricket with your brother!”

Lady Vivian! Lady Vivian! Lady Vivian!

Terrified, Vivian spun around and ran out of the room, her skirts billowing behind her—and the men actually chased after her! The poor woman sprinted as fast as she could down her hallway until she dove into the library, locked the door behind her, and pressed up against the wall as the stampede roared past. Heaton and the footmen began shouting above the noise trying to wrangle in the frenzied men like sheep dogs with a rowdy flock, yelling that Lady Vivian was not feeling well today and the gentlemen would have to call on her another time.

About ten minutes later, the house was awash in silence once again.

There was a knock on the library door and Vivian opened it to find Heaton. “Well…” He brushed off his sleeves with a stiff hand. “That was certainly something I’ve never experienced before. What shall I do with the calling cards?”

Vivian exited the library and looked along the hallway, worried a stray man could still be lurking. “Put them to the side somewhere. I don’t want to look at them right now.”

“Very well.” He gave a small bow.

But her mind trailed back to the troubling words Heaton had said moments ago. “You said I’m being called Britain’s richest spinster . Where did you hear that?”

“The newspapers, my lady.”

Feeling dread, she recalled the brief encounter with the cub reporter. “Do you still have them? I would like to see, if so.”

He confirmed he did and would be back with them in a moment. Vivian returned to the drawing room and pulled the sheer curtains aside for a clear view of the street. It was filled with carriages caught up in traffic by the departure of her chasers, as if she’d been holding a big, extravagant ball.

A rustle of paper caught her attention and she turned to find Heaton laying out an armful of newspapers on the table. Vivian went over to his side and gasped at what she saw. Somehow, her portrait was on the front page of several different newspapers, with headlines ranging from “Unmarried Daughter of a Duke Moves into Mayfair Home” to “Come and Get Her, Lads! Britain’s Richest Spinster Ready for the Taking!”

“How vulgar!” Vivian pressed a hand to her heart.

Heaton folded his hands behind his back, his face remaining stoic. “Quite.”

“What am I going to do about this?” she asked no one in particular, knowing there was no easy answer. “Any further visitors today, Heaton, please continue to tell them I’m ill.”

He nodded once. “And what of tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? You mean you think they’ll be back?” The thought sent a chill through her.

“It’s the season, Lady Vivian. This is what your life will be like for the foreseeable future. I’m sorry to say.”

“Oh, blast.” Vivian immediately covered her mouth and apologized.

But Heaton merely chuckled. “I’ve heard worse from your grandmother, and I worked for both her and your grandfather for many years. You don’t need to worry about propriety around me.”

Vivian let out a long breath. It was true; her grandparents had been known for being a bit rough around the edges, which was another reason why Queen Victoria wasn’t very fond of the family. “Thank goodness. But yes, I need to figure out what to do about this. Frankly, I was expecting to spend the next few weeks relishing in my newfound independence, not chasing men off my property. I must be the only woman in human history to make such a complaint. Most unmarried women would find some shred of happiness or excitement in such a thing. Wouldn’t they?”

Heaton, of course, had no response for this, as he was a butler, not a resource for romantic advice. She began pacing around the room, not unlike Bernard the day prior. Marriage would be stifling. A man dictating how she should spend her day? Expecting her to entertain the wives of the aristocracy? She ! Throw dinner parties! The thought was laughable. And it caused her to shudder.

“I don’t want to be married.” Vivian lifted one of the newspapers, eyed the headline, then tossed it back down. “Especially not now. What would I get out of it? What could a woman my age possibly get out of being married now that I have my own home and assets? I can’t very well climb much higher on the social ladder, either—not that I’m interested in that, anyway.”

“Do you not wish for love, Lady Vivian? A family?” Heaton asked.

Vivian paused, her eyes trailing over to the crackling fireplace. How many times had she secretly cried in bed, staring at the fire that kept her warm, wishing she had a husband to snuggle up against instead? She pushed the thought away. “Everyone wants love, Heaton. But you know as well as I do, that’s not something in the cards for a person such as myself.”

He turned his eyes to the floor and didn’t respond.

But it was the ugly truth of the aristocracy. Women and men didn’t marry for love. They married to increase fortunes, to increase prestige. Perhaps some were lucky and truly loved their spouse, and a few times a century, there was a love match. But she was more likely to be struck by lightning than find love. To make matters, worse aristocratic men, whether married or not, were often scoundrels. And that was the rule, not the exception.

Aristocratic men had little to worry about in their lives. While their wives grew babies and upheld the household, the men were free to do as they pleased. Everyone, for example, had praised Prince Albert for being a doting, loving husband to Queen Victoria when he’d been alive. But Vivian had heard little snippets over the years that made her question their facade of perfection. Victoria had borne nine children, one after the other, and suffered greatly after each pregnancy with consuming melancholy and even hallucinations. There were rumors where, after child seven, the queen had begged Albert to let her stop having children, yet she’d gone on to have two more.

Vivian had lukewarm feelings toward the queen, but she didn’t like women being taken advantage of by men, no matter who they were. Sometimes she wondered if Prince Albert had wanted so many children partly to keep Queen Victoria busy with a litter of them, thus out of his way to do whatever he wished.

It seemed plausible.

The thought of living like that made Vivian want to retch.

But as Heaton had predicted, the attention Vivian attracted didn’t go away. Each day, she was “ill,” yet each day, men descended upon her receiving room. And each day, Vivian asked Heaton to put their calling cards to the side, never to look at them.

One day, the solicitor reappeared unexpectedly. His was the first visit Vivian accepted.

Heaton led Mr. Northcott into the drawing room and left them to talk.

“Lady Vivian.” Gran’s solicitor, still as spirited as an undertaker, gave her a tight nod as she directed him to sit in a nearby chair. “It’s nice to see you again. How was your first week here?”

“The house is infested and I’m looking to hire a rat catcher.” Vivian ensured her voice conveyed vague irritation.

Mr. Northcott stared at her with horror.

“The men. It’s a joke.” She shook her head. “Never mind. What can I help you with today?”

Vivian noted he seemed nervous, frequently clearing his throat as he had last week. “I have a letter for you, from your grandmother,” he said, lifting a sealed envelope to her in offering.

She took it with apprehension and gazed down at the blank envelope face before opening it.

Dearest Vivian,

Congratulations, my dear, you are now the wealthiest spinster in the country. Your daft brother is a gambling addict, and I didn’t want his grubby paws on my money. And besides, you know I prefer you, anyway. You and I, we’re two of a kind, two perfect diamonds in a pile of rubbish. That is precisely why I must do what I am about to. You will be angry with me, but you will one day forgive me, too.

Now that my property and family fortune is legally yours, you have one year to marry for love or your inheritance will be relinquished to your brother. Yes, you will in fact lose the house, not to mention the seaside cottage, and will have to move back in with your father for the rest of time. Do be a good girl and find your crown jewel amongst the enormous pile of dog —the following word was smudged, but Vivian had an inkling of what it was —out there, because I am confident he exists, and you deserve a lifetime of love. Perhaps lighting a fire under your bottom will finally get you moving.

Your grandfather and mother say hello , probably.

Hugs and kisses,

Granny

P.S.– Tell Victoria I’m watching her, ha ha!

Vivian stared down at the letter, her mouth dropped open and unable to form words. She could hear the woman’s haughty voice as she’d read the letter, she could even envision Gran smoking from her long cigarette holder and blowing out smoke as she said bottom . There was no doubt Gran had genuinely written this. But it was also the most absurd demand Vivian had ever heard in her life.

“She…” Vivian couldn’t continue.

“Yes, she did write that. May I?” The solicitor gently took the letter out of her hand and stuffed it back in its envelope before setting it to the side. “And yes, it’s real. And before you ask, yes, it is enforceable. You can, of course, refuse to comply and lose everything now. That is a realistic option.”

Vivian let out a long breath. Gran had been right—she was angry. Absolutely livid. “No, I don’t wish to refuse to comply. But marry for love in one year? Was the woman mad? I haven’t been able to find it in ten!”

“You know your grandmother.”

Vivian could already see the life she’d envisioned melting away before her eyes. No more solitude. No more spending afternoons alone reading for as long as she liked. No more peace and quiet, for a noisy man would now be interrupting it all! “Yes. The answer is yes, she was mad. My goodness, even from the grave, she’s going to ruin my life!”

The solicitor cleared his throat again, evidently eager to leave.

“Any other surprises I should know about?” Vivian narrowed her eyes as she stood up and began to lead him to the door.

“No.” Mr. Northcott opened the drawing room door for her. “But I was specifically told to wait some time before giving you this letter. I had no choice. I apologize.” It appeared to be a genuine apology, but it didn’t make Vivian feel any better about the ridiculous situation.

“But why wait?”

“Partly to keep Lord Litchfield’s influence out of your ear. She supposed, probably correctly, he would attempt to convince you into giving up without trying. But also, she wished to surprise you.” The solicitor uncharacteristically bobbed on his feet.

Vivian couldn’t help but laugh at this. Surprise? Surprise, indeed. But she knew Gran well enough to know another truth: Gran had wanted Vivian to get a taste of life with the inheritance so when it was threatened to be taken away, she would comply with Gran’s demand.

Gran had clearly underestimated how many men would be pestering Vivian day in and day out. Thus far, the inheritance had added quite a bit of difficulty to daily life. Then again, it wouldn’t be forever. But what she would do about the wretched husband bit remained to be seen.

She would figure it out.

Hopefully.

After the solicitor had bidden her good luck and goodbye, he ended with the advice that she keep Gran’s one-year countdown concealed from her family. As Vivian didn’t need their meddling in this situation, she wholeheartedly agreed and watched him leave, realizing how defeated she was in the moment. She already knew she would never find someone. One year from this moment, she would be packing up her belongings once again to return to Father’s.

Vivian spent the rest of the day obsessing over the letter and worrying about her future. So, when Bernard showed up that night unannounced, requesting she not speak to him until dressed for the evening herself, Vivian complied purely out of curiosity. Her former lady’s maid had gone on to work for a new family, thus Vivian had had Gran’s lady’s maid, Norris, stay on. Norris had an appreciation for color, Vivian had discovered, and dressed her in a lavender, silk gown with a deep, heart-shaped neckline, and elbow-length white gloves. Anticipation palpitated through her at the surprise.

As she entered the drawing room in her eveningwear, Bernard approached her looking smart in a dinner suit. “You drink whiskey, right?”

“Yes.” Vivian came to a stop before her brother. She had yet to speak to Bernard since he’d stormed out of the house after the will reading. And Bernard had never before invited her to go out for the evening. She was happy to see he appeared to be reconciling with her. “Why?”

Bernard smiled wide. “I’ll buy a round. Anne told me about your gentlemen chasers this week, and I thought perhaps you could go for a night at a wild pub, with whiskey, and fighting, and general debauchery. And all of that, of course, with zero expectations on propriety.”

“My goodness, Bernard.” Vivian looped her arm with his. He couldn’t have arrived with a more appealing evening plan. “It’s as if Gran herself sent you here.”