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“H ere,” said Richard with a flourish, pressing his ring into the sealing wax. “Have this sent to Lady Evelyn Chance, will you?”

Verwood raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I do not believe you wish me to do that, my lord.”

It was not the response Richard had expected.

After all, the man had served him almost the entirety of his viscountcy.

True, his orders had not always been the most logical—giving Smith enough funds for a comfortable retirement and sending all the rest of servants to the country estate then disappearing to France without so much as a message about when he would return sprang to mind.

But still. He was the viscount. Verwood was the butler.

“I think I do want you to do that, actually,” Richard said aloud, gesturing with the envelope.

His butler took the letter delicately but made no move to depart the study and enact the order. “I repeat, my lord, I do not believe you actually wish me to do this.”

Richard leaned back in his chair and examined his willowy servant closely. What the devil had gotten into the man? Was it not a simple request?

“Look,” he said heavily. “I think I have made it perfectly plain what I wish to do. Lady Evelyn Chance and I have an understanding. I wish to make that understanding more permanent. Are you with me so far?”

Verwood inclined his head. “With you every step of the way, my lord.”

Damn, but the man was exasperating. “In order to make this betrothal formal, I need to meet with Lady Evelyn. I am sure you can see the logic of that.”

“The logic is irrefutable, my lord.”

Now the trickle of irritation was starting to seep through Richard.

Trying to ignore it, and wondering why on earth he was attempting to negotiate with his butler, he continued.

“Lady Evelyn therefore needs to come here. She will need my address. Within that envelope is both my invitation and my address. Do you see the necessity of sending that letter now?”

“No, my lord,” said his butler smoothly.

“What the devil do you mean?”

“Am I to understand that the lady still has no idea of your true identity during these… ahem… modeling sessions?”

It had been an awkward conversation to have with his servants, Richard would admit—though it did clear up some confusion about where he had been going all these weeks.

“Yes, you are correct,” he said shortly.

“And my understanding is that you do not wish the lady to know of your identity until the moment of proposal. Are you with me so far?”

By Jove, the man was taking liberties. “Verwood, I asked you to deliver that letter, not debate with me about logic!”

“So you wish me to take this letter—”

“Yes!”

“—and have it delivered to Lady Evelyn Chance—”

“Yes!” By God, he would have to take his servants in hand.

“—with the seal of the Viscount Sempill on the envelope,” finished Verwood sweetly.

“Yes—oh.” Richard stared at the letter in his butler’s hand as heat flooded his face. “Oh, damn.”

“Do you see the necessity of not delivering this letter now?”

“You think you’re very clever, don’t you, Verwood?” said Richard with a heavy sigh, holding out his hand for the return of his letter.

His butler did not smile, though Richard imagined it was a challenge. “I wouldn’t dare to presume, my lord.”

It took but a moment to slit open the envelope, and another minute or so to place the letter into a fresh envelope, which was sealed with a dab of wax but no demarcation of his ring.

There. That hadn’t been too difficult.

“And will I frequently be your personal messenger to Lady Evelyn Chance, my lord?” asked his butler none too delicately as he took the refreshed envelope. “It is usually a footman’s task.”

Richard had to smile at that. “I trust you , Verwood. And I hope your messenger service will not be necessary much longer. I hope she will be Lady Sempill before long.”

Lady Sempill . It was a strange thought.

There had been times in the past when he had been almost certain that the viscountcy would die out.

There were no other heirs, no convenient cousins, not even—as far as he could tell—an illegitimate brother somewhere about.

His father had been loyal, and he himself had not considered matrimony.

Not until now.

Richard glanced about his study. This would make a wonderful studio. It faced full south, gaining the benefits of sunshine and brightness almost all year round. In fact, if he cleared out that card room on the west side of the house, he could make that his study and this could be Evelyn’s.

Her, here, in his house. Their house, by then. It was a strange feeling, one of warmth and uncertainty.

It would be a new era. There would be a viscountess again. It was in a small way a step down for Evelyn; she was the daughter of an earl, after all, but still—they would have plenty of opportunity to see her family, she would hardly be taken out of her circle.

He may even have to find room in the garden for another studio…

“Will there be anything else, my lord?”

Richard snapped back to the present. The proposal had not happened yet. Until Evelyn knew who he was, knew truly how much he could offer her, there was no point in daydreaming. At least, not too much.

“No, no, just the delivery of that letter,” he said aloud. “Oh, and ask Mrs. Anstruther to come up here, will you?”

What followed was a very awkward conversation with his housekeeper.

“A woman!” Her nostrils flared.

“A new mistress of this house,” Richard amended. He had foreseen the difficulty, naturally, but had not imagined it would be considered this unsurpassable. “You were kindness and efficiency itself when my mother was alive.”

“But that was the dowager viscountess, m’lord!” The stocky Mrs. Anstruther appeared to be having some difficulties arranging her thoughts in a fresh direction.

Richard tried not to look impatient. “Any woman that I marry will become the new viscountess, Mrs. Anstruther.”

Mrs. Anstruther’s eyes widened. “A new viscountess?”

It took a further five minutes for his housekeeper to concede that yes, she supposed her master could marry if he wanted to, and yes, technically that would make the woman a viscountess—no, the viscountess, Richard suggested—and that would make her the woman in charge of the property.

The new viscountess, that was. Not Mrs. Anstruther.

She did not look convinced as she departed from his study, but Richard did not have any more time to pacify servants.

He needed to prepare the house.

Only now that he was attempting to see it through Evelyn’s eyes did Richard realize just how passive he had become with his property.

Why, there was chaos everywhere. The library had never been tidied before this century, it appeared, the garden looked as though wolves had attacked the east border, and his bedchamber…

Well. Richard was not a tidy man by nature.

It took the combined efforts of Richard, Mrs. Anstruther, Verwood—when he had returned from Evelyn with a short note agreeing to his suggested outing tomorrow, her lady’s maid in tow—two maids, an undermaid, a footman, and a gardener to get the place in order.

Spick and span , Richard thought with an exhausted back as he surveyed the progress made.

Almost habitable. How had he lived like this for so long?

The very last task on his list was to go through his study.

The desk was almost lost to a pile of correspondence he had not responded to; his spying days firmly over, he had not seen fit to reply to the many letters from his colleagues in France.

He was not going to return to that life—he could not.

He had a new life to think of. A life with Evelyn.

A restless night followed. Evelyns cascaded around him in his dreams, some laughing at him for offering matrimony, others running from him because his proposal speech had been uninspiring.

One Evelyn asked him to paint his love for her and had wept when Richard had been unable to capture his affection through paint.

When Richard finally awoke, it was with relief that the day was finally here.

Today, he would propose matrimony to Lady Evelyn Chance.

His letter had suggested ten o’clock—not too early, but early enough that they would have the rest of the day to luxuriate in being a betrothed couple. He had been, however, after further reflection that providing his address might prove too direct, rather circumspect about the place to meet.

“I’ve never arranged to meet a man on the corner of two streets before,” Evelyn said cheerfully from under her blue parasol. Laurent the lady’s maid stood a few feet to her mistress’s side, offering Richard a wink. “It all feels mightily scandalous, do you not think?”

Richard tried to smile. Now she put it like that, he could see how his request had been outrageous.

That was the trouble with spending the last few years in France as a spy. One did not have to concern oneself with the petty trivia of Society’s expectations.

“I hope you do not mind,” he said, his nerves fraying and his tone suggesting far more panic than he wished.

“‘Mind’? Not at all, it’s an adventure, as promised,” Evelyn said, slipping her arm into his without a second thought. “So, where to?”

Richard swallowed. He had considered this most carefully, he had thought, but now he had to enact the plan, it seemed… Well. Foolish.

“I have managed to secure permission to visit a private house,” he said carefully. “The… the owner has a stunning art collection. It has never been shown in public.”

As he had predicted, Evelyn’s eyes widened. “What—truly, never before?”

“Not in my lifetime,” Richard said truthfully. “I thought you might wish to see them.”

“In a private house?” Evelyn asked eagerly.

He nodded. It had seemed easiest this way; slowly revealing himself would be a far more entertaining and enjoyable experience, for the both of them.

“Well, I admit myself curious,” she said, glancing around. “Which way?”