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CHAPTER ONE

WESTERFIELD COUNTRY FAIR

The Honourable Miss Beatrice Winters adjusted her spectacles for the fourth time in as many minutes, squinting at her carefully prepared notes on pig intelligence.

The summer heat had made the wire frames slip down her nose again, but she refused to let this minor inconvenience deter her from her purpose.

After six months of research and particularly illuminating correspondence with livestock breeders whom she had led to believe she was her own brother, she was ready to acquire her first subject.

"Really, Bea," her cousin Margaret protested, fanning herself with her bonnet, "I cannot fathom why the daughter of a viscount is standing in this heat watching farm animals when there are Italian ices being served near the bandstand."

"Because, Meg, pigs are remarkably clever creatures. Did you know that in Lancashire, a farmer has one that can?—"

"Good afternoon, Miss Winters," came a familiar voice from behind them.

Beatrice turned, surprised to find Lord Ira Harrison approaching.

The second son to the Earl of Rothbury had once been her childhood companion before everything changed during their early adolescence.

His teasing had transformed from playful to cutting, his once-admiring glances replaced with mockery.

Yet recently, in the bloom of their youth, he'd shown a flicker of his former self, asking about her studies with what seemed like sincere interest. She dared to hope they might recapture some of their former camaraderie, her heart quickening at the possibility in a way that confused and intrigued her.

"My lord," she acknowledged cautiously.

"I've been looking for you," he said, stepping closer to examine her notebook. "You mentioned your research on animal intelligence last week at Lady Harrington's tea. I must admit, I find the concept intriguing. Is it true that pigs can solve more complex puzzles than dogs?"

Beatrice blinked in surprise, her guard lowering slightly. "Indeed, they can. Their problem-solving abilities are remarkably sophisticated. I've documented cases where they've learned to manipulate simple mechanisms to obtain food."

"Fascinating," he replied, and the gleam in his eyes seemed genuine. "And your plan is to conduct your own experiments? Is that why you're at the livestock auction?"

"Yes, I – " Beatrice caught herself, then smiled cautiously. "I'm planning to acquire a young pig to train. My hypothesis is that with proper methodology, I can demonstrate intelligence comparable to that of a young child."

"And you've selected your specimen?" Ira asked, peering toward the auction pens.

"Not yet, but – "

Their conversation was interrupted by raucous laughter as a group of young gentlemen approached – Lord Ashcroft, Sir Edmund Halley, and the Honourable James Fitzroy – all members of Ira's social circle known for their fashionable disdain of intellectual pursuits.

"Harrison! There you are," called Ashcroft. "What's this? Taking agriculture lessons from Miss Winters?"

Beatrice watched something shift in Ira's demeanour almost instantly. His shoulders stiffened, and the open curiosity in his expression shuttered closed.

Fitzroy grinned, nudging Halley. "Perhaps he's considering a career change. An intended officer in the Queen’s service to swineherd would be quite the social sensation."

The gentlemen laughed and several nearby ladies swivelled to observe the commotion. Beatrice noticed how Ira's eyes flicked toward them, a brief discomfort flashing across his features before his all-too familiar mocking smile slid into place.

"Lord save us, she's speaking pig Latin again," he drawled, his voice carrying to the gathering crowd.

Beatrice stiffened, feeling the betrayal like a physical blow. The tentative bridge between them collapsed as quickly as it had formed.

"I assure you, my lord, the study of animal husbandry is a perfectly respectable pursuit." She lifted her chin. "Even if it's not typically undertaken by ladies of our circle."

"Oh, is that what we're calling it?" Ira stepped into view, all six feet of him radiating amusement for his friends' benefit. His cravat was slightly askew, his hair tousled by the summer breeze. "Are you certain you are not shopping on behalf of the kitchen staff?"

Beatrice clutched her notebook tighter. "Some of us have aspirations beyond deciding which fork to use for fish."

"How fortunate that one only needs a single fork for pork pie."

The crowd around them tittered with amusement, several young ladies hiding smiles behind their fans. Sir Edmund slapped Ira on the back in approval, while Fitzroy's eyes gleamed with malicious delight at the spectacle.

Before Beatrice could retort, the auctioneer called for attention. A small black piglet was brought into the pen, its ears flopping endearingly as it investigated the straw.

"Oh!" Beatrice's eyes sparkled with delight. It was perfect – young enough to train, but old enough to be separated from its mother. She had already mapped out a schedule of rewards and commands.

"Bidding starts at three shillings," the auctioneer announced.

Beatrice's hand shot up. "Three shillings!"

"Five," drawled Ira, playing to his audience now as he gave a theatrical bow to his friends.

She shifted to glare at him. "Six shillings!"

"Seven." He wasn't even looking at the pig, instead watching her with that insufferable half-smile as the crowd grew, drawn by the spectacle of their bidding war.

"Ten shillings!" Beatrice's voice rose slightly.

Ira's eyebrows lifted. "My, my. Twelve."

"Thirteen!" Her carefully budgeted limit, saved from her pin money.

"Fifteen shillings." Ira's smile widened as Beatrice's face fell, and his friends cheered his victory.

"Sold! To Lord Ira!"

The piglet, unaware of its fate, oinked happily in its pen. Beatrice observed in horror as Ira sauntered over to claim his prize, his friends clapping him on the shoulder in congratulation.

"My lord," she hurried after him, hitching up her skirts slightly more than strictly proper, "I can give you seventeen shillings for the pig if you'll come with me to ask my papa."

"Not for sale, I'm afraid." He reached down to scratch the piglet's ears. "I've already named him. Haven't I, Breakfast?"

"Breakfast?" Beatrice's voice cracked. "You cannot be serious. That pig has the potential to demonstrate remarkable intelligence!"

"Does he? Well, then he'll be the most educated ham at my table come Christmas." Ira picked up the piglet, which nuzzled his waistcoat. "Look how friendly he is. I do hope he doesn't develop too much intelligence before December. Makes the whole thing rather awkward, doesn't it?"

His companions roared with laughter, and several young ladies giggled behind their fans.

"You are utterly impossible!" Beatrice's glasses slipped again, and she shoved them up with force. "That pig could be trained to – "

"To what? Dance a quadrille? Explain gravity? I suppose he could help you navigate the social season, since you seem to prefer the company of livestock to that of your peers."

"Better that than spend my days with someone who thinks everything is a topic for jokes!" A flush crept up her neck. "Even the farmers take this more seriously than you do."

As she spoke, Beatrice sensed her last tender hope crushed to dust. The hurt went deeper than mere annoyance at his teasing; it was the crushing disappointment of having glimpsed the return of her childhood friend only to lose him again.

She couldn't prevent the pain from showing in her eyes, the light of enthusiasm dimming visibly as she fought to maintain her composure.

For the briefest moment, Beatrice caught a change in Ira's expression. The mocking smile faltered as his gaze met hers and regret flashed across his features. His brow furrowed slightly, and he appeared poised to utter quite another sentiment, his hand half-raised as if to reach toward her.

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come. Ashcroft clapped him on the shoulder, and Ira's mask slipped back into place, though Beatrice thought it appeared more forced than before.

"Speaking of society," Ira's eyes danced with mischief as if they'd been having a friendly chat, though his voice carried a strained note that hadn't been there before, "I don't suppose you'd care to dance at the assembly rooms tonight? The pig can chaperone."

Beatrice spun on her heel, her face burning. "I hope you choke on your breakfast!" She stormed away with as much dignity as she could muster while fleeing with tears blurring her vision.

"Was it something I said?" Ira called after her, the piglet squealing happily in his arms. "Breakfast and I are devastated!"

That evening, Beatrice added a new page to her notebook. At the top, in her precise handwriting, she wrote: "On the Correlation Between Title and Intelligence: A Study in Inverse Relationships, With Particular Attention to Earls' Sons."

And Ira never saw the tears of frustration she wiped away, nor how she spent the evening drafting a letter to her farming correspondent, signing it with her real name at last. Some slights, no matter how prettily delivered, cut deeper than others – especially when one was already struggling to be taken seriously about anything.