Unbidden, an image of Thraxton came to mind—tall, auburn-haired, and elegant with a Roman nose and the audacious attitude of a born princess. The last time he’d seen her, they had argued over Bridgeton’s courtship of Sara, and Anna had used the opportunity to inform Anthony that she thought him a complete idiot.

The words rankled still. No one treated him that way. It was insufferable and a perfect example of the discord that would cloud the pristine airs of Greyley House if he allowed her into his life. The last thing he needed was an argumentative woman. That decided, he closed the curtain. He would prevail on his own terms, by God.

Overhead came the rushed footsteps of scattering children. From the sound of it, they were headed down the hallway toward the back stairs, their favorite route of escape.

Anthony held his breath, waiting. Seconds later a scream arose, followed by the hysterical gibbering of the housekeeper. He tilted his head to one side, trying to distinguish sensible words from the loud screeching. Something about a mouse…and a bedpan.

Shaking his head, he crossed the room, remembering that he was supposed to visit the tenant cottages today. Well, he didn’t have time now—he had other fish to fry. Five annoying little minnows, to be exact.

This time he’d hire two governesses. Surely with two of them, the children would finally be under some sort of control. And if that didn’t work…there was always Thraxton. The idea made him wince. Thank God he wasn’t that desperate. Not yet, anyway. More determined to succeed than ever before, Anthony went to discover what new havoc his charges had wrought.

Chapter 2

It is a pity about the Thraxtons. Not even the prince can do anything for them now.

The Dowager Duchess of Roth to Sir Alfred Locksley, at a private party at Vauxhall Gardens

Dandridge House, London
August 3, 1816

Her silk dress rustling delicately, Anna Thraxton pulled off her left glove and tossed the entire contents of her glass of orgeat directly into Viscount Northland’s leering face.

To her immense satisfaction, the pudgy lord reeled back, tripped over his own feet, and landed against a tall potted plant—the very one he’d cornered her behind. Leafy plant and damp viscount went sprawling onto the edge of the dance floor, dirt sliding across the polished floor as the music in the ballroom came to an abrupt halt.

Anna set her empty glass back on the table and replaced her glove. “Oh, dear!” she said loudly. “Poor Lord Northland has tangled his feet and fallen!”

A loud snicker met this statement, for everyone knew Northland was a bumbling fool. A few even knew he was also an insistent letch who believed the word “no” meant “make me yours, my lusty lord.”

Within moments, His Lordship’s anxious mother had rushed to her son’s side, a servant had righted the upset plant and brushed away the loose dirt, and the music had resumed. Once again, dancers swirled across the floor, and no one was the wiser that Anna Thraxton had efficiently dealt with one of London’s most irritating toadstools.