He’d find Chase another night. Tonight was for celebrating. By this time tomorrow, Anthony would have London’s best governess in his possession, and woe betide Desmond and the hordes. If Anna Thraxton was even half as good as rumor reported, Anthony was going to win the war. And winning had become imperative. There was no such thing as bad blood—only bad behavior. And Anna Thraxton was going to help Anthony prove it, once and for all.

Whistling to himself, Anthony turned and made his way back into the Dandridges’ house. Things were finally going his way.

Chapter 3

Phineas Thraxton is a taxing companion. The last time I saw him, he taxed me to the amount of 150 guineas.

Sir Alfred Locksley to Lord Brevenham, over a glass of port at White’s

Sir Phineas Thraxton leaned on his cane and stared out the window of the tiny, cramped room that passed as the morning room. He glanced once at the closed door, then leaned over the windowsill and blew a cloud of smoke into the chilled morning air. As he stood, he bumped the edge of the shutter where it hung drunkenly on its hinges. He winced at the resulting groan of rotted wood and rusty fasteners, a sad testament to the state of the entire establishment.

He hated this house. Hated every creaking, leaking inch of it. Narrow and drafty, it was in a part of town he openly considered deplorable. He took another pull of the cigarillo, savoring the pungent aroma even as he tried to wave it out the window.

It was his only vice, and it was a demmed shame his granddaughter had taken it into such dislike. He deserved a few pleasures, at least. Especially now that fortune had turned her back on the Thraxton family. Gingerly holding the rapidly shrinking cigarillo, Sir Phineas blew a perfect circle of smoke into the air. A noise in the hallway made him freeze, and he relaxed only when he heard Mrs. Duckrow’s raw voice raised in outcry at the clumsiness of a maid. The housekeeper might be a termagant, but she didn’t interfere with his pleasures. No, that privilege was reserved to his granddaughter, Anna.

Anna was Sir Phineas’s ultimate joy. Free spirited, intelligent, attractive, and opinionated—she possessed all the best Thraxton qualities. Phineas had no doubt that, had he not been so foolish as to tie up the family fortune in a series of unfortunate investments, Anna would have found a nice, handsome young man and settled into a life more suitable to her station.

He bit the end of his cigarillo and stared morosely out the window for a long moment, mulling over the unsatisfying aspects of his life and wondering what he could do to fix things. After a moment, he shook himself out of his brown reverie. By God, he was a Thraxton; something would occur to right things. He was certain of it.

Anna’s quick tread sounded in the hallway. Sir Phineas took two final puffs, then tossed the cigarillo out the window, closed it, and then hurriedly limped to a chair by the cold fireplace and dropped into it. He’d barely managed to pull a nearby lap rug across his knees before the door opened and Anna walked in.