And who could blame him? Anthony had single-handedly forced the Elliot family to become…better, he supposed it was, for want of a more accurate word. At least more respectable and certainly more financially mature. In return he’d earned their deep and undying hatred for imposing his will on the lot of them. He tightened his jaw. It was a good thing he was used to such. It had been his life for almost eighteen years now.

He glanced about the room now, noting that not one of his erstwhile family dared meet his gaze. None except Rupert Elliot, who offered a deprecating shrug and a half smile as he escorted his nearly hysterical mother from the room. Anthony returned the smile with a brief nod. Rupert was the only Elliot who showed any promise of overcoming his upbringing.

Anthony rubbed his neck wearily. Perhaps he was being unfair. Perhaps James’s children held the same promise. After all, he’d never seen them; and they were young, after all. For several minutes he mulled over this fact, an idea hovering. There must be some reason fate had given him these charges—perhaps here was his chance to prove that the Elliot family was not ramshackle by blood, but by the circumstances of their upbringing.

The thought took hold. It grew and expanded as Anthony considered the myriad of possibilities that lay before him. By God, he’d raise the children to be models of propriety. That would show the doubters who believed that once an Elliot, always an Elliot.

His boredom banished, Anthony took his leave of Brand. He had to prepare Greyley House for the imminent arrival of five soon-to-be-perfectly-behaved children. The time had come to put to rest the last, unfortunate ghosts of his Elliot ancestry.

Chapter 1

The Earl of Greyley’s sins have finally caught up with him. It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving man.

Lady Fetchwythe to the Dowager Duchess of Roth, while taking a breath of fresh air on the terrace at the Hotchkiss soirée

Greyley House, outside London
June 15, 1816

“Your brother will not be happy to see us.”

“Nonsense.” Sara Montrose, the Countess of Bridgeton, regarded her husband from across the rumbling carriage. “Anthony will be delighted we came to visit.”

“Not if you engage in your usual heavy-handed matchmaking attempts,” Nick said, a warning threaded through his silky voice.

“Me?” Sara slipped off her shoe and rested her foot on the edge of the seat opposite hers, very near her lord’s muscled thigh. “Heavy-handed?”

He lifted a brow, his blue eyes fixed on her with unwavering regard.

“Truly, Nick, I only wish to see if he is well.”

“Hm.”

He said no more, and after a moment, Sara frowned, a niggling worry settling between her shoulders. Her husband suffered from horrendous headaches, though it had been almost six months since he’d succumbed to an attack. “You seem out of sorts. Is your head—”

“No.” Nick’s gaze softened. “I’m fine. And so is Anthony. Leave him be, Sara. He’s over thirty and well able to live his own life.”