“Not according to my sources.”

Mrs. Foxglove was the worst gossip in Bellfield, so Ellie was inclined to believe her. Not that it made a difference. Richard Parrish was stout and had bad breath. She read on and choked. “George Millerton is past sixty.”

Mrs. Foxglove sniffed disdainfully. “You are not in a position to be choosy about such a trivial matter.”

The next three names on the list belonged to equally elderly men, one of whom was downright mean. Rumor had it that Anthony Ponsoby had beaten his first wife. There was no way that Ellie was going to shackle herself to a man who thought that marital communication was best conducted with a stick.

“Good God!” Ellie exclaimed as her eyes traveled down to the second-to-last name on the list. “Robert Beechcombe cannot be a day over fifteen. What were you thinking?”

Mrs. Foxglove was about to respond, but Ellie interrupted her. “Billy Watson!” she shrieked. “He is not right in the head. Everybody knows that. How dare you try to marry me off to someone like him!”

“As I said, a woman in your position cannot—”

“Don't say it,” Ellie cut in, her entire body shaking with rage. “Don't say a word.”

Mrs. Foxglove smirked. “You cannot speak to me like that in my home.”

“It isn't your home yet, you old bag,” Ellie bit out.

Mrs. Foxglove lurched backward. “Well, I never!”

“And I have never been moved to violence,” Ellie fumed, “but I am always willing to try a new experience.” She grabbed Mrs. Foxglove's collar and pushed her out the door.

“You will be sorry you did this!” Mrs. Foxglove yelled from the walkway.

“I will never be sorry,” Ellie returned. “Never!”

She slammed the door and threw herself on the sofa. There was no doubt about it. She was going to have to find a way to escape her father's household. The Earl of Billington's face danced in her head, but she pushed it aside. She wasn't so desperate that she had to marry a man she'd scarcely met. Surely there had to be some other way.

By the next morning, Ellie had devised a plan. She wasn't as helpless as Mrs. Foxglove would like to believe. She had a bit of money tucked away. It wasn't a vast sum, but it was enough to support a woman of modest taste and frugal nature.

Ellie had put the money in a bank years ago but had been dissatisfied with the paltry rate of interest. So she took to reading the London Times, making special note of items relating to the world of business and commerce. When she felt she had a comprehensive knowledge of the 'change, she went to a solicitor to handle her funds. She had to do it under her father's name, of course. No solicitor would handle money on the behalf of a young woman, especially one who was investing without the knowledge of her father. So she traveled several towns away, found Mr. Tibbett, a solicitor who did not know of the Reverend Mr. Lyndon, and told him that her father was a recluse. Mr. Tibbett worked with a broker in London, and Ellie's nest egg grew and grew.