“He does seem rather taken with you,” Viola said.

“As a boy he was always plaguing me. I can’t imagine why he’s courting me now.”

“Have you thought that perhaps he did that to be noticed by you?”

“We’re not talking about Flanders. We want West to find a new duchess. Despite her fortune, Miss Chandler was the most unsuitable candidate imaginable. He must choose someone better this time. She must be of excellent family and prospects.”

“If Great-Aunt Hermione were here, she would champion Lady Winifred Woolfrey,” Bernadette said. “She loves her. She’s always comparing us to her and finding us sorely lacking. And she’s so amiable and good that I can’t even hate her. She’s really the loveliest person. Even if her conversation is rather conventional and boring.”

“Conventional and boring is precisely what our brother requires,” Blanche said.

“There’s no hint of scandal in her family?” Viola asked.

“None whatsoever.”

“I don’t think West likes her very much,” Betsy said. “And how are we supposed to make him reform?”

All five young ladies considered that for a moment, their faces grave.

“It won’t be easy,” Bernadette said. “We’ll have to keep him with us at all times.”

Betsy nodded. “And hide his spirits.”

“We’ll make him come to the opera with us tonight,” said Blanche.

“He’s still asleep,” Birdie said. “I checked. I asked Sebastian to wake him but he flatly refused for fear of bodily injury.”

“Someone ought to wake him.”

“Not I,” Betsy said.

“Not I,” said Bernadette.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Viola said. “Just go pound on his door and tell him you wish to have a conference with him.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Miss Beaton. You should do that.”

“I?” Viola shook her head in the negative. “I couldn’t possibly . . .” She’d knocked upon his door last night, and look where that had landed her.

A memory of his kiss overwhelmed her mind, bringing swift heat to her face. He’d removed her shawl, sliding it down her shoulders, and then kissed her so thoroughly that . . .

Wait. Her yellow shawl. She hadn’t seen it in her room this morning. Had she left it in his chamber? She had to go retrieve it before any of the girls saw it there!

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll go and pound on his door and inform him that his sisters wish to speak with him on a matter of urgency.”

She left swiftly, desperate to retrieve her shawl.

All was quiet as she retraced her steps from last night to the ducal bedchamber. She pounded on the door.

No response.

“Your Grace,” she called. “Wake up!”

Still no response. He must slumber deeply. Or had he snuck out last night, after all?