He arrived at half past two, which would give him the proper quarter hour to pay his respects and convey his gratitude if she had not been in jest about her calling hours. He hoped she had not. He carried a posy of soft white roses and russet-colored dahlias, cut ruth lessly from his mother's tangled garden and tied with a ribbon. Small thanks, but the best he could do.

The cream-colored limestone edifice of Shelford glowed like a Greek temple in the autumn afternoon, a symmetrical facade of pilasters and porticoes set in a gem green park. Chestnut trees dotted the rolling pastures, their leaves f laming with orange under the sun. Trev was perfectly acquainted with the outside of the great house, in particular the dark old yew under Callie's window, but he had never been invited to set foot inside.

A carriage was stopped before the stairs, disem barking a trio of well-dressed ladies. He recognized none of them, but he judged their gowns to be expensive. The chaise had a liveried footman, who sprang up behind as it moved away, grinding over the gravel down the drive. Trev touched his card case in his pocket. He reminded himself that he was a duke and a cousin of kings, even if they had been beheaded. He had a perfect right to the title of useless aristocratic fribble.

The front door had already closed behind the ladies by the time Trev walked lightly up the steps under the blank gaze of two footmen. He informed the porter that he requested the honor of calling upon Lady Callista Taillefaire on behalf of Madame de Monceaux, handed in his cards, and waited. He waited a very long time, cooling his heels on the stoop, trying not to feel seventeen years old again, with the cut of a whip across his face and shame burning in his throat.

At last the door swung open under another foot man's white-gloved hand. The butler bowed. It was all a great deal more ceremony than he remembered from the old earl's days. The butler then had been an ally of his, an immensely tall fellow with a craggy, forlorn face. This new man was shorter and thicker, with a high reddish complexion in his cheeks. He looked as if he might have a temper. As Trev handed over his hat and gloves, he judged that the new fellow would peel to thirteen stone—not a bad physique for a middleweight boxer.

Their footsteps echoed in the domed vestibule, whispers of sound against the f luted stone columns and the marble f loor. The butler showed him into an empty anteroom with a few stiff chairs and some paintings of cattle on the walls. Trev wished now that he'd merely left a note of thanks with the f lowers, instead of sending up the cards. He felt as unwelcome at Shelford Hall as he ever had.