“Spending Joseph’s money already, are you?” he teased. “The poor man will be bankrupt before you’ve been married a month.”

“Not a bit of it,” she said loftily. “This is my own money, from Papa. A gift from the bride to the bridegroom. D’you think he’ll like it?”

“I’m sure he’ll be charmed at the thought.” And lace-trimmed handkerchiefs would go so well with emerald velvet, he thought, stricken by a sudden qualm. All around him, preparations for the wedding were proceeding like the drawing up of battle lines, with regiments of cooks, battalions of sempstresses, and dozens of people with no discernible function but a great deal of self-important busy-ness swarming through the house each day. Five weeks until the wedding.

“You have a bit of egg on your ruffle, Johnny.”

“Have I?” He peered downward, flicking at the offending particle. “There, is it gone?”

“Yes. Aunt Bennie says you have a new valet,” she said, still looking him over with an air of appraisal. “That odd little person. Is he not a trifle young and—unpolished—for such a position?”

“Mr. Byrd may lack something in terms of years and experience,” Grey admitted, “but he does know how to administer a proper shave.”

His cousin peered closely at him—like his mother, she was a trifle short of sight—then leaned across the table to stroke his cheek, a liberty he suffered with good grace.

“Oh, that is nice,” she said with approval. “Like satin. Is he good with your wardrobe?”

“Splendid,” he assured her, with a mental picture of Tom Byrd frowning over his mending of the torn coat seam. “Most assiduous.”

“Oh, good. You must tell him, then, to make sure your gray velvet is in good repair. I should like you to wear it for the wedding supper, and last time you had it on, I noticed that the hem had come unstitched in back.”

“I shall call it to his attention,” he assured her gravely. “Is this concern lest my appearance disgrace your nuptials, or are you practicing care of domestic detail in preparation for assuming command of your own household?”

She laughed, but flushed, very prettily.

“I am sorry, Johnny. How overbearing of me! I confess, I do worry. Joseph tells me I need not trouble over anything, his butler is a marvel—but I do not wish to be the sort of wife who is nothing more than an ornament.”

She looked quite anxious as she said this, and he felt a deep qualm of misgiving. Caught up in his own responsibilities, he had scarcely taken time to think how his investigation of Joseph Trevelyan might affect his cousin personally, should the man indeed prove to be poxed.

“You are never less than ornamental,” he said, a little gruffly, “but I am sure that any man of worth must discern the true nature of your character, and value it much more highly than your outward appearance.”