He stared down at the note he was trying to compose. It was more difficult than he imagined. The previous evening he’d sent a note around to the Earl of Ashendon, offering to buy the black stallion. He didn’t mention that he’d seen the horse being ridden by the earl’s niece, let alone that the young hoyden had been riding astride. He was sure Sinc was wrong, saying the horse belonged to the girl.

But a brief note had arrived this morning in which the earl informed him that the stallion belonged to Lady Georgiana and that he doubted she’d sell it. However, if Everingham was interested in breeding the stallion to one of his mares, she might consider that. Everingham should apply directly to her.

It was ridiculous. Ashendon had always seemed like a levelheaded fellow, but allowing his niece to be directly involved in the breeding of a valuable, blood stallion . . . A young, unmarried girl shouldn’t even know about the breeding of horses, let alone arrange it.

He finished the note, making her a generous offer for the horse—he would not even consider discussing stud arrangements with a lady—addressed and sealed it, then returned to his business correspondence. Much less complicated.

A short time later voices in the hall, one of them female, caused him to look up. What the devil?

His butler knocked discreetly and looked in. “Your grace, forgive the interruption but—”

“What part of I am not at home did you fail to understand, Fleming?”

“I’m sorry, your grace, but—” the butler began.

“Oh, what nonsense, as if my son meant you to deny me,” said a soft voice from the doorway.

His butler gave him an agonized look of apology. Hart waved him away. He might be irritated, but he understood. Most men were helpless before his mother.

The Duchess of Everingham brushed past the butler, all slender, helpless frailty and fluttering draperies. Pretty and still quite youthful looking—she did not admit to forty, although since he was eight-and-twenty she could hardly deny it—she cultivated an air of delicacy and fragility that brought out the protective instincts of a certain type of man.

Hart was not one of them.

“The library, Redmond?” she said plaintively. “You receive your mother in the library?”

He gestured to the papers spread out on the desk before him. “I’m working.”

His mother pouted, then tottered across the room, sank gracefully into the most comfortable chair and gave an exhausted sigh. Hard on her heels came her most recent companion, a colorless woman clad in a depressing shade between gray and purple, clutching a large, lumpy reticule.