“Tremayne Two.” She pointed at the butler. “I should like to speak with you.”

“Certainly, my lady,” he replied, tugging down his sleeves and straightening his neck cloth. “I shall be with you as soon as I have assisted Mr. Crouch.”

“Now, Tremayne.” Gillian frowned and tried to imitate Noble at his most haughty. It wasn’t a very successful imitation, but it did the job. Tremayne made one or two more attempts to escape but followed after Gillian with lagging steps as she went upstairs to her small sitting room.

“You’ve been with Lord Weston the longest.” She attempted to keep her voice stern, but the butler’s long face was making her feel like the meanest sort of ogre. “You may tell me what that scene in the hallway was about.”

“Actually, Hippy has been with his lordship the longest,” Tremayne said, shuffling his feet.

“Hippy?”

“Hippocratus. My eldest brother, his lordship’s head coachman. Mother was of a classical bend of mind.”

“I see. And…ah…I cannot help but asking, but Tremayne the valet…?”

“Plutarch, my lady.”

“No, truly? Well, that is different. And you?”

Tremayne lifted his chin and stared down his nose at her. “Odysseus, my lady.”

Gillian considered this new bit of information and tried very hard not to allow the slightest peep of laughter to escape her. She swallowed hard several times and eventually was able to speak without her lips twitching.

“I cannot help but notice, Tremayne, that there appears to be an argument between you and your two brothers. Would you care to tell me why that is?”

Tremayne shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “It’s a bit of a long story, madam.”

Gillian cast a glance at the carriage clock on the mantel. “I don’t have time for a long story, Tremayne Two, so if you could abridge it, I would be most grateful.”

The butler cleared his throat again and clasped his hands before him, much in the manner of a small boy about to recite his lesson. Gillian sat back with a sigh. Evidently she was not to have the abridged version.

“It began many years ago, madam, when we lived in Oxfordshire. There lived in the house next to ours a sweet girl by the name of Clara…”

“Ah, a woman is involved!” Gillian said with satisfaction. “I do love a story with plenty of romance. How old was this sweet Clara?”

“At the time of the Misunderstanding she was eight, my lady.”

Gillian stared. “Eight? Not eighteen, but eight?”

“Yes, my lady. It was a very long time ago, as I said.”

“What on earth could have happened to cause such a rift between three brothers that you must battle with them to this very day?”

Tremayne looked pained. “She—that is, Clara—promised to attend the fair with me, my lady.”

“And I take it she did not keep that engagement?”

“No, my lady.”

“Did she attend with One?”

“No, my lady.”

“Three?”

“No, my lady. She attended the fair in the company of one Jabez Willson.”