Neither Attie nor Poll cared to notice the peeling wash on the window frames, or the moss on the slate roof shingles, or that the roof in one corner of the house slumped badly.

Worthingtons never judged a book by its cover.

The door opened and a woman stepped out with one hand up to shade her eyes from the bright day.

Attie would never admit to the depth of relief she felt at the sight of the stout country woman — oh, even better! — the hugely expectant woman who stared out at them. She turned to Poll in triumph "I win. Mrs. Oakes is —"

"Gorgeous," Poll breathed.

"What?" Attie spun back to the window. Attie scowled at the lady who had stepped from behind the motherly woman. "What a horrible trick!"

Poll ignored her, still blinking at the creature that Attie was dismally certain was the true Mrs. Oakes.

Attie, to whom cold calculation fit like a favorite pair of boots, said nothing more. So what if Mrs. Oakes was attractive?

Actually, very pretty in a completely not vain, not trying-too-hard sort of way. She reminded Attie of an illustration she'd seen of Aphrodite.

Well, her beauty did not matter. Attie wasn't about to lose another sibling, especially not Lysander.

Mrs. Oakes would never see her coming.

WHEN SHE SAW THE dusty grandeur of the two carriages, Gemma's first thought was that someone would shortly be sacked for getting their employers so exceedingly lost.

Then she recalled the letter — the one she'd neglected to mention to Mr. Worthington — and wondered desperately if it was too late to hide.

The footman aboard the first carriage leapt to the ground with alacrity to let down the steps and open the door.

A man disembarked. All Gemma saw first was a lean build and the top of his sleek hat. Then he straightened and Gemma felt her insides go as cold as a snow melt river.

The man was clearly a Worthington. His hair was a lighter brown, verging on reddish, but the nose, the jawline, even the way he stood was very much like Mr. Lysander Worthington.

Four brothers, he'd told her. Three sisters. With alarm, Gemma wondered if all the Worthington siblings meant to pile out of the conveyance onto her poorly maintained drive!

The other Mr. Worthington turned back to offer his hand to someone inside. A girl emerged, not much more than a child. She was flame-haired and freckled, caught in the grasp of that awkward gap between childhood charm and adult assurance — and she was still one of the most beautiful girls Gemma had ever seen.

The glare that the woman-child fixed on Gemma nearly took her back a few steps. Just in time she recalled that she was mistress of her own house. She stepped forward instead.

Then, bewilderingly, two men descended from the second, smaller, rather more gaudy conveyance — one tall and one, well, not.