Obviously, he’d had a change of heart. The baroness was no longer beneath his notice. In fact, her daughter would now be quite the catch for the likes of him and well he knew it.

She felt her lips purse in disapproval. Imogen could not stand by silently as he ruined the poor girl’s life. She knew all about young girls with their shimmering hopes who fell prey to silver-tongued devils. She knew too well.

Mercy Kittinger sidled close to Imogen’s side.

“Your duke is looking as dapper as ever this morning,” she murmured for her ears alone.

“He is not my duke. Or a duke, for that matter,” she corrected her friend while trying not to sound too gleeful.

Mercy stared at Mr. Butler in a considering fashion. “’Tis a shame to see though.”

“What’s that?”

“Young Annis staring after the duke calf-eyed. You must not approve.” Mercy looked at her knowingly. Her long-time friend was well versed in Imogen’s dislike of the former duke. She did not fully understand it, of course, but she knew of it. Imogen had never shared the particulars of that day in the conservatory. Some shames were best kept private.

“She’s young and impressionable.” Imogen shrugged. “Mr. Butler is handsome and still possesses an air of consequence. It will take time for others to see that he is no longer eligible.” Papa chortled at something Mrs. Blankenship said. It reassured Imogen to see him happily occupied. “Will you be attending the Blankenships’ upcoming ball?” she asked her friend.

Mercy sighed. “I suppose I must. Grace will not forgive me if I keep her from it. She says I keep her isolated enough at the farm.” Mercy’s anxious gaze tracked to her sister, where she stood laughing with a gaggle of other young girls.

The Kittinger farm was sprawling and took up a considerable amount of land to the east of Shropshire. The Kittinger house itself was almost an hour’s ride by carriage. They did not often make trips to the village. Sunday was usually the only day Imogen could visit with her friend, unless she made a special trip to call on her, and lately she preferred to stay close to home in case Papa had need of her.

Imogen turned her attention back to Mr. Butler as he bestowed a brilliant smile on the baroness and her daughter. “I am certain that wretched man will be in attendance, wooing all the unattached young ladies who have two ha’pennies to rub together.”

“I think he’s looking for a bit more than two ha’pennies,” Mercy offered. “He’s searching for an heiress, and Shropshire does boast a few of those.”

Imogen made a sound of disgust. “Can you imagine it?” Now he would join their ranks. Now those heiresses were good enough for him. She sighed. “Dukes are the worst.”

“Except he is no longer a duke . . . as you are fond of reminding.”