Sarah couldn’t even imagine where that one had come from. But still, she found herself humming as she read.

Oranges and lemons say the bells of St. Clements.

Meanwhile, Harriet was muttering to herself at the desk. “Pontoonicorns xyloonicorns . . .”

You owe me five farthings say the bells of St. Martins.

“Oh, oh, oh, I have it! Hughnicorns!”

Sarah froze. This she could not ignore. With great deliberation, she placed her index finger in her book to mark her place and looked up. “What did you just say?”

“Hughnicorns,” Harriet replied, as if nothing could have been more ordinary. She gave Sarah a sly look. “Named for Lord Hugh, of course. He does seem to be a frequent topic of conversation.”

“Not for me,” Sarah immediately said. Lord Hugh Prentice might currently occupy her every thought, but she could not recall even once initiating a discussion about him with her sister.

“Perhaps what I meant to say,” Harriet wheedled, “is that he is a frequent subject of your conversations.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“He is a frequent participant in your conversations,” Harriet corrected without missing a beat.

“I enjoy talking with him,” Sarah said, because no good could come of denying this. Harriet knew better.

“Indeed,” Harriet said, eyes narrowed like a sleuth. “It leads one to wonder if he is also the source of your uncharacteristic good cheer.”

Sarah gave a little huff. “I am beginning to take offense, Harriet. Since when have I been known for a lack of good cheer?”

“Every single morning of your life.”

“That is quite unfair,” Sarah said, since she was fairly certain that no good could come of denying this, either.

In general, it was never good to deny something that was indisputably true. Not with Harriet.

“I think you fancy Lord Hugh,” Harriet declared.

And because Sarah was reading Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron, in which barons (mad or otherwise) always appeared in doorways the moment someone uttered their name, she looked up.

Nothing.

“That’s a refreshing change,” she muttered.

Harriet glanced her way. “Did you say something?”

“I was just marveling on the fact that Lord Hugh did not appear in the doorway the moment you said his name.”

“You’re not that lucky,” Harriet said with a smirk.

Sarah rolled her eyes.

“And just to be precise, I believe I said that you fancy Lord Hugh.”

Sarah turned to the doorway. Because really, she would never be that lucky twice.

Still no Hugh.

Well. This was new and different.

She tapped her fingers against her book for a moment, then said under her breath, “Oh, how I wish I could find a gentleman who will look past my three vexing sisters and my”—why not?—“vestigial toe.”

She looked to the doorway.

And there he was.