He absently circled the parlor. The room itself was precisely as it was in his memory of the last time he’d been here, the day before Camille’s wedding. The furnishings were placed as they had always been, the furniture itself appeared none the worse for the passage of time. Even the clock on the mantel and the paintings on the wall remained in the positions he remembered. But then, according to Win’s letters, Lady Briston and her daughters were rarely here, much preferring to spend their days in London. Of course, Lady Briston’s children all had lives of their own. Beryl was apparently on her second husband, a political type Win had written. Delilah was a wealthy widow, but then she would be. A wry smile curved his lips. Lady Briston’s daughters had married exactly as she had trained them. Upon reflection, he realized it was odd the mother had not remarried in the manner of her offspring.

Perhaps his vague unease was due to the presence of a new butler at Millworth Manor. For as long as he could remember, the butler was a man named Clement, stiff and stodgy and eminently proper, but usually with a vague air of long-suffering about him and often a hint of amusement in his eye. And at Gray’s last visit, a touch of sympathy as well. He was particularly suited to the eccentric household of Lady Briston’s family. Gray didn’t recall Clement as being especially old, but it had been eleven years. He had no doubt retired from service. Gray would have to ask Camille. At least that would give him something not fraught with hidden meaning to talk about.

That’s it. He pulled up short. This new butler—he had said his name was Fortesque—was entirely too perfect for this household. Gray wondered how long he’d had his position. And how soon, if indeed Lady Briston and her daughters were in residence, it would be before he left.

“I heard we had a visitor.” An elderly lady swept into the room in a dramatic manner. “And such a dashing visitor at that.”

“Good afternoon,” he said cautiously, wondering who this might be. Although, as he recalled, there were always a few unique sorts staying at Millworth Manor. Camille had referred to them as lost tribes—the wandering, displaced nobility of Europe—but he had never quite been certain if she was amused by them or merely tolerant.

The lady was a good half a foot shorter than he, of matronly figure, with nearly white hair and a face that must have been beautiful once and was still quite lovely. Her blue eyes sparkled and she held out her hand. Gray wasn’t sure if she expected him to shake it or kiss it.

She cleared her throat, glanced pointedly at her hand and raised it an inch. Kiss it, then. He smiled and obediently did so.