Chapter 1

Portia could not like him. Whether it was his aristocratic arrogance, his overpowering masculine energy, his clipped, assured speech or his confidence in his ability to have his own way, she did not know. But she did not like the Viscount Stadbroke.

Unwillingly, she would have to admit herself impressed by his fine figure. To his imposing height he added broad shoulders enveloped in an expertly cut tobacco brown riding coat, a fine calf encased in gleaming topboots and the muscular legs of an active man displayed in leather breeches. His dark brown curling hair was brushed ruthlessly back from a broad brow. He was not precisely handsome, but his sharp features were strongly boned and his dark eyes well opened and disconcertingly acute. Added all in all, he looked vaguely, inexplicably familiar. Nevertheless, she found him dislikeable.

Portia Crossmichael rarely took an immediate aversion to anyone. She prided herself on her rational and reasonable approach to people. In general, she gave new acquaintances time to reveal their dispositions and their temperaments...time to prove themselves. In her position as school proprietress and schoolmistress, she could not afford to judge too harshly. And certainly she could not display her feelings about the characters of her patrons. It was her lot to be conciliatory, to be diplomatic and to coax the best of their natures from her lady pupils, and their parents.

"I have only two openings at present, Lord Stadbroke. You have three daughters. I think we cannot solve this conundrum of numbers." She picked up a pale quill from her ormolu inkstand, and ran her fingers over the firm yet soft feather. She had already learned that the viscount was widowed--his children motherless for the past four years--and that the family seat was in Lincolnshire. Stadbroke had imparted the details reluctantly, in response to her inexorable inquiries.

"You cannot wish to turn away business, ma'am," he said, his abrasive tone at odds with the precision of his diction. "You seem not to desire my custom."

Portia's habitually calm façade stood her in good stead even in the face of the viscount's frown. "I do not regard my pupils as 'business', my lord, nor am I in trade. I do not accept or reject custom. I am a teacher. My students are children and must be carefully guided and educated. If I accept too many students, they will all suffer from lack of attention and insufficient guidance."

Driven to agitation by the viscount's attitude, Portia rose. Her height was not inconsiderable and she had a presence born of dignity and gravity. She did not hope to impress Stadbroke however, but only to indicate that the interview was coming to its close.

He rose politely as well, but showed no inclination to depart. He ignored her discourse on her occupation. "You said you have two places available among the older girls." His tone softened, a coaxing note infiltrating his words. "Surely one more small girl only eight years of age, Miss Crossmichael, cannot cause much difficulty. My daughters will not be separated, I fear, and they have their hearts set on attending your school."

Portia wondered why, but she refused to ask their father. "Even if I could admit all three, my lord, they still would be separated. The older two, at almost twelve and fifteen, would join the senior girls in the west dormitory and the younger would need to reside with her peers in the north dormitory." Before she had finished speaking, Portia knew she had made an error. The viscount was taking her explanation to be equivocation and thought that he had her wavering.

He was tapping his booted foot impatiently, as though inactivity was anathema to him. "That separation would cause no difficulty. Penelope is a sturdy, independent child; she would not be intimidated by that degree of disunion. The point is they all three wish to attend here."

Portia half turned from him to stare from the open door to the garden while she considered. Some of the older girls were reading in the shade of a massive chestnut tree; their muslin gowns reflecting the colours of the China asters and phloxes in a nearby flower bed. Beyond the glasshouse, a lively group of younger students, under the guidance of a mistress, was heading for the hawthorn wood. A gentle breeze wafted the summer scents into her study, with snatches of conversation and laughter. Her school showed to advantage in the sunny late August day.

She pressed a long finger to her temple and suppressed a sigh. Despite her dislike of the gentleman, Lord Stadbroke was correct. One small child more or less would not disturb her organization or disarrange any of the school's routines. She had only to order one more cot set up in the north dormitory. And it would be useful to have the two places in the senior class filled.

Besides, she wanted the viscount gone from her premises and her agreement would assure his departure. Her study--her cool, well-ordered, book-lined sanctuary--was violated by his presence. Portia found Stadbroke oddly disturbing. He was too aggressively male, and too demanding for her comfort. Her schedule as well had suffered with his visit. She had paper work to tend, a class to teach within the hour and the cook's problems to sort.

She fingered the equipage--keys, watch, and kit of tiny useful tools--that was suspended on chains from the band at the high waist of her gown, and found the familiar shape of the mother-of-pearl panelled etui that held the tools. Gripping it, she took her decision with customary resolution. "Very well, my lord. You have convinced me. We will welcome your daughters, and endeavour to teach them each of our subjects to the best of our, and their, ability. They will be returned to you young ladies of accomplishment, learning, and modest behaviour."

"Excellent!" The viscount did nothing to conceal his satisfaction. He slapped the gloves he carried into the palm of his left hand.

Portia was hard put to maintain her civility. "When shall we expect the young ladies?"

"This day three weeks?" He smiled in great good humour, with confident charm.

Portia despised him for his self-satisfaction and his vanity. He had been very certain he would achieve his aim. She regretted that she could not--would not--deny him his object. But he would never know it.

Her façade of calm serenity did not falter. "We shall look forward to it, Lord Stadbroke. Your daughters will have their own bed each, but will each share a press with one other girl. We pride ourselves on the quality of our meals, and we have a matron that sees to the little needs of children away from the comfort of their families and their homes." She opened the top drawer of her handsome desk and withdrew a sheet of paper. "Here is a list of items that the young ladies may bring with them if they desire, and it includes the style and quantity of clothing we recommend. My invoice for the first term will be presented on the second of January, forty guineas per child. Have you any further questions, my lord?"

The viscount looked momentarily annoyed by her swift and concise completion of their transaction. He took the paper she handed him and gave it only a careless glance before folding it twice and jamming it in a small pocket in his riding coat. "None," he said. "I should warn you that I do not expect my daughters to remain long with you. I cannot think why they have undertaken this start. They have an excellent governess whom they appear to revere. I am keeping her in my employ with a view to the girls' quick return." He offered his hand, apparently unaware of the insult implicit in his words.

Portia could not ignore that slight. He thought his daughters would shortly wish for escape, did he? Well, he would learn that they would enjoy their time at Mansion House; all her girls did. They would not wish to soon leave.

Nevertheless, the girls' motive in attending at all was a mystery, one that she looked forward to solving. Could it be that the governess was less to their taste than they had admitted to their father? Or was Lincolnshire just too far away from London where their father seemed to reside? And how had they heard of the Mansion House Establishment for Young Ladies?

A cough from the viscount drew her attention. He was still holding out his hand. She eyed his strong, hard fingers with some distaste. She much preferred to shake gloved hands when they belonged to strangers. There was no help for it however, and she released her etui and gave him her own slender hand. He shook it briefly, his clasp as cool and dry as her own. Their contact was brief, no longer than polite, and yet it was rife with awareness. She snatched her fingers out of his clasp with a momentary loss of control, then pinned a smile to her lips. She avoided his eyes; she had no wish to discover if he too had experienced that consciousness.

"We will expect your daughters on the tenth of September then, my lord." She pulled the bell to summon her elderly porter. "Good day."

Viscount Stadbroke found himself on the stone doorstep, well-satisfied with his visit despite his summary dismissal. He sauntered down the well-scrubbed steps of the substantial villa that was the Mansion House Establishment for Young Ladies, Hornsey. After some stout disputation, and several organized arguments on the part of Miss Crossmichael, he had carried the day. He had not expected her opposition, but had welcomed the opportunity to cross swords with her. She was a worthy opponent though the sort of female he could not admire: she was plain, officious and clever.

Miss Portia Crossmichael, he decided, could have been nothing other than a teacher. From her long, straight nose to her undoubtedly blue-stockinged toes shod in neat half-boots, she proclaimed her chosen profession. Her grey-striped muslin gown, though it was subtly fashionable, had been made high to the neck and long sleeved despite the summer warmth. A modestly ruffled cap had framed a rather long oval face that was without strong bone structure. The cap had also very nearly concealed undeniably sandy hair. Darker brows and long lashes surrounded a pair of fine grey eyes that some might have called handsome.

Whatever the deficiencies of her appearance, it was Miss Crossmichael's character that concerned him most. Her nature, by his judgement, was serene but verged on cold and detached. And she could not have more than thirty years in her dish.

There had been, he thought, a momentary interruption in her reserve when they had shaken hands. He had been very aware himself of the delicacy of her bones and the tenderness of her skin. He shook his head at the rank foolishness of his thoughts. He was imputing attractiveness to a long-meg of a schoolmistress? No, she was surely a starched up prig. The girls would not find her so kind as middle-aged Miss Thripton, or as willing to join in their games and plays.

She would do however, and she offered a substantial curriculum. The noisy occupants of the several classrooms he had seen appeared happy and those abroad in the gardens looked contented. And he could not fault Miss Crossmichael on the fabric of her institution. The building was impeccably maintained, the gardens well kept. The corridors and chambers through which he had been quickly toured by the so-charming French mistress on his arrival were spotlessly clean. He had admired the fountain which played in the afternoon sun outside the schoolmistress's orderly study and the glasshouse which lay beyond a terraced yard. All in all a prosperous business.

The dearest wish of his three daughters had been fulfilled; they could attend the Mansion House Establishment for the winter months. Why they wished to attend the school when they seemed always to be perfectly happy at his seat, Stadley Place in Lincolnshire, he had no idea. But then the thought processes of women had always been a mystery to him. His daughters--at least the eldest of them--were all too rapidly approaching womanhood.

Anyway, it was a pleasant enough place, Hornsey. The village, such as it was, drowsed in the heat of the late August afternoon. Horse chestnuts towered over the lane--Cress Lane--which led to Mansion House from the High Street. There were a few isolated large houses nearby--the retreats of merchants and bankers he had been told--and The Three Compasses Inn could be seen at the end of the street. To the north and west of the school spread a timbered park--an ash wood he thought--and in the distance rose the gentle height of Muswell Hill.

Stadbroke's idle reflections were interrupted by the arrival of a horseman. A young man dismounted and tossed his reins familiarly to the groom who appeared leading the viscount's own mount. He was a well-set-up young fellow--stocky and good-looking--dressed with neatness and propriety but no pretensions to fashion. He nodded politely to the viscount.

"Good day," Stadbroke said, taking no trouble to conceal his curiosity.

Perforce, the younger man stopped. "Caldwell Dent, at your service, sir. Teacher of art and astronomy..." He jerked a casual thumb over his shoulder at the school even as he bowed.

"I am Stadbroke, Mr. Dent. How can you...wait, Dent...Dent...an art teacher did you say? Are you not a portrait painter?"

"I am, my lord. I am flattered that you recognize my name; I will be better known one day."

"From what I have seen of your work, you will indeed. And why should you teach here...given what I have seen of your art?"

"Needs must, my lord. It takes time to establish a clientele." The young man was cheerful. "Besides in teaching we learn. Miss Crossmichael is my sister; she has been kind enough to encourage my artistic career. I can do no less than support her educational endeavours. Have you a daughter here?"

"I shall soon have three in attendance." Stadbroke reflected idly that Dent looked nothing like his sister. A half-sister he decided; they carried different names after all. He dismissed the thought. "I was going to ask how you could bear to be plagued by females all day?"

"I find them pleasant enough company, Lord Stadbroke. My focus is on my work after all, not the ladies, whatever their age."

"I shall leave you to it then, Dent. And think you a more patient man than I." Stadbroke nodded and took charge of his bay mare from the groom.

Dent offered a quick farewell and, after taking the steps two at a time, entered the school.

Stadbroke mounted, tossed a coin to the groom, and continued his ruminations as he headed down the gravelled drive. The girls would be safe here, and happy, though he questioned the ability of the reserved schoolmistress to provide as pleasant a course of learning as Miss Thripton did at Stadley Place. He turned his horse's head and trotted down the lane without a backward look.

The girls would learn a thing or two at the school; he had no doubt of that. Well, on their own heads be it, he thought. He'd given them what they desired.

* * * *

Portia looked at the three youthful faces before her and wondered what it was that the three daughters of Lord Stadbroke desired of her school.

They had arrived four days earlier in company with their father and a middle-aged governess. Portia had taken immediately to the governess; she was just the sort of commonsensical and intelligent woman she liked to employ as her teachers. She might find a way to indicate to Miss Thripton that, should she ever seek to leave Stadbroke's employ, she could apply to Mansion House School for a position.

Portia had taken care to speak only briefly with the viscount on his visit. Her comments had been polite and businesslike. He had in his turn had little to say to her, and she told herself she was glad of it. She had closely observed his exchanges with his daughters; to her surprise they were both informal and loving. He had taken his leave quickly with a sensitivity to his daughters' feelings that she could scarcely credit. She had been left with much to ponder and again with that niggling feeling of familiarity. She had pushed it all aside in the bustle of installing the young ladies.

They had been matter of fact and cheerful about the departure of their father and their governess, had made their farewells with a modicum of sentiment and no melancholy. From all accounts, they had been in good spirits since also. Portia had received reports of them from various of the mistresses and masters, and the matron, and she had already a good notion of their characters and capabilities.

Now they had been invited to take tea with her in the school's parlour, a small nicety that she practiced with all her new students. When she thought they had settled in to their new surroundings, she gave them opportunity to tell her if all was well with them.

The weather had broken and autumn rain lashed the closed windows. The colza lamps had been lit against the dreary day, and a substantial fire warmed the pleasant room. It held a variety of chairs and sophas, well-filled bookshelves and useful tables. Some of Caldwell's oils--his occasional still-life renderings--decorated the softly distempered walls. The parlour served a variety of uses in the daily life of the school, particularly as a meeting place for the senior girls in the evening after their supper. The young ladies were encouraged to read and study in the parlour, work at their needlework, and turn over the newspapers that were brought each day from London. Portia thought of it as the social heart of her school.

The Misses Perrington stood before her in a neat stepped row on the India carpet after their orderly entry. Lord Stadbroke must be justifiably proud of his offspring, for they were pretty girls and well-behaved. They were gowned in simple kerseymere dresses as befitted the cool day. Everything about their garments bespoke quality, but they wore no ornaments. Someone had carefully conned the list she had bestowed on the viscount, and kept the young ladies' apparel within its guidelines.

Portia regarded them thoughtfully, and they returned her scrutiny without dissimulation. Sabina, the eldest of the three, already showed a charming figure and her piquant face, with her father's dark eyes, would only gain in beauty as it gained in maturity. Melicent, the middle child, was inclined to moodiness; Portia had heard of hints of drama already. No doubt the avid intelligence that peered at her from a triangular face would enhance an elfin charm in later years. The smallest girl, Penelope, had displayed none of the homesickness that she might have expected from any other eight-year-old. The child had taken to dormitory life with sturdy independence--as her father had indicated she would--and had already begun to gather her own coterie about her.

Examining the threesome, Portia experienced again that strong sensation of familiarity their father had engendered. And suddenly the reason for it came to her. She had encountered the viscount before--long before--during her single Season in the heart of the beau monde. She had had that season eleven years previous; it had been just three unfortunate months in the bosom of society. Being tall and thin--all awkward angles and corners--and shy, she had not garnered any notice and certainly no popularity. She had been a hanger-on at the season of her cousin who, being both vivacious and pretty, had taken. At every ball, every rout, and every call she had had time to watch her cousin with yearning and observe all the other bright and beautiful creatures enjoy themselves.

Yes, she had seen both the viscount and his wife during that season. The encounter she best remembered had been at a ball--which one she could not now have told--but at a great, glittering affair that she had experienced from its margins. The Viscount Stadbroke--he'd been the Honourable Ingram Perrington then--had been the darling of the ton and he had looked the happiest, most carefree, young man in it. He was then only a few years wed to the beautiful Honoria Wickson, and the grace and gaiety with which he had danced with his exquisite wife, and showered attentions upon her, had stayed with Portia in all the long years since. Hidden in her subconscious yes, but nevertheless that vision had stayed with her.

She had wanted, during that humiliating season, to be the lovely Mrs. Perrington, to be the cynosure of all eyes, and the darling of a virile and attractive husband. She had dreamed dreams then that she had long since dismissed and she had entertained fancies and fantasies that even then she had known would not come true.

No wonder the Perrington girls were handsome; their mother had been a beauty. She remembered that lady's loveliness with a familiar wistful pang. She would not permit herself to envy others' beauty, but she would always regret her own lack of comeliness.

Her calm good sense reasserted itself and satisfaction with her current situation flooded back. Her recent impressions of the viscount made nonsense of her former immature daydreams; he was no longer her beau ideal. She could smile at her youthful self.

"Miss Crossmichael?"

"Ma'am?"

She heard absently the interested query in the elder girls' voices, but it was Penelope's impatient tug on her gown that finally caught her attention. That hasty pull at her plum-coloured merino skirt which set her keys to jingling brought Portia back from her reflections to her own parlour, in her own school, and to her prosaic life.

"My dears! I was wool-gathering. You must forgive me." She waved the girls to seats and took her own place behind the tea tray. "Now, how do you go on? Have you everything you need? Do you miss your home and your papa?" She poured out for them, watching them unobtrusively. They were consulting in unspoken language about their response. Young ladies, in her experience, were remarkable communicators.

Finally, Sabina spoke. "We do miss our home, ma'am, but we have come here precisely so that we need not yearn for our father this winter."

Portia was briefly at a loss. She passed her young guests the plate of raspberry tarts for which her cook was rightly renowned, and assumed an enquiring air.

"Papa ith an ornament to society. And a pillar of government," young Penelope explained earnestly as she chose a sweet. Her gaze strayed to the cluster of suspended keys and watch that included her etui at Portia's high waist.

"Last winter, he left Stadley Place in October to attend at Parliament, and from then to the end of May we saw him only at Christmas." Melicent frowned ferociously.

"Lincolnshire is a vatht distance from London, Mith Crothmichael." Penelope was possessed of an occasional lisp--caused by half-emerged front teeth--which disturbed her not at all. It did not either interfere with her careful consumption of her chosen tart.

The lisp bestowed a droll charm upon her words that made Portia wish to smile. But anger with the viscount overrode all other emotions. How could he desert these delightful children? An ornament to society, indeed! No doubt the viscount was in search of another wife, for surely he would want a male heir. That would be the reason he had left his daughters in Lincolnshire, so that he could search London unencumbered for a second lovely lady.

"We asked if we might come, with Miss Thripton, to stay in our new Hill Street house, but he refused us permission." The injustice of the viscount's prohibition evidently rankled with Melicent. She broke her own tart into shards upon the fine china plate she held.

"We thought all last winter that if only we were at least near London, we could see Papa much more frequently. Attendance at a school seemed our best possibility for a removal from Lincolnshire." Sabina took control of the conversation with a minatory look at her younger sisters. "We heard of your school, Miss Crossmichael, from the cousin of one of my dearest friends. She said everyone who attended here had the most wonderful times, and learned more than they could have imagined. Mansion House School seemed a quite perfect answer to our needs."

"When he was at home in the summer we plagued him the entire time, pleaded and begged." Melicent said with smug satisfaction. "We were determined to come south with him. He soon agreed."

Portia thought that it would take someone experienced indeed in the ways of children to withstand the machinations of these three. She hoped her own knowledge was sufficient to the task. A chuckle threatened her composure; she turned it into a cough. "I am very happy that we may be of service. I think though that I had rather have pupils come to me because they wish to learn what we have here to teach." She tranquilly drank her tea, and allowed her words to be digested.

"Oh we do want to learn!" Sabina was quick to understood the delicate criticism and even quicker to counter it.

"Miss Thripton doesn't teach German or astronomy," said Melicent, proving that she had studied the curriculum of the school. She chewed the fragments of her tart thoughtfully.

"Yet Miss Thripton may suffer because of your attendance here. Did that occur to you? Why should your father continue to employ her if you are here at school?"

Penelope's round eyes grew yet more round. "He wouldn't...he couldn't. Oh, Mith Crothmichael, he would not send her away, would he?"

Even Melicent looked concerned.

Sabina said, with a worried frown, "We have been selfish. She seemed so supportive, so certain that we were right in wanting to be nearby to Papa." She set her teacup on the Pembroke table that sat beside the sopha on which she perched.

"I think Miss Thripton would put your needs beyond her own interests. But perhaps a letter to your father asking if you have endangered Miss Thripton's livelihood might be in order." Portia made her suggestion with a show of disinterest.

She was rewarded by an immediate response.

"Yes!" Sabina rose.

"Oh yeth." Penelope's lisp seemed quite uncontrollable, sometimes much in evidence, sometimes unnoticeable. She hurried to the door without requesting permission.

"May we be excused?" Melicent was the only one to recall her manners.

"You may." Portia watched the girls hurry out. Sabina followed her younger sisters and closed the door carefully behind them.

She had poured herself a second cup of tea when the door reopened. Penelope's small dark-haired head appeared around the edge. "If we are nearby to Papa though, surely he must come, do you not think?" she asked.

"I cannot imagine that he would stay away," Portia said, her reassurance genuine. She would herself see that the viscount visited his delightful offspring, if she had to.

* * * *

When the Perrington girls had been with her three weeks, Portia began to wonder if indeed she would have to summon the viscount to visit his daughters. She mentioned the matter at the regular Friday afternoon meeting of her teaching staff attended by the dancing master, the local rector who instructed in Latin and religious studies, the arithmetic and natural sciences' mistress, the long time needlework and pianoforte mistress, the languages' mistress, and of course Portia's brother. All the young ladies of the school were encouraged to undertake quiet pursuits overseen by the matron and housekeeper while their teachers held their discussions in Portia's study.

"Does anyone know if the daughters of Lord Stadbroke have received a communication from their father?" Portia asked. She looked at the paper before her upon which she had been making notes. At an earlier meeting with her housekeeping staff, she had approved the purchase of two new sets of linen and had informed the cook that though the students' dislike of mutton was indeed reprehensible, they must replace mutton stew with some other dish. Just moments ago she had sanctioned a new course of advanced mathematics which Miss Gamston highly recommended. Her tidy handwriting recorded the details, but she was not aware of them. Her attention was upon the failings of Lord Stadbroke.

Her staff rustled their papers and shuffled their feet but Madame Heloise Montlucon, the mistress of French and Italian, was the only one who volunteered any knowledge of the matter. "One of them has received a letter each week in turn. I believe it means a great deal to them; they huddle over the notes with such eagerness. Gavrielle has had snatches of the viscount's tidings related to her."

Madame, a widow of some five years standing with a daughter of twelve, was also Portia's very good friend. She was a small, pretty woman of some two and thirty years, with curling hair, a neat figure, close acquaintanceship with the ton, and a penchant for gossip. Although an émigré of a dozen years, she had still a pronounced accent and a habit of sprinkling her native language throughout her conversation.

"He should have visited by now," Portia said. "How are his daughters dealing with their class work?"

There was a general agreement among the teachers that the young ladies were the equal of, if not superior to, the other students.

"Very well, I think that is all for today then," Portia dismissed her staff with a vague feeling of dissatisfaction. She rose as they did, and became aware that her brother and Heloise showed no signs of departing.

Miss Gosberton--Portia's own teacher when she had begun to study at the school--turned back at the door from the small crowd of masters and mistresses. "Oh, Miss Crossmichael, the pianoforte needs tuning."

"Thank you, Ada, I shall send a note to our excellent Fishling. We cannot teach the young ladies proper pitch if we cannot trust our instruments." She bent to add to the notes on her desk, then moved to shepherd the stragglers out of the door. A sigh of relief escaped her as she turned back to the two remaining.

"This viscount has you agitated, cheri," Heloise remarked with curiosity from her seat near the fire. "I can sympathize; he is very attractive. I was delighted to tour him about the day he first visited. My correspondents tell me he cuts a great dash in town. The ton is wild for him: his fine house, his handsome horses, his charm, his dancing. He was from society for years, immured in Lincolnshire, and is only recently returned. Shall we seek to impress him?" She raised her dark brows in a distinctly continental inquiry.

From where he stood at the terrace doors, Caldwell Dent snorted inelegantly.

"We shall seek only to give Lord Stadbroke nothing of which to complain," Portia said, with a snap. "It seems to me that he would have no hesitation in doing so. While I would complain of him: his style of life, and his neglect of his children." She gathered her papers together and tapped them to a tidy pile upon her desk.

"Neglect is a harsh word." Dent crumpled his own papers in his hand and crossed the room to pause by Madame Montlucon's chair. "Madame M. is the only parent I know who sees her child every day and that is because Gavrielle is right here in the school, her mother's place of employment."

The French mistress rose and rapped his arm with a roll of documents she carried. "You, sir, are impertinent! But correct. You know it is so, Portia. The children of England's aristocrats and even its gentry do not regularly encounter their parents. And how should they? Those adults are busy with all that is in the beau monde. You were part of that world, cherie, do you not recall it?"

"I scarcely knew it, Heloise. I was hardly a part of it; I stalked its fringes. My uncle was a Scottish peer; I only accompanied my cousin, his daughter, through her London season on sufferance. She took, I did not. I suppose it is an enchanted world, but now I see those who suffer for it. The Perrington girls long to see their father. He should be aware of it, but he is just another arrogant aristocrat."

"Such venom, cherie. You sound like the revolutionaries I heard in my childhood," Heloise said. "Did you meet the viscount during your season?"

Portia was appalled at her loss of composure. Now she had revealed to her astute friend her disproportionate interest in Stadbroke and his children.

Caldwell gave her a moment's respite. He was struggling with laughter. "Portia, a revolutionary? You know better than that, Madame M." He continued more seriously, "I can say nothing against Stadbroke. He seemed a good enough sort when I met him on the steps."

"You met him?" Portia turned on her brother in astonishment.

"I did. Did I not mention it? We enjoyed a brief exchange of views. He has been vetted by both Madame and me, Port; he is no ogre." Caldwell wandered to the terrace doors again, stared at the increasingly sere garden, and came back to perch on the corner of Portia's desk.

"Just neglectful. Yes, I did meet him once in my youth; he has no recollection of it. I shall not mention it to him, but I will demand his attendance upon those poor children." Portia clung stubbornly to her annoyance.

Heloise regarded her friend with lively curiosity and something of perplexity. "Do write to him then, my dear. I certainly would not hesitate to communicate with the viscount had I a reason. But I shall go now to Gavrielle, so that she may not also think herself neglected." Heloise fluttered her fingers in farewell to both sister and brother, and whisked out the door.

Abandoning her desk, Portia crossed the chamber and seated herself on the Sheraton sofa which she had bought for herself on the first month her school had turned a profit. It had been an extravagance that never ceased to please her. From it, she regarded her brother. She strove to regain the serenity on which she prided herself.

"Do you suppose she truly finds Stadbroke attractive? Would she really welcome the opportunity to become further acquainted with him, do you think?" Caldwell, who had risen on Madame's departure, flung himself down again this time in a winged chair by the fire.

"I don't know, Cal. I shouldn't suppose so. You know she is very attached to you." She smiled at the young man with whom she shared so many memories. They were not all pleasant. "I would not refine too much upon it. You know Heloise loves to tease you, and me. Now, have you any concerns about the week just past, or the one to come? Have you enough time to devote to the portrait of Lady Mottingham?"

"Of course I do. You are ridiculously generous with me, you know that."

Portia did know it, but it was her pleasure to be indulgent of her step-brother. His widowed father had married her widowed mother when Portia was but ten and Caldwell only four. She had delighted to have a sibling, even without the relationship of blood, and through the vicissitudes of life with a weak mother and a venal father, they had formed a close and constant bond.

Caldwell had early showed signs of artistic talent and now at four and twenty he was a talented portraitist. Portia was determined to give him every opportunity to develop his skill and advance his career. She was happy to provide him with a home in return for the lessons he taught in drawing and watercolour and astronomy to her students.

"You deserve every benefit I can bestow upon you," she said.

"Well, the least I can do is see off this viscount if he gives you any trouble!"

They grinned at each other in mutual charity.

But Portia returned to worry at the matter of the Perringtons. "I am overstating my concern, I know it. But the girls are charming and they deserve his consideration." She became aware that her step-brother was not listening. "Enough of Stadbroke however. I have known you these twenty years and I can tell when something is bothering you. What has happened, my dear?"

Caldwell sobered immediately, got to his feet and stalked again to the window that overlooked the gardens. He stared again at the last bedraggled flowers and was silent for a long moment. Then he turned and said, "I have had word, a letter, from my father."

Whatever she had expected, it had not been that. Portia goggled inelegantly at him. "Step-father? But it must be five or more years since we have heard from him. What does he want? Why now?"

"I do not know. I cannot even guess how he came to have my direction. But he wants to meet with me, as I am 'his only son and therefore dearer to him than anyone on this earth'." Caldwell paced the India carpet, his agitation evident in every tense muscle.

"That rings true of his hypocrisy. When?"

"He says he will write again. I can only hope he will not do so. I have no inclination to attend him." Caldwell paused by the fire.

Portia was briefly silent, thinking anxiously. "I think you must if you receive another communication, Cal," she said at last. "He might be ill, or in some difficulty. Despite his faults he is still your father."

"His faults included unkindness to you, and your mother, and a near run thing with dishonour for us all, if you will remember. I have little inclination to meet him."

She remembered it all too well, the slights and insults, the unhappy school vacations, and the humiliation of Dent's slaps. Her attempts at protection of her mother and her step-brother had failed miserably. "Still, I think you must. But you will do of course as you wish. You will know what is proper and possible."

He cast her a quick smile that banished the frown lines on his forehead and made him appear even younger. "You taught me what is 'proper and possible', Port. You are always so equitable, and so wise. You have made good for all of those you employ, sister dear, and we are as always your devoted slaves. You'll impress this viscount if you do not frighten him to death. How odd that you have met him before."

"I wish you will forget that. I do not want to impress Stadbroke, except with his duty to his children. And I cannot think that he will frighten easily," Portia said. "Why do fathers cause their children so much misery?"

"I don't know, Port, but I shan't if Heloise will only consent to marry me. I shall be the best of stepfathers to Gavrielle, and the most attentive of fathers to my offspring should Madame present me with un petit paquet."

"You are so nonsensical, my dear! And you run ahead of yourself; best not let Heloise hear you speak so."

"Life requires a certain levity, Port. You worry too much," Caldwell suggested as he bent to pat her cheek before leaving her.

Portia, left alone, supposed that she did. But she was determined that Lord Stadbroke would attend upon his daughters.

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