To Genevieve’s chagrin and Hecuba’s delight, Mr. Evans stayed for dinner. Carefully Genevieve watched for any disdain for their humble fare or the country hour of the meal. Obscurely it griped her more than any sneer would when the fellow expressed his pleasure with arrangements and tucked in with hearty appetite.

      As usual, discussion focused on the vicar’s scholarly preoccupations. At present, he was obsessed with proving that the younger prince in the Tower had survived. While her father harangued an apparently fascinated Mr. Evans, Genevieve caught the disapproving arch of Lord Neville’s eyebrows. He’d also joined them and now sat beside her. Thank heavens, they had leg of mutton and there was plenty, although plans for using the leftovers for cottage pies faded with every mouthful.

      “Do you intend to stay long in the neighborhood, Mr. Evans?” she asked when her father finally lifted his wineglass, allowing someone else to squeeze in a word.

      Mr. Evans, on her father’s right beside her aunt, smiled at Genevieve with practiced charm. She could imagine that smile had set countless female hearts fluttering. Unfortunately for Mr. Evans, Genevieve Barrett was made of sterner stuff. Or at least she wished she was.

      “I hope so. I’m in the fortunate position of having leisure to follow my inclinations.” A mocking light in his eyes hinted that he guessed how his efforts to please irked her.

      “You’re acquainted with Sedgemoor, I believe,” Lord Neville growled, slicing at his mutton as if it were Mr. Evans’s hide.

      Genevieve could imagine how Mr. Evans’s friendship with Camden Rothermere grated on Lord Neville. Lord Neville might dismiss what he termed the fribbles and flibbertigibbets infesting London society, but she’d long ago recognized the pique behind his derision. His lordship wasn’t sparkling company and wouldn’t shine outside antiquarian circles. Even in scholarly circles, he earned respect more for his family and fortune than for his intellect. While he was far from a stupid man and he had a magnificent collection that she’d been privileged to work on, Lord Neville remained a dilettante.

      Mr. Evans sipped the fine claret that Lord Neville supplied to her father and answered with a coolness that only emphasized his lordship’s churlishness. “We were at school together. I’m proud to call him my friend.”

      “Where are your people, Mr. Evans?” Until now, Aunt Lucy had sat quietly. The price of sharing her brother’s roof was enduring arcane discussions that held no shred of interest for her. “Evans is a Welsh name, is it not?”

      “My family is in Shropshire. Perhaps we were Welsh originally.” His voice warmed as he addressed her aunt.

      “Wouldn’t an enthusiastic amateur historian investigate?” Genevieve had no idea what Mr. Evans hoped to gain from his association with her father, but she’d wager every penny she had that he harbored no genuine interest in the Middle Ages.

      Her question didn’t unsettle him. She reached the conclusion that Mr. Evans would retain his sangfroid standing naked between the French and English lines at Waterloo. While she’d never met a rake, something told her that Mr. Evans played the rake to perfection.

      If he was a rake, perhaps he contemplated seduction. But surely she was beneath his touch and the only other female under thirty in the house was Dorcas. The idea of elegant Mr. Evans pursuing the scatterbrained maid tempted her to giggle into her gravy.

      “I’m hoping your distinguished father will guide my research.”

      “Hunting a noble ancestor?” Lord Neville scoffed, earning a frown from Aunt Lucy. “Some Welsh princeling?”

      Mr. Evans’s affability didn’t falter. “We’re not a grand family.”

      But wealthy with old money, Genevieve could tell. It wasn’t just that everything about him screamed expense. It was also his assurance, as though he found a welcome everywhere because of who he was. This man had never had cause to doubt himself.

      “What about your wife, Mr. Evans?” Aunt Lucy asked with wide-eyed innocence.

      Genevieve kicked her aunt under the table. Or at least that was the plan. Mr. Evans released a soft huff of surprise and shifted in his seat. Dear Lord. Now she’d demonstrated that she had the manners of a drunken cowherd. She must be as red as a tomato.

      “Alas, I’m not married, Mrs. Warren. Perhaps I’ll discover some lovely ladies in Oxfordshire.” His lips curved in pure devilment. “Of course, no ladies could be lovelier than the two sharing this table.”

      “Sir, you flatter us,” Aunt Lucy simpered.

      She’d been a pretty girl, the toast of Taunton. Much as Genevieve discounted Mr. Evans’s flummery, she couldn’t begrudge her aunt the chance to relive her youthful triumphs. The soldier she’d married had died within a year on the Peninsular campaign. Aunt Lucy was born to mother a brood of children and cosset a doting husband. Instead she’d landed up as companion to an eccentric, self-centered brother and his gawky daughter.

      “Not at all, Mrs. Warren.” Mr. Evans raised his glass. “To my beautiful hostesses.”

      “Stuff and nonsense,” her father interrupted with his usual insensitivity. “Lucinda’s too old for such flannel. Fifty if she’s a day.”

      Genevieve bit back a remonstrance.

      “True beauty knows no age,” Mr. Evans said firmly.

      The flash of anger in his blue eyes mitigated Genevieve’s hostility, although it didn’t make her trust him any further. She still couldn’t work out why a man who looked ready to grace a royal banquet sat at her lowly table.

      Richard enjoyed his evening more than expected, although meeting the beauteous Genevieve four days ago should have prepared him. The prospect of a leisurely flirtation while he convinced her to sell the Harmsworth Jewel became more appealing with each moment.

      He even found the scholarly discussion interesting. At Oxford, he’d been an erratic student. Life had offered too many other amusements for a presentable young man of immense fortune. But apparently he’d picked up more in his history tutorials than he’d thought.

      Dr. Barrett’s academic reputation was a puzzle. Before Richard embarked on this scheme, he’d read some of the vicar’s articles. They were clever and incisive, revealing a mind of breathtaking subtlety and imagination. After several hours in his company, none of those adjectives matched Richard’s impressions of Little Derrick’s vicar. Richard also picked up a trace of discord between the vicar and his daughter. Now, what in Hades was that all about? And how would it affect his plans?

      Under cover of listening, he observed his companions. For an obscure country village, they were an intriguing lot. The aunt was charming and patently interested in forwarding his acquaintance with Genevieve. Lord Neville didn’t appreciate competition and bent more than one possessive glance at the oblivious girl. He wondered why Mrs. Warren didn’t promote that union. All the Fairbrothers were disgustingly wealthy, including this man’s nephew, the Marquess of Leath. Lord Neville was too old for the chit, but otherwise he’d make an enviable husband. Or so common sense insisted. Richard’s gut revolted at the idea of Genevieve’s beauty and spirit in thrall to the condescending rhinoceros.

      They retired to the parlor for tea. Richard fell into conversation with Mrs. Warren. Aunt Lucy liked him. As did Hecuba, the man-hating cat, who purred on his lap. Sirius was tied up outside, sulking. What a pity the vicar’s daughter was as far from purring as Richard was from Peking. He had no idea what he’d done to raise her hackles, but she watched him as if expecting