Tessa Branscombe hadn’t looked like the kind of woman who caused trouble. When she’d come through the town-house door, Peyton’s first reaction had been an entirely manly one at the sight of her. Brimley had not mentioned how stunning the eldest Miss Branscombe was. But Brimley was an old man.

      Brimley had not mentioned the piles of pure gold curls that shone like a halo on her head, setting off the curve of her delicate jaw, or the cameo-like fragility of her ivory-skinned features. The woman was a walking incarnation of an angel, not to mention a properly dressed one. It would be a pleasure to see this young woman turned out in the more stylish, fashionable gowns of the ton.

      His second reaction was that Brimley was getting soft if he’d had difficulty getting around this lovely chit with liquid-gold hair. He had every indication that her demeanour would match her beauty. Then she’d opened her mouth, her blue-almost-violet eyes flashing with irritation and Peyton understood with instant clarity what Brimley had implied.

      The so-called angel had dismissed him, the Earl of Dursley. Out of hand, moreover. Peyton could not recall a time when he’d been so thoroughly given his congé. There was little he could have done aside from obliging her, which was out of the question, so he’d ignored her dismissal.

      Fortunately, her escort made it easy for him to shift his attentions and now they were having tea—all six of them, including the Count and every one of Miss Branscombe’s sisters. Miss Branscombe had made no move to send her sisters up to the schoolroom or wherever else they were supposed to go.

      Peyton thought it was most unorthodox of her to let them sit in on this difficult meeting. To be fair, perhaps she meant to send them out of the room after tea, so he dutifully made small talk over two cups of tea—without cakes, he noted—waiting for an opportunity to continue with his business.

      Over the third cup of tea, Peyton began to think Miss Branscombe had used the tea as a rather successful delaying tactic. He was growing thin on the patience a man needed for appreciating the girlish chatter that flowed about him. He now knew a copious amount of information about each of the Branscombe girls.

      Petra, who was seventeen, had plied him with a veritable oratory regarding the differences between the horses she’d ridden in St Petersburg and the horses she’d seen here in England. He gathered she was as horse-mad as his brother Crispin had been at her age.

      Eva was fifteen and gabbed incessantly about clothes and gowns, and how she liked to design her own dresses. The youngest was Anne, a shy ten-year-old who said nothing, but leaned against Tessa for comfort, staring at him with frightened wide blue eyes the entire time.

      Miss Branscombe put down her tea cup during a lull in Eva’s dissertation on the different qualities of silks and speared him with a sharp look. ‘Well, my lord, we have had three cups of tea and you have not broached the reason behind your visit.’

      Peyton set his cup down and met her challenge evenly. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to send the girls out of the room. It is not the English custom to discuss business in front of children.’

      Miss Branscombe visibly bristled. ‘But it is my custom.’

      ‘I do not wish my news to be unsettling to them. Sometimes, children are not mentally equipped to process information the same way adults are,’ Peyton explained politely.

      Miss Branscombe’s fascinating eyes narrowed. ‘My sisters are hardly children, as you’ve had a chance to ascertain. Petra and Eva are of ages where they should have a say in the direction of their destinies, and, while Annie is young, I must inform you that my father’s death and all the changes of the past year have been most unsettling to her.’

      Peyton’s eyes flicked to the Count. ‘And Count Androvich? Is he to remain as well?’ Brimley had not suggested one of the Russian delegation would attach themselves so intimately to the Branscombe household. This was an unforeseen development and one Peyton didn’t like in the least. He wanted Count Androvich dislodged. Hunting for the list would be difficult enough without the Count around. The man’s presence begged the question of his motives. Was he here as a friend? He did seem quite protective of Miss Branscombe. Or was he using his association with the family to search for the list?

      Thankfully, Miss Branscombe recognised he was giving her a victory by allowing her sisters to remain. She knew what she had to do to secure that victory. She nodded her angel’s head at the Count. ‘Sergei, we’ve taken up enough of your time today. I thank you for your escort to the market. I will not take up any more of your time. I can talk with Lord Dursley on my own.’ Miss Branscombe rose and offered the Count her hand. Peyton silently congratulated her on the smoothness of her actions. There was no way the Count could refuse her polite invitation to exit the conversation without looking either obtuse or rude.

      Miss Branscombe saw the Count to the door and returned shortly, smoothing her demure skirts about her as she sat. ‘Now, my lord, we can discuss your business.’

      All four pairs of Branscombe-blue eyes fixed on him, waiting. Peyton brought out the papers and began. ‘I have been informed that guardianship has passed to me upon your father’s demise. That guardianship will last until each girl marries or turns twenty-five, at which point your trust funds shall be given into your individual care.’

      Miss Branscombe assessed