The Impossible Earl. Sarah Westleigh

her mouth open.

      The chariot threaded its way through streets thronged with rigs of every description—barouches, curricles, chaises, phaetons, gigs, wagons and hand-carts—while uniformed men carried the gentry about in sedan chairs. Pedestrians—the expensively and modishly dressed along with liveried attendants, a few officers in red coats or blue pea jackets, merchants in more sober cloth and workmen in threadbare coats and breeches and holed hose—sauntered or hurried along according to their need. The infirm, she noted, were pushed in wheeled chairs and wrapped in rugs against the February cold.

      It was a different world, an exciting world. Bath in 1816, after this first winter of true peace, was full of people. The ton, as usual, was there in force to take the waters before embarking on the exertions and excesses of the London Season.

      The post boy seemed to know the town. He turned the carriage into a short street forming one side of a leafy green square surrounded by buildings and drew up before a large, double-fronted house standing on its own between two narrow alleys.

      Fancy ironwork fenced off basement areas on each side of a causeway that led to the front door. Three pairs of windows rose on either side of the front entrance, with single windows set between above it. Leonora, scarcely aware of her silent companions, drew a steadying breath as the footman jumped down from the box to lower the step and open the carriage door.

      She descended to the pavement and waited, studying the building, while Clarissa and Dolly followed her down. A carved lintel and pediment, with “Morris House” inscribed on it, topped the single front door, which opened expectantly to reveal a footman, garbed in good but unostentatious livery in two shades of grey.

      Leonora crossed the causeway and halted before the step. “Miss Vincent,” she announced herself. “Lord Kelsey is expecting me.”

      A second person had come forward, dressed in excellently tailored black worn with some elegance. In contrast, his immaculate neckcloth, the high points of his collar, the frills of his shirt, all gleamed starkly white.

      “Indeed he is, madam,” said this individual, taking the place of the footman, who retreated into the hall where his powdered wig gleamed in the semi-darkness. “Allow me to introduce myself. Digby Sinclair, at your service.”

      He bowed. Leonora, not certain of the person’s standing, acknowledged his words with a nod. Clarissa had come to join her while Dolly and Mr Farling’s footman, who wore a tall hat rather than a wig, waited patiently beside the chariot.

      “His lordship understands that you wish to occupy the late Mr Vincent’s apartments,” went on the individual smoothly.

      Impatient at being kept standing on the doorstep, Leonora retorted with some asperity. “For the time being, at least. Please allow me to enter.”

      “Of course, madam.” He made no attempt to let her past. “But his lordship requests that your boxes be taken round to the back entrance and carried up the stairs there. It will be more convenient.” He looked beyond her. “Perhaps your maid would accompany them? You will then find her installed in the apartments when you have spoken to his lordship and follow her up.”

      Leonora frowned. Enter by the back stairs? Not if she had anything to do with it. “His lordship is at home, I collect?”

      “Oh, yes, madam. He is awaiting your arrival.”

      “Excellent. I look forward to meeting him. And you are?”

      “His manager, madam.”

      Manager? Leonora kept her curiosity to herself. Perhaps the Earl was too old to manage his own affairs. It had crossed her mind that, were the Earl available, he might be pleased to acquire a wife and with her the ownership of this property. She was open to offers from any reasonable quarter. None of those she had received over the years had been appealing enough to tempt her into giving up her freedom, limited as it had been. Governesses, however well connected, seldom received offers from gentlemen.

      She turned to speak to Dolly. “Wait there with the chariot,” she instructed briskly, “until it is decided what is to be done about our luggage.” She turned back to Sinclair. Now, perhaps you will announce me to his lordship.”

      Who might be an earl, but she was an earl’s granddaughter.

      “But, madam—”

      Leonora lifted an imperious eyebrow. Sinclair bowed.

      “If you will follow me, madam?”

      “Do you want me to come with you?” asked Clarissa.

      Leonora eyed her friend and decided that her presence would serve to hinder rather than help her in the coming interview. Some five years her senior, Clarissa Worth had never been further than Buckingham in her life and although perfectly capable of dealing with her father’s parishioners, Leonora doubted whether she had ever learned how to confront a member of the nobility.

      “No,” she said. By this time they were in a large vestibule with doors on either side and the main staircase, wide and curving, facing them. It was furnished with a small table holding a silver salver, a bench and a number of rout chairs. The muffled sound of male voices came from somewhere above. She speculated momentarily as to who the gentlemen might be and then ignored the sound. She indicated the chairs and said, “Sit down while you wait for me.”

      Sinclair, knocking on a door on the left near the foot of the stairs as he opened it, announced, “Miss Vincent, my lord.”

      His tone was deferential yet there was an undercurrent of amusement in it that told Leonora that this man, a personable creature approaching the age of forty, she imagined, was on intimate terms with the Earl. He turned to usher her in and she could see something else in his blue eyes, something she had come to recognise over the years. He found her pleasing.

      She did not care whether the man Sinclair found her pleasing or not. Her business was with his employer. She lifted her pretty, firm jaw and sailed past him into the lion’s den.

      The manager withdrew, closing the door behind her. A tall youngish gentleman rose languidly from behind the desk, where he had been sitting perusing some papers, and stepped out to make his bow.

      “Miss Vincent.”

      He made no attempt to be more than civil. Leonora dipped a polite curtsy and acknowledged the greeting. “My lord.”

      They studied each other. Leonora saw a tall, lean, but well-built gentleman of some thirty years—certainly he was a deal younger than his manager—with short brown hair arranged in the latest careless style, who wore his well-tailored garments with easy elegance. The hair framed a face whose individual features would have been difficult to criticise—a broad forehead; slate-grey eyes set beneath brows of a lighter hue than his hair and fringed by enviable lashes; a straight nose and shapely mouth.

      Only his chin gave her cause for concern. It looked formidably firm and determined.

      To Blaise Dancer, Earl of Kelsey, heir to the Marquess of Whittonby, Miss Leonora Vincent looked the epitome of a strait-laced governess well beyond her youthful prime. The way she dressed, the way she held herself, the severe expression with which she was attempting to intimidate him, told the tale. But, despite her years, he could not fault the perfection of her complexion, the accumulation of fine features that gave her an appearance of classical beauty which, given the matching stoniness of her expression, he did not find attractive.

      Light brown hair tending towards fair strayed from beneath the brim of an elderly velvet bonnet trimmed with wilting silk flowers. It matched the colour of the brown pelisse he could glimpse beneath the enfolding cloth of a grey travelling cloak. Her skirts, by what he could see of them, were of a lighter colour, a dull buff muslin sprigged with brown and green. Her eyes, an interesting mixture of grey, green and blue, were narrowed between gold-tipped lashes with something suspiciously like vexation. He allowed himself a secret smile of satisfaction.

      “You,” said Leonora at length, quelling the dismay she felt at having so young a gentleman occupying the rooms beneath hers, “are Lord Kelsey,