Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride. Elizabeth Rolls

      ‘Do all your rescuers receive this charming response?’ he asked. ‘It’s true, you know; I am acquainted with Harry. As for my motives; I was coming to call on you and overheard Goodall. I interfered out of disinterested chivalry, Mrs Daventry.’

      ‘Miss Daventry,’ she corrected him.

      He watched her closely. ‘Oh? I understood a Mrs Daventry lived here?’

      Her expression blanked. ‘Not now. My mother died some months ago.’

      ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quietly. ‘My condolences.’

      ‘Thank you, my lord. Will you not be seated?’

      She gestured to a battered wingchair by the empty fireplace. The leather upholstery bore evidence of several cats having loved it rather too well. The only other seat was the uncomfortable- looking wooden settle opposite with a damp cloak hung over it. He took the settle and, at a faint startled sound from her, glanced over his shoulder to catch the surprise on her face.

      ‘What?’ he asked. ‘You can’t have thought I’d take the chair!’

      Her mouth primmed. ‘I’ve noticed gentlemen prefer a comfortable chair, yes.’

      His opinion of Harry Daventry slid several notches. ‘Then they weren’t gentlemen, were they?’

      Her mouth thinned further. ‘And you are?’

      He laughed. ‘Usually. I’ll warn you if I feel the urge to behave too badly.’

      ‘Very obliging of you. May I offer you tea?’

      Prim. Proper. As calm as though she entertained the vicar.

      Tea, though. He didn’t like tea at the best of times. And imagining the quality of tea he was likely to receive here sent shivers down his spine. His spine’s concerns aside, however, good manners dictated acceptance. And Miss Daventry looked as though a hot drink would do her good.

      ‘Thank you, ma’am. That would be very pleasant.’

      She nodded. ‘Then please excuse me. My servant is out.’ With a graceful curtsy, she left through a door at the back of the parlour.

      Julian took a deep breath and looked around the cramped room. This was what he had come for, after all: to judge Daventry’s condition for himself. And if Lissy could see this, the circumstances to which she would be reduced if she married Daventry, it might give her pause for thought.

      It was spotless, though, he noticed. Absolutely spotless. As though dust dared not settle in a room tended by Miss Daventry. Everything gleamed with care. Wood waxed and polished. Not a cobweb in sight. Against one wall was a bureau bookcase, crammed with books. Julian frowned. It was old now, but it spoke of one-time wealth.

      Interesting. Other things caught his eye. An old-fashioned drop-sided dining table against the wall held a lamp. Brass candlesticks that once had been silver gilt. A battered wine table, piled with more books beside the wingchair. Every sign that the Daventries had once been well to do, commanding the elegancies of life and, in sinking to this address, had clung to a few treasured reminders. Perhaps the crash of the ’90s had brought them down. He could even sympathise with their plight. His own father had steered clear of those shoals, but had not been so canny in recent years… Lord, it was cold in here!

      His mouth hardened. Harry Daventry would not restore his family’s fortunes at the cost of Lissy’s happiness. No doubt Daventry’s sister would be quartered in his household… His eye fell on the books tottering on the wine table—sermons, probably, and other improving works. He picked up the top volumes and his brows rose. Sir Walter Scott—Ivanhoe. He looked at the next couple of books, poetry. So Miss Prim had a taste for the romantical, did she? He picked up the final volumes—Miss Austen’s Northanger Abbey. Serena had enjoyed that…

      He set the books down, frowning. Contradictions lay hidden beneath the layers of brown sobriety and the cap. Strolling back to the settle and sitting down, he wondered what colour her hair might be. Not so much as a strand peeked from that monstrous cap. Mousy? It would suit the spectacles and that prim mouth with its iron clad composure. Although it wasn’t quite iron-clad, was it? What would it take to breach it utterly?

      She would return soon. Miss Respectability, laden with a teatray needing to be put somewhere… Below the window was a small tea table.

      With a sigh, he rose, shifted the table, placing it between the wingchair and the settle. Good manners, he told himself. A gentleman did these things. It had nothing to do with Miss Daventry herself or wishing to show her that not all men were inconsiderate oafs who took the only comfortable chair, leaving their sister the wooden settle. Definitely nothing to do with her. It was simply the right thing to do.

      He looked at the empty grate. It was cold, after all.

      It was the work of a moment to lay a fire, find the tinderbox and have a small blaze going.

      He had barely sat down again when the door opened and Miss Daventry came in bearing a small tray.

      Shock sprang into those disquieting eyes as she saw the fire. ‘Oh, but—’

      Julian rose and took the tray from her, setting it down on the table before turning back to her.

      She hadn’t moved. She was staring at the little table as though wondering how it had arrived there. Then she looked at the fire. All the tension in her face, all the taut lines, dissolved, leaving her, he saw with a queer jolt, looking tired, yet as though something far more burdensome than the tray had been lifted from her.

      Almost immediately she recovered, saying in her primmest tones, ‘How kind of you, my lord. Please do be seated.’

      She bent over the tray and poured a cup. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

      ‘A little milk, please.’

      She handed him his cup, poured her own, and sat down, her back ramrod straight.

      Julian took a wary sip, and acknowledged surprise. The tea, if one liked the stuff, was perfectly acceptable. And the teacups, although old and chipped in places, had once been the height of elegance and cost a small fortune. Yet apart from mentioning Alcaston as his godfather, Harry Daventry made no play with grand connections or past glory.

      ‘Perhaps, my lord, you might explain how you know my brother.’

      Miss Daventry’s cool voice drew him out of his thoughts. Did she know about Lissy? If so, then it probably had her blessing. She was no fool. The advantages of such a match to her were obvious. She might make a decent match herself from the connection.

      ‘Your brother has become acquainted with my sister.’

      Miss Daventry’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Her face blanched. ‘Your sister—?’ The teacup reversed its direction and was replaced in its saucer with a faint rattle. ‘Would your sister be Miss Trentham?’

      ‘Yes. My half-sister.’

      Spear straight she sat, her mouth firm and a look of mulish obstinacy about her chin. The air of dignity intensified, despite the pallor of her cheeks.

      Hell! No doubt she would defend her brother’s marital ambitions to the hilt. Why wouldn’t she? Such a connection would be a lifeline for her.

      His mouth set hard.

      He had to protect Lissy. Nothing else mattered. Even if he had to batter Miss Daventry’s pride into the dust.

      ‘How very unfortunate,’ she said, her voice calm. ‘I trust you are doing all in your power to discourage this?’

      Unfortunate? From her perspective? He had every reason to disapprove of Mr Daventry, but what possible objection could she have to Lissy?

      With freezing hauteur, he said, ‘I am at a loss to know how my sister merits your censure, Miss Daventry.’

      ‘Never having