Chapter 2

Two

T he young lady looked up from the letter she was writing. “What was that, Robbie?”

“I hate to disturb you when you are in the middle of your paperwork, especially as I know that Her Grace is being particularly demanding these days—” A loud sneeze interrupted her words ”—but I’m afraid there is something that cannot wait.”

Aurora Sprague looked up. Or, to be totally correct, Elizabeth Jane Aurora Fenimore looked up. But as she had always favored Aurora over the others, and had long ago discarded her married name for that of her mother’s family, it was the moniker by which she was known.

“The crotchety old battle axe may be particularly demanding, but she is also our best client.” Aurora smiled and held up a leather purse that looked to be quite weighty. “Her Grace is also particularly pleased with the result of our last little investigation. This was just sent round and what I am struggling with is the composition of a particularly effusive thank you note. If you can think of any really obsequious adjectives, I should be most grateful, for on that subject my vocabulary is decidedly weak.” Her expression then became a good deal more serious. “But enough joking. What’s wrong?”

Miss Edith Robertson mirrored her former charge’s grave countenance. “Mary Tillson is downstairs. I think you had better come at once and see for yourself.”

“Oh dear.” She tossed her pen aside and pushed back from her desk. “Are the beatings getting worse, then?”

The older woman’s lips thinned to a tight line. She nodded.

“Damnation,” muttered Aurora under her breath. “We’ll have to move faster than I had planned.”

A thin young woman sat at the kitchen table, a piece of beefsteak being pressed up to her right eye by the cook. The purpling bruises on her nose were nearly as dark as the slab of meat and the split lip as raw.

“A tooth is knocked out, too, Mrs. Sprague,” said Alice the cook in a low voice. “I’d like to take a cleaver to the beast what done this. Chop off his hands, I would. And quite likely some other part of his anatomy as well. Then dice it all up, along with his lily liver, for mincemeat and?—”

“I think we get your drift, Alice,” murmured Aurora. “But I imagine Mary would rather not hear any further talk of spilling blood, even if it is her brute of a husband’s.” She stepped forward and put her own shawl around the woman’s bony shoulders.

“I didn’t do nuffink,” sniffed Mary, brushed away a tear. “I swear, not even a w-word. But he came at me agin, jes the same.”

“Of course you didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault. Not one bit.” Aurora smoothed back a bit of the young woman’s tangled hair from her wan brow, then pulled up a chair. “Is your aunt still willing for you to come to her in Scotland.”

Mary choked back a sob. “Yes, Mam wrote to her as ye suggested, Mrs. Sprague, but what good is it? Will’s drunk up every farthing we have, an’ Mam can’t spare a ha’peny, what with the mill cutting back on hours.” Another tear trickled into the hollow of her cheek. “I wuz hoping I might sleep on yer scullery floor ternight, and then borrow a shilling or two from ye te make me way te Lunnon.”

“And what do you imagine will happen to you in London, Mary, without money or a place to stay?” asked Aurora gently.

The young woman hung her head. “Dunno, But it can’t be worse than wot Will does ta me.”

“Well, it won’t come to that. I told you that I meant to see you safely over the border as soon as I could afford it. And now I can, thanks to the fact that the Duke of Putney likes to tumble milkmaids in the Greek folly erected by his grandfather.”

Mary blinked her one good eye in some confusion.

“Never mind.” Aurora turned. “Alice, please fix Mary some tea and see she has something hot to eat. Then take her up to the attic room. She should be safe enough there for a night or two. Naturally, if Mr. Tillson comes round to make any inquiries, we haven’t seen his wife in weeks.”

“What if he demands to come in and have a look around?”

Aurora smiled sweetly. “Why, then take a cleaver to him.” She rose and gave one last hug to Mary’s frail form. “Don’t worry, I’ll soon have you in Scotland where your husband will never touch you again.”

“What would us wimmen do without ye, Mrs. Sprague ? Yer a real angel sent down from Heaven.”

“Well, I suppose that depends on your perspective,” said Aurora with a wry grin. “I imagine most men think I’m a devil sent up from the bowels of Hell.”

Miss Robertson smiled before another sneeze shook her ample frame.

“Oh, and Alice, while you’re at it, better brew up one of your herbal tissanes for Robbie. She appears to be coming down with a nasty cold.” There was a clatter of metal. “That is,” added Aurora with a low chuckle, “if we might tear you away from your sharpening stone.”

“No need for that. I’m really feeling quite fine,” protested Miss Robertson, though her assertion was blunted somewhat by a flurry of hacking coughs.

“Go to bed, Robbie.” With those parting words, Aurora turned and headed back to her study, already starting a mental checklist of all the things she must put in order if she was to be setting off on a long journey first thing in the morning.

Instead of following her former charge’s orders, Miss Robertson waited several minutes then marched after her.

“I thought I told you to get some rest,” said Aurora, not looking up from her papers.

“Hmmph. I must be going deaf as well as blind.” The former governess affixed a pair of steel rimmed spectacles on the bridge of her nose and picked up a dog-eared ledger from the corner of the desk, along with the Duchess’s bulging purse.

Taking a seat on the faded chintz sofa, she set to work counting the coins and toting up the neatly penciled columns. “Hmmph,” she repeated, this time with a positive inflection. “The Sprague Agency for Distressed Females has done rather well over the last two months.” There was a brief pause while she reviewed the figures one last time, just to make sure everything added up correctly.

The Sprague Agency for Distressed Females.

Aurora’s mouth gave a mischievous twitch. She loved the utterly innocuous sound of the title. Most men, on hearing such a name, would assume she did nothing more than dole out vinaigrettes for flighty nerves or more exotic potions designed to stimulate procreation. Ha! Little did they know that her little hobby involved such things as assembling detailed dossiers on philandering husbands and analyzing financial information to see if a lady was being cheated out of her rightful money. And, perhaps most importantly, giving free advice, along with financial aid if needed, to poor women who had no one else to turn to in order to help them escape from under the thumb of tyrannical men.

The whole thing had started rather innocently enough several years ago. She had helped a neighbor—a very rich widow—avoid the clutches of a smarmy fortune hunter by informing her of several rather indiscreet comments the gentleman had let fall during a night of drinking with his cronies at a local tavern. Her smile broadened. It was truly amazing the sorts of things gentlemen would say in front of people they considered their inferiors or the incriminating evidence they would leave lying about to be collected as trash.

Just the sorts of things that barmaids, tweenies, charwomen and the like were happy to pass on to a person who could put them to good use.

Naturally her neighbor had been enormously grateful and demanded to express such sentiments in a material way. Since Aurora and Miss Robertson relied on the former governess’s modest inheritance as their main means of support, the additional funds were quite welcome. Some months later, the Dutchess asked if they might be of some help to a bosom friend from school. The reclusive Countess wished to know whether the suitor for her daughter’s hand was indeed the paragon of perfection he seemed to be.

Soon, what the two of them still jokingly referred to as The Sprague Agency for Distressed Females was nothing to laugh at. Word of mouth had slowly spread throughout the area that if a female had a problem, Mrs. Sprague and her companion could be counted on for both sage advice and savvy solutions, all dispensed with the utmost discretion.

The arrangement had suited Aurora perfectly, for not only was she poor, but a bit bored as well. After all, she had always possessed a keen intelligence, a practical mind and a skill for organization. Now she had a chance to exercise all three, as well as satisfying her sense of compassion. It didn’t hurt that she knew first hand what it was to suffer a gross injustice at the hands of the opposite sex. Such degree of empathy no doubt contributed to her rapport with those who sought her help, no matter what their station in life?—

Another bout of coughing interrupted Aurora’s musings. Struggling to suppress the nagging tickle that had crept back to her throat, Miss Robertson went on in a slightly raspy voice. “Yes, even without taking into account Her Grace’s recent remuneration, we have turned a bit of a profit for the first time in ages.”

“Well, there was that little matter of Mrs. Wilkes wondering how on earth the profits from her husband’s tavern seemed to be draining away as quickly as tankards of ale on a Saturday night.” Aurora chewed on the end of her pen. “She was most grateful to learn about the mistress tucked away in High Wycombe. And then there was Mrs. Nevins, the dressmaker from Abingdon whose supplier was charging double the true cost of Chinese silk. We saw a handsome portion of what she saved, as I recall.”

“We did.” Miss Robertson paused to blow her nose. “And a good thing it was, because of late we have also had more than the usual number of requests for help from women like Mary, who cannot afford to pay even a modest fee.”

“You surely would not have me turn them away.”

“Of course not,” she sniffed. In an undertone she added, “Not that it would matter a whit if I did.”

That brought a faint smile to Aurora’s lips. “Am I that stubborn?”

“Let us say that most of the time you are quite sure what it is you want.”

A duet of laughter, its harmony tuned by years of companionship, echoed through the cozy room. As the last notes died away, Aurora set aside her jottings and cupped her chin in her hand. “Well, I am quite sure I want to help Mary. She is by far the worst off of our clients. Indeed, I even fear for her life if we don’t act soon.” Her fingers began to twist at one of the coppery curls that had escaped from the simple arrangement coiled at the nape of her neck. “I had hoped to pay off a number of back bills with our current windfall, but I suppose the butcher and the candlemaker can be convinced to wait a bit longer. The trip to Scotland cannot be put off, Robbie.”

The other woman drummed her fingers on the open ledger. “We should be able to manage without having to resort to cold porridge and shoe leather.” Sneaking a peak at her former charge, she added in a low voice, “And on the first of the month, we should be receiving the quarterly payment from Wickford. That will help tide us over.”

As expected, the mere mention of the place brought a fiery light to Aurora’s emerald eyes. “I would prefer it if we didn’t have to touch a farthing of that dratted man’s money.”

“Why?” countered Miss Robertson. “I think you deserve every bit of it for the monstrous wrong you have suffered.” She drew in a deep breath. “At least he displayed a shred of decency in providing a modest stipend for you to live on, something neither your father nor his can be accused of possessing.”

That was perhaps true, thought Aurora, though the admission was a grudging one. The dratted man—she refused to think of him as her husband—had sent word that as of her sixteenth birthday, the time designated for her removal to his estate, a small quarterly stipend would be forwarded to the village post nearest Rexford. And that, he had made quite clear, was to be the full extent of his attentions, both monetary and physical.

Till death do them part.

Well, that suited her just fine. She didn’t want his money. And she most certainly didn’t want his?—

“It was a stroke of luck that I found that letter crumpled up in your father’s study,” continued the former governess after a wheeze. “Else we should never have known of the arrangement. The fact that he bothered to send it before he left with his regiment, however curt and unflattering the words, shows that of all the gentlemen involved in that shameful affair, he is perhaps the least reprehensible.”

“That is hardly saying much.” Aurora’s lips had curled in contempt, but the flames of her anger quickly died down, replaced by a spark of wry humor. “Though to be fair, I suppose I have to admit he has shown a shred of decency by staying half a world away from me. Just as I suppose I should be amused that after all these years, the money still arrives like clockwork. I can only assume that no one has ever bothered to inform him that I never showed up at his godforsaken estate.”

Another thought seemed to come to mind, one that lightened her expression even more. “Or perhaps he’s had the decency to stick his spoon in the wall.”

Miss Robertson tried to look stern but the effect was ruined by yet another violent sneeze. “It is quite wrong to wish for anyone’s demise.”

“You’re right—wishing rarely works. Maybe I could hire someone to do the job. In India there are certain sects?—”

The other lady waggled a warning finger.

“Just jesting.”

Far from eliciting any chuckle from her former governess, Aurora’s teasing words caused the older lady’s hands to clasp together in her lap and a pained grimace to crease her brow. “I shall always regret that I was not able to protect you from such a horrible fate. But your cursed father gave me no warning. I was just as surprised as you when he demanded I dress you in your mother’s old wedding gown and have you ready to depart for the church in ten minutes.” There was a protracted sniffling, and not merely on account of the incipient cold. “Now here you are, a beautiful young lady robbed of the chance to fall in love and marry the man of your dreams.”

“Oh come now, Robbie. There is no need for weepy sobs.” Aurora’s mouth hovered somewhere between a scowl and a smile. “Honestly, I think you must give over reading those books of Mrs. Radcliffe—it appears all that melodrama and nonsensical notions of romance are beginning to addle your usually unimpeachable reason.” She let out a harried sigh. ”You may be quite sure that even if I were free to do so, I would not have the slightest inclination to contemplate marriage.”

“But you haven’t had the chance to get to know a proper gentleman.”

“And why would I wish to do that? Gentlemen do not seem to have much to recommend them. Only look at the one I am legshackled to! Lord, it was a true godsend that you inherited Rose Cottage and the means to allow us to escape from my father’s clutches. Otherwise I should merely have been exchanging one drunken lout for another.” She shook her head vehemently. “Mark my words—I shall never, ever, seek another husband.” Any hint of smile had long since faded. “Not that I sought the one I have now.”

The sigh that filled the little room came from Miss Robertson’s lips this time. “A shame he was not more worthy of regard, for the man was a most a handsome devil, tall, with those broad shoulders and thatch of dark hair.” Then a most ungoverness titter escaped her lips. “Even if those long legs were a trifle unsteady.”

“Unsteady? Why the man was by all accounts completely jug-bitten.”

“Don’t use cant, my dear. It isn’t ladylike.” Miss Robertson’s voice quickly recovered its schoolroom decorum. Still, for all its proper tone she couldn’t help but sneak in another question. “Do you not remember him at all?”

“I could barely see a dam—dratted thing through all that gauze of my veil. Nor, if you will remember, was I tall enough to regard much more than the gentleman’s waistcoat. Which was of an unobjectionable material, unlike my legal spouse.”

Miss Robertson ran an eye the length of Aurora’s willowy figure. “That’s true,” she said after a moment. “You did not shoot up to your present height until the following year. “However, it cannot be said that your, er, husband isn’t fashioned from good cloth when it comes to appearance. Simmy Cummings, who saw him ride off on his stallion, said he cut quite a dashing figure in his scarlet regimentals.”

“I abhor the color red. It does not suit me,” she muttered under her breath as she twisted another errant strand of coppery hair around her finger. “Such sentimental rubbish is out of character for you, Robbie. You must be more ill than you think, to be waxing so girlishly romantic over a fellow we both know to be a jaded scoundrel.”

The other lady’s remonstrance was cut short by a hacking cough.

“That’s it.” Aurora crossed her arms. “I’ll hear no more argument on the matter. You are taking to your bed this instant.”

“B-but the journey to Scotland! I need to pack my bags and have?—”

“The only journey you will be making is to your bedchamber.”

“You cannot travel alone,” protested Miss Robertson.

“I will not be alone,” pointed out Aurora with unassailable logic. “Mary will be with me. And since it is perfectly acceptable for a lady to be traveling with her maid, propriety will be served. Not to speak of the fact that such a disguise will hide our friend’s flight from any would-be pursuer.”

“Still,” croaked Miss Robertson, her voice becoming more gravelly by the moment. “If you would but wait a day or two, I’m sure I shall be fully recovered.”

Aurora only rolled her eyes. “And pigs may fly. Seriously, Robbie, we don’t have any time to spare. Despite Alice’s dire threats, I doubt she and her cleaver would prove a match against Mary’s brute of a husband should he take it into his head to search for her here. We must leave tomorrow.”

At the sight of her friend’s crestfallen expression, she got up and went to drape an arm around the quivering shoulders. “The Duchess has kindly offered me the use of one of her old carriages whenever I have need of it, and one of the undercoachmen to go with it. I assure you, it will only be a long, boring and tiresome trip that you are missing. If it is adventure and romance you are looking for, you had best stick to your novels.”

“Blimey, it’s hot.” The man wiped at the stream of sweat running down the bridge of his nose , then slapped at a fly buzzing around his wide brimmed hat. ”Hades could not be much worse, I imagine. Although at least then we’d already be dead, and not constantly worrying about someone trying to put a period to our existence.”

His companion chuckled. “This is merely a trifle warm, Fitz. Now India—India was hot.” He paused to shift the brass spyglass a fraction to the left, then motioned for the other man to duck a lower among the tumble of boulders that concealed their presence. “Ah, just as I thought. Here they come,” he whispered. “Stay down. I’m going to crawl out a bit farther on that ledge so I can be sure to get an accurate count.”

The man’s roughspun garments were coated with enough dust and dried mud that they blended into the fallen scree and weathered rock as he slithered toward the edge of the overhang. Below, a troop of mounted French cavalry trotted by, followed by what looked to be a brigade of Spanish conscripts marching at a desultory pace, though their officers kept up a steady stream of harangues. It took some time for all the soldiers to pass, and even then, the two observers waited another quarter of an hour before retreating from their hiding place on the ridge.

“You were right again, Alex,” said Captain Fitzherbert Battersley as he mopped at his brow with a dirty bandanna. “Soult definitely appears to be shifting his men north. That’s the fourth group in two days that we’ve observed on the move.”

The other man nodded. “Aye, something’s brewing.” He ran a hand over the three day stubble covering his chin. ”I think we had best cut short the rest of this reconnaissance mission and report back to headquarters. Wellesley should know of this without delay.”

They picked their way back down the steep path until reaching the scrubby stand of cork trees where their horses were tethered. Checking to make sure both their pistols and rifles were properly primed and cocked, the two English officers mounted and rode off.

“Ah,” sighed Captain Battersley as they trotted in camp some hours later. “I am looking forward to sluicing some of this damn grit from my delicate peaches and cream complexion, some measure of cover from the unrelenting sun, and a long swig of something wet—preferably good English ale rather than that thin red swill our allies call wine.” There was a fraction of a pause. “Though not necessarily in that order.”

Before his companion could frame a suitably pithy rejoinder, a young adjutant, his slightly bewildered expression betraying his recent arrival to the Peninsula, ran up and gave a tentative salute. “M-major Lord Fenimore?”

The ensuing nod seemed to relieve a good deal of his anxiety. “The General ordered me to keep a close watch for your arrival, sir, but I wasn’t quite sure I had the description right.”

Battersley laughed. “You mean he told you to be on the lookout for a scruffy looking devil with eyes the color of India sapphires and like as naught a dusky senorita in hot pursuit?”

The young officer blushed. “Well, sir, as to that?—”

Taking pity on the young man’s embarrassment, the major cut off his stutterings. “You said the General is looking for me?”

“Yes, sir.” As if suddenly recalling the superior rank of the shabby figure before him, the newly arrived lieutenant threw back his shoulders and snapped to attention. ”He said he wanted to see you the moment you rode in.”

Alex gave a weary sigh. “No rest for the wicked, I see. It looks as if I shall have to wait to join you in draining that tankard of ale.” He dismounted and tossed the reins of his stallion to his friend. “I’ll meet up with you later.”

“Fenimore,” growled General Winthrop, looking up from a sheaf of dispatches as the Major was ushered in. “Glad to see that once again, you have returned to us in one piece. I should loath losing one of my best officers on one of these damn dangerous reconnaissance missions you insist on taking part in.”

“The lives saved are more than worth the risk of my own calloused hide, sir, Besides, the Peninsula seems rather tame compared to the oppressive climate, rampant disease and bloodthirsty Sepoys of India.”

The general motioned for him to take a seat at the folding camp table, then asked his orderly to pour two brandies and bring them over, along with the bottle. “Still, it appears that I shall be losing you, Fenimore.” He raised the spirits halfway to his lips before adding, “I mean Woodbridge.”

Alex’s glass of brandy hung in mid air. “What did you say?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper, though he was sure enough of his hearing to know he had not mistaken the words.

“I regret being the bearer of bad news, but it appears your brother Charles succumbed to a putrid throat some months past. This letter from Whitehall just arrived with the news.” He pushed the wrinkled missive across the scarred wood. “Your man of affairs thinks it imperative that you sell out as soon as possible and return home to take up your responsibilities as the new Earl of Woodbridge. As does the War Department. They don’t like the idea one bit that an old and respected title such as yours is threatened. After you, the next in line is some damned tobacco farmer from the former Colonies. Can’t have that.”

“Hell and damnation,” growled Alex through clenched teeth.” But I don’t want to sell out.” Nor did he wish to be the earl, but it appeared he had as little choice in that matter as in his imminent departure from the army.

He stared at the spidery writing covering the travel stained paper and muttered a few other choice obscenities under his breath. Never had he given a thought to the possibility of acceding to the title. Oh, his father’s death some years ago from a bad liver had come as no surprise as the old reprobate had downed enough sauce in his day to pickle an entire regiment. Even when Harry, having inherited his father’s taste for spirits, gave up the ghost in some foolish prank involving the racing of curricles along the cliffs of Dover, the succession had never seemed in doubt. Charles, his middle brother, had turned out to be a man of great sense, if not imagination, well content to spend the great majority of his time running the Woodbridge estates and attending to the myriad other responsibilities that came with the title. He had done a good job of it, too, restoring the lands to their former profitability and refilling the family coffers.

His tanned fingers laced through his dusty locks. However, it was a damn shame that Charles had not seen to the most basic of those obligations—namely taking a wife and producing an heir. In his letters, he had made vague mention of perhaps spending the next Season in Town in order to choose a bride, but in truth, Alex had come to the conclusion that the mere thought of a marriage ceremony had left his brother quaking in his boots.

The general eyed him with some sympathy. “It is not always easy for us men of action to contemplate a more placid existence. But I dare say, you are a resourceful fellow, Woodbridge. You’ll adjust.”

Alex’s mouth twisted downward in an expression that showed how little credence he gave to such assurances. “Sir, I wish to object?—”

“Won’t hear of it, Major Lord Woodbridge, and that’s an order. You are to leave at dawn for Lisbon.”

The edge in new earl’s voice was as sharp as the jut of his jaw. “Yes, sir.” He rose stiffly, hands clenched by his sides. “Then I had better go and pack my things. Am I dismissed, sir?”

A weary sound, more snort than sigh, escaped from the general’s lips as he motioned for his subordinate to be seated. “Come, finish your brandy, Woodbridge. You have plenty of time for that.” His hand rubbed at his lined brow. “Can’t for the life of me understand why it is you young sprigs prefer risking life and limb on the battlefield to waltzing at Almack’s.”

Alex downed his brandy in one gulp. “The lemonade at Almack’s is notoriously weak. And the tongues of the Town gossips can flay the skin off a man’s back as surely as any saber,” he retorted, drawing a slight smile from his commanding officer. “Besides, I am hardly a young sprig anymore. I am two and thirty.”

“Then you are old enough to know better. It’s time you stopped seeking danger in every corner of the globe and returned home.”

“There has never been anything worth returning to,” he growled.

“Well, there is now. My advice to you is to find a female you can have a regard for and settle down to the pleasures of married life. Take it from me, it’s not half so bad as you fear. A compatible mate can become a true comrade in arms, one whose loyalty and love you will come to value above all things.”

The new earl’s face went rigid, and despite his tanned complexion, his color turned a shade paler.

“But enough philosophizing.” The general’s gnarled fingers drummed a light tattoo on the rough wood. He seemed to be deliberating on something, but after a long pause, he finally went on. “However, if you are truly so reluctant to give up the life of a soldier, there is one last mission you might undertake for your country before returning to London.”

Alex’s expression became a tad less bleak. “Sir?”

“A French courier was recently captured on a small bark that had set sail from Ayr, on the west coast of Scotland. He was carrying certain documents that lead us to believe vital information is making its way from Whitehall north across the border, where it is passed on to the enemy. A rather thorough interrogation of the man revealed little—except that the agent he dealt with is a female.” He cleared his throat. “Given your considerable talent at ferreting out information, as well as your, er, no less considerable skills with the opposite sex, both Whitehall and I think you are the perfect man for the job. It would be of great service to us. That is, if you are willing.”

The words were scarcely out of the general’s mouth when Alex blurted out, “Of course I am willing, sir! In fact, I should be delighted.”

A dry chuckle answered such enthusiasm. “Yes, I rather thought you might. Well, then, a fast mail packet is waiting in Lisbon harbor.” He paused to scribble an official order, then handed it over to Alex. “Give that to the sloop’s captain. The boat will drop dispatches at Penzance, then continue on to Ayr and set you ashore. One of our local agents will meet you with any further information he might uncover. So of now, the only other bit of information our informant could tell us was that the next exchange is set for three weeks from Saturday, in the village of Girvan, just down the coast Ayr.”

“Thank you, sir.” If he could not change the inevitable, he thought with a last little grimace, he could at least put it off for a bit. Nearly overturning his chair in his haste to rise, Alex snapped a hurried salute. “It does not sound like it should prove much of a problem.”

“Take care, Woodbridge,” murmured the general. “Do not underestimate the peril you are walking into, just because you are stepping back on sovereign soil. Or because your opponent is a female. They can sometimes prove to be the most dangerous and cunning of all.” He took a deep breath. “They can make a man react with emotion rather than reason.”

The new earl’s lip curled in some disdain. “Believe me, sir. I long since been immune to the wiles or charms of any woman. I may bed them, but other than that, I have little use for the opposite sex. On the whole, they are greedy, grasping, manipulative harpies who think only of increasing their purse or their prestige through latching on to a gentleman. You have little reason to fear that my emotions—or my heart—will fall victim to a sultry smile or coy gaze.”