“A governess?”

Harry’s lips thinned. “No. After Miss Reynauld died in the fire…no. The children must have time to recover from that horror. The woman I speak of”—he glanced over at the miniature that sat in prominence on the corner of his desk—“will be my marchioness. The children need a mother, and I…”

“Need a wife?” Temple said gently as Harry’s voice trailed off. Despite his best intentions not to allow himself to become emotionally involved in his employer’s life — emotions so often made one uncomfortable and untidy — he had, over the years, developed quite a fondness for Harry and his brood of five hellions. He was well aware that Harry had an affection for his wife that might not have been an all-consuming love, but was strong enough to keep him bound in grief for several years after her death in childbirth.

“Yes,” Harry said with a sigh, slouching back into the comfortable embrace of the chair. “I came late to the married state, but must admit that I found it an enjoyable one, Temple. You might not think it possible for someone who is hounded night and day by his rampaging herd of children, but I find myself lonely of late. For a woman. A wife,” he corrected quickly, a faint frown creasing his brow. “I have determined that the answer to this natural desire for a companion, and the need for someone to take the children in hand, is a wife. With that thought in mind, I would like you to take down an advertisement I wish you to run in the nearest local newspaper. What is the name of it? The Dolphin’s Derriere Daily?”

“The Ram’s Bottom Gazette, sir, so named because the journal originates in the town of Ram’s Bottom, which is, I believe, located some eight miles to the west. I must confess, however, as to being a bit confused by your determination to place an advertisement for a woman to claim the position of marchioness. I had always assumed that a gentleman of your consequence looked to other members of your society for such a candidate, rather than placing an advertisement in an organ given over to discussions that are primarily agricultural in nature.”

Harry waved away that suggestion. “I’ve thought about that, but I have no wish to go into town until I have to.”

“But surely you must have friends, acquaintances who know of eligible women of your own class—”

“No.” Harry leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the corner of his desk. “I’ve looked over all my friends’ relatives, none of them will suit. Most of them are too young, and the ones who aren’t just want me for the title.”

Temple was at a loss. “But, sir, the woman will be your marchioness, the mother of your yet unborn children—”

Harry’s feet came down with a thump as he sat up and glared at his secretary. “No more children! I’m not going through that again. I won’t sacrifice another woman on that altar.” He rubbed his nose once more and re-propped his feet. “I don’t have time to hunt for a wife through conventional means. I mean to acquire one before anyone in the neighborhood knows who I am, before the grasping title-seekers get me in their sights. Cousin Gerard dying suddenly and leaving me this place offers me the perfect opportunity to find a woman who will need a husband as much as I need a wife. I want an honest woman, one gently born and educated, but not necessarily of great family — a solid country gentlewoman, that’s what’s needed. She must like children, and wish to…er…participate in a physical relationship with me.”

“But,” Temple said, his hands spreading wide in confusion. “But…ladies who participate in a physical relationship often bear children.”

“I shall see to it that my wife will not be stretched upon the rack of childbirth,” Harry said carelessly, then visibly flinched when somewhere nearby a door slammed, and what sounded like a hundred elephants thundered down the hallway outside his office. “Take this down, Temple. Wanted: an honest, educated woman between the ages of thirty-five and fifty, who desires to be joined in the wedded state to a man, forty-five years of age, in good health and with sufficient means to ensure her comfort. Must desire children. Applicants may forward their particulars and references to Mr. T. Harris, Raving-by-the-Sea. Interviews will be scheduled the week following. That should do it, don’t you think? You may screen the applicants for the position, and bring me the ones who you think are suitable. I shall interview them and weed out those who won’t suit.”

“Sir…” Temple said, even more at a loss as to how to counsel his employer from such a ramshackle method of finding a wife. “I…what if…how will I know who you will find suitable?”

Harry frowned over the top of an estate ledger. “I’ve already told you what I want, man! Someone honest, intelligent, and she must like children. I would prefer it if she possessed a certain charm to her appearance, but that’s not absolutely necessary.”

Temple swallowed his objections, and asked meekly, “Where do you wish to interview the candidates for your hand? Surely not here, at Ashleigh Court?”

Harry ran his finger down a column of figures, his eyes narrowing at the proof of abuse by his late cousin’s steward. “The man should be hung, draining the estate dry like that. What did you say? Oh, no, any woman of sense would take one look at this monstrosity and run screaming in horror. Find somewhere in town, somewhere I can meet with the ladies and have a quiet conversation with them. Individually, of course. Group appointments will not do at all.”

“Of course,” Temple agreed, and staggered from the room, his mind awhirl. The only thing that cheered him up was the thought that Harry’s wife, whoever she would turn out to be, would no doubt insist on the house being cleaned from attic to cellars.

Harry was just settling down to make notes about what needed attention first on the estate, when a sudden high-pitched shriek had him out of the chair, and almost to the door before Temple appeared in the open doorway to the hall.

Harry hesitated at the sight of Temple’s weak smile. “The children…is someone hurt?”

“Peacocks,” Temple said concisely.

Harry blinked, then relaxed. “Peacocks? Oh, peacocks. Yes, they do have an ungodly scream. I thought one of the children—”

Another bloodcurdling screech cut across his words. Before Harry could draw a breath, a huge green-and-blue bird raced passed him down the hall, its once magnificent tail feathers now ragged and muddy. Hoots, yells, and assorted shouts followed the peacock as the three younger children pounded after the poor bird. Anne stopped next to the great curved staircase, threw her head back, and let forth the most hair-raising sound Harry had ever heard.

“As I was about to say, sir, it is not the peacock making the noise, it is the children.”

Harry closed the door quietly, leaning back against it as the sounds of one agitated peacock being pursued by three noisy children around and around the hall filtered through the solid door. “Write the advertisement, Temple.”

A loud avian squawk followed by the sound of something large and ceramic shattering upon the hall’s marble floor sent Harry running back into his sanctuary. “Now! For God’s sake, man, write it now!”


CHAPTER Two


Plum nuzzled the soft, downy head lying against her breastbone, and breathed deeply of the milky, soapy smell, ignoring the less pleasing odor that wafted upward.

“There you are, I thought you would be in the vicarage. How has Baby been for you — oh, heaven, he’s rank!”

Mrs. Bapwhistle bustled into the tiny garden and before Plum could object, plucked the youngest Bapwhistle from her arms and handed the sweet baby over to a waiting nurse. “Clean him up, Withers. He smells as if he’d been dunked in the cesspit.”

“I would be happy to bathe—” Plum started to say, halfway rising from the shaded bench. The nurse wrinkled up her nose, and hurried off with her charge before Plum could finish her sentence.

“No, no, that won’t be at all necessary. That’s what I engage a nurse for, to do all the many unpleasant chores connected with children. Now sit down, do, and allow me to speak to you for a moment. I have something of great importance to discuss with you.”

“But…I was hoping I would be able to feed the baby—” Plum felt as if her heart had been ripped from her arms with the babe. He was so sweet, so adorable, so small and needy.

“You can feed him another time, Plum. This is important.”

Plum leaned back against the carved back of the bench, and idly plucked a leaf from the hydrangea that grew alongside, trying hard to keep the peevish tone from her voice. “You promised me I could take care of Colin while you were out paying calls, Cordelia. I think it’s unkind of you to hand him over to Nurse when you promised me I could care for him.”

“Honestly, Plum, you don’t want to be present when he’s filled his napkin. The mess that baby can make — it’s positively horrifying.” Cordelia Bapwhistle, wife of the vicar and Plum’s closest friend, raised her hand and cut off Plum’s objection. “I know, I know, you don’t find anything about dear little Colin objectionable, no more than you found anything objectionable about Constance, Connor, or Columbine, but my dear, dear friend, you must take it from one who knows — babies aren’t all sweet little bundles of delight.”

Plum’s gaze dropped from her friend’s eyes to the faded blue material over her knees. She smoothed her gown and tried not to look as if Cordelia’s words — kindly meant, to be sure — had caused her pain. “I know they aren’t perfect, Del. I’m not stupid. I have raised a child.”