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future.’
    ‘Virtually none,’ Barrington said, his thoughts returning to the lady whose existence he had first learned about during an investigation he’d undertaken the previous year. It had not involved Lady Annabelle directly, but had focused instead on the uncle of one of the girls she had been trying to help. As a result of that investigation, however, Barrington had become familiar with her name and with her propensity for helping naïve young girls navigate their way through the choppy waters of first love.
    Always from a distance, of course. Given his own self-imposed boundaries, Barrington knew better than to risk getting too close to her, but he was strongly aware of her appeal and smart enough to know that she could be dangerous for that reason alone. He’d met a lot of women in his life, but there was something about Lady Annabelle Durst that set her apart from all the rest. Something rare. Something precious. Something indefinable…
    ‘Well, if you’re going to sit there all afternoon and stare into space, I’m leaving.’ Crew drained his glass and set it on the desk. ‘I am expected for tea with Lady Yew and her daughter; if you have nothing more to tell me, I may as well be on my way.’
    ‘Fine. But while you’re sipping tea and whispering endearments
    in Lady Rebecca’s ear, see if you can find out anything else about her mother’s relationship with Rand,’ Barrington said. ‘The more I know about the situation, the better off I’ll be when it comes time to confront him with it.’
    Crew unhurriedly rose. ‘I’ll ask, but, given the extent of the marquess’s displeasure, I doubt you’ll hear Rebecca
or
her mother mention the name Peregrine Rand with favour again.’
    * * *
    Anna was reading Shakespeare when the door to the drawing room opened. Leaving Hamlet on the page, she looked up to see their butler standing in the doorway. ‘Yes, Milford?’
    ‘Excuse me, my lady, but a gentleman has called and is asking to see Mr Rand.’
    Anna glanced at the clock on the mantel. Half past eight. Somewhat late for a social call. ‘Did you tell him Mr Rand was from home?’
    ‘I did, but he said it was a matter of some urgency and wondered if you knew what time he might be home.’
    ‘Lord knows, I certainly don’t.’ With a sigh, Anna set her book aside. ‘Did the gentleman leave his card?’
    Milford bowed and silently proffered the tray. Anna took the card and read the name.
Sir Barrington Parker.
How strange. She knew the man by reputation rather than by sight. A wealthy baronet with an impressive home, he was, by all accounts, a cultured, educated and exceedingly charming man who was also reputed to be one of London’s finest swordsmen. The story went that he’d spent several years in Paris training under a legendary French master; when his father’s death had compelled him to return to England, Sir Barrington had been besieged by the pinks of society askinghim to teach them his skills. With very few exceptions, he had refused every request.
    Why, then, would he be here now, asking after a man with whom he was unlikely to have even the slightest acquaintance? ‘Ask him to come in, Milford. Then inform my father that we have a visitor.’
    The butler bowed. ‘Very good, my lady.’
    The wait was not long. Moments later, the door opened again and Milford announced, ‘Sir Barrington Parker.’
    Anna rose as the butler withdrew, but the moment the baronet arrived she stopped dead, totally unprepared for the sight of the man standing in her doorway.
‘You!’
    ‘Good evening, Lady Annabelle.’ Sir Barrington Parker strolled into the room, as impeccably turned out as he had been the night of Lady Montby’s reception. His dark jacket fit superbly across a pair of broad shoulders, his buff-coloured breeches outlined strong, muscular thighs and his cravat was simply yet elegantly tied. ‘I told you an occasion would present itself whereby our introduction could be made in a more