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unassuaged?
    “My dear Miss Tate,” he replied smoothly. “I’m most pleased to accept your invitation. I would very much enjoy meeting your uncle and his sister, and, since he appears to be awake and about, I feel there is no time like the present.”
    Gillian made a strangled sound in her throat. Good Lord! Here was a disaster in the making. She could not allow Lord Cordray and Uncle Henry to come face-to-face. At least, not until she had an opportunity to confront Uncle Henry herself. She could not help but observe that the wretched earl was hugely enjoying the situation. Had he no more sense of propriety than to stride into a family contretemps—particularly when he had not even met most of the family?
    After staring at him for a moment in such a manner to leave him in no doubt of her disapproval—and meeting with a marked lack of success in this tactic—Gillian nodded stiffly and ushered him into the house.
    Here they were greeted by an elderly gentleman whom Miss Tate introduced as Widdings, the general factotum at Rose Cottage. Cord wondered if Miss Tate was responsible for the atmosphere of warmth that seemed to envelop him like a friendly embrace as he stepped into the modest entry hall. The decor was not fashionable, being structured toward comfort rather than elegance. A table in the center of the hall bore several periodicals, a riding crop, a few books and what looked like letters from a recently opened post. A scattering of paintings, sentimental of subject and some of such amateurish quality that they might have been created by a favorite relative were hung in casual arrangement.
    Removing her hat. Miss Tate led Cord into a small salon just off the hall.
    “If you will wait here for a moment, my lord,” she said, again a little breathlessly, “I shall notify my aunt and uncle that you are here.”
    She turned to send Widdings off for tea, but paused. “Have you breakfasted, my lord?” When he shook his head, she said, “Perhaps you would care to join us. The repast will not be lavish, but I believe we can provide you with a satisfactory meal.”
    In some bemusement. Cord replied, “Thank you, I would like that very much.”
    “I shall be just a moment,” Gillian said again before whirling to run up the stairs. She hurried down a long corridor, and was intercepted by a plump figure carrying a jug of water.
    “Why, Gillian,” said the lady, peering over her spectacles. White hair curled from under the rim of her ruffled cap, feathering about her placid features like a halo. “We have been so worried!” she continued. “Simms told us that Falstaff had returned without you. I’m glad to see you met with no harm.”
    Without offering an explanation for her predicament, Gillian laid a hand on the lady’s arm.
    “Aunt Louisa! We must do something about Uncle Henry. He can’t find the diary, and he’s in a terrible state. I was in the stable yard with Lord Cordray, for heaven’s sake—you know—our landlord—I encountered him on my ride,” she added to forestall the question she could see forming on her aunt’s lips. “When Uncle Henry fairly bellowed at me from his study window, Lord Cordray insisted on coming in the house, despite my efforts to discourage him. He wants to meet you and Uncle Henry. I ... I invited him for breakfast. That may not have been a good idea, but as long as he is here, I think it would be a good idea to ... to get his measure.”
    Aunt Louisa stared at her for a moment in incomprehension before her expression cleared. “Oh, I see,” she replied. “As in, how will he feel about the presence of a certified eccentric on his property?”
    Gillian nodded, and the two hurried along the corridor, stopping at a heavily paneled door. Gillian knocked sharply, and without waiting for a response, opened the door. The stout gentleman whose face had so recently protruded from the upstairs window looked up at their entrance.
    “There you are!” were his first words.