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“Gillian, you’ve been at it again. I cannot find the diary, and I must assume you’ve been up to your tricks. I demand—”
    “Uncle Henry,” Gillian interrupted, “we cannot discuss that now. Lord Cordray is downstairs waiting to meet you and Aunt.”
    “You must compose yourself, dearest,” interposed her aunt. “It would not do for his lordship to suspect what you’ve been up to.”
    “Up to!” exclaimed Uncle Henry, pounding a meaty fist on his desk. This structure was piled high with books and stacks of assorted papers, notes and general detritus, all of which stirred fretfully in the draft created by the open door. “I have merely taken appropriate steps to defeat the small-minded, pettyfogging—”
    “Yes, Uncle, but the fact remains that what you have been doing is illegal, and of all the persons whom we do not wish to know about it, I’d say Lord Cordray ranks high on the list. So, please compose yourself, slip into your most charming academic persona and come down to meet him.”
    For a moment, it appeared that Sir Henry was not to be swayed from his battle position, but glancing first at his sister and then at his niece and back again, he sighed and deflated visibly.
    “Very well,” he said, with only a trace of belligerence remaining in his tone. He fixed his niece with a basilisk stare. “However, I am not through with you, young lady,” He smoothed his hair with both hands and accompanied his ladies from the room.
    By the time the little group entered the small salon where Lord Cordray awaited them. Sir Henry had straightened his skewed cravat and affixed a benign smile to his lips. Gillian performed the introductions and Aunt Louisa beamed delightedly.
    “We are so very pleased,” she said, “to make your acquaintance at long last. Do let us go in to breakfast, for it has been awaiting us since Simms returned with his unpleasant news.”
    Mrs. Ferris led the way to a small, sunny chamber toward the rear of the house. “May I ask what brought you to Wildehaven?” she asked, then indicated the sideboard, laden with eggs, toast, kippers and all the other accoutrements of a hearty country breakfast.
    Under her direction, Cord helped himself to a generous portion of each, and sitting at the table, he accepted coffee from the young maid who circled the room anxiously. From the awed glances she sent in his direction, he assumed the news of the arrival of a certified peer had already spread around the household. He took a dignified sip. “As I explained to your niece, I merely wished to escape the bustle of city life for a while. One can take such solace in the country, do you not agree?”
    “Oh, indeed, my lord,” Aunt Louisa agreed solemnly. “Was it not Virgil who said, ‘May the countryside and the gliding valley streams content me’?”
    “Precisely, dear lady.”
    Good Lord, thought Cord. I sound like a park saunterer. He turned to his host. “I understand. Sir Henry, that you are affiliated with the university.”
    “Mm, yes,” replied that gentleman with an offhanded gesture that served only to indicate his pride in the words. “I graduated with a degree in arts from Trinity in 1770, became a don at Magdalene in ‘75, and I’ve been a fellow for over forty-five years. My particular field of study is the Restoration period.”
    “Ah, yes,” chimed in Cord, feeling himself on firm ground. “Charles the Second. An engaging rascal, I’ve heard.”
    Sir Henry bent an austere glance on him. “I have little knowledge of His Majesty’s moral behavior. It is the men of letters who thrived under his reign in whom I am interested. Dryden, Bunyan, Congreve, Rochester and Samuel Butler among many others.”
    “Ah,” murmured Cord, after which an awkward silence fell on the little group.
    “Indeed,” added his sister pridefully after a moment, “Sir Henry held the Chair of Restoration Literature for a number of years before his retirement and is still in demand for lectures