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worrying she’d have palpitations like his gran… well, he was just glad it wasn’t his problem. Sir Alexander would figure things out; he always did. Bit of a brooder, but smart as a trained ferret.
    Ethan’s family had been intertwined with the Wyldes for generations, in one capacity or another. The same age as Richard Wylde, Ethan had shared some games—and played some pranks—with the younger brother in their early years. Alexander, already off at school, was just an older boy—more serious and distant than his brother. But as time passed, Ethan grew to admire the current master of the house. He accepted service with grace and gratitude. More importantly, he managed the estates with an eye to the hundreds of people who depended on the land for their livelihood. He acknowledged their work and listened to their concerns, as many landowners did not. Ethan wouldn’t have cared to have that responsibility himself. He liked to feel he could kick over the traces at any moment, and no one the worse for it. And that’s the way it was, no matter what his father said.
    He knocked on the sitting room door and waited until a vague voice told him to enter. Frances Cole sat on the small sofa, no fancywork in her hands, no book or newspaper. She looked at him as if she didn’t remember who he was. “Luncheon, ma’am.” He set the tray on the table by the window. “Nice pot of tea for you as well.”
    “Oh… yes. Thank you.”
    Yes indeed, he was very glad it was Sir Alexander’s problem, Ethan thought as he eased out of the room. He had plenty to do thinking of himself, and no taste at all for complications.

Three
    “All the servants are looking for new positions?” Charlotte asked Lucy.
    Her maid nodded. “After the way they treated you? They know you won’t be keeping them on. Good riddance, I say.”
    After Lucy went out, Charlotte wondered what choices she would have. She had brought a good bit of money to her marriage, and inherited more when her father died. But it had all fallen under her husband’s control, and Henry had added lavishly to his collections during the time she lived in this house. Some of the items looked quite expensive. They could be sold, she supposed; there would be records. She could discover how to do that.
    She fingered the folds of the mourning gown she had worn for her father, and only just put off. Black didn’t become her, but Henry’s nephew would expect it. The nephew she hadn’t known he had, who was due to visit her in a very few minutes. Henry had never mentioned his family; she’d assumed he didn’t have one. It was bizarre how little she knew about Henry, personally. But he treated any question like an insult—became abrupt, sneering, critical. Of course she had stopped asking. Charlotte’s chin came up. She was sorry for what had happened to him, but she wasn’t going to miss him—not one little bit. If this nephew of his expected a great show of grief, he would be disappointed.
    The bell rang. She heard the door, footsteps on the stair, and then Lucy ushered in the caller, and Charlotte’s spirits sank. He looked like Henry—tall, lean, regular features, and sharp green eyes. His hair was wheaten rather than silver, but the relationship was only too obvious. His face was not set in the harsh, intimidating lines that Henry’s had exhibited, but he was much younger, after all. Time would no doubt limn them.
    “Sir Alexander Wylde,” Lucy announced. He looked as if he didn’t approve of her country accent, or the fact that she dropped his hat and coat and gloves on the sofa.
    Charlotte rose. Mr. Seaton had warned her that her visitor was a baronet and must be treated with all due respect. “Hello,” was all she could manage.
    He stared at her. “ You are Mrs. Henry Wylde?” He spoke as if he didn’t believe it.
    Charlotte heard clear echoes of Henry’s constant disapproval. She wanted to burst into tears; she wanted to snap at him; she wanted to throw him