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happy as a single man.”

Chapter Three
    A ll roads are longer when the destination is undesired. Forde traveled into Devon slowly, blaming his dallying on the rainy October weather, the mired roads, the indifferent horses he was forced to hire at the posting houses. He blamed the delay on anything but his lack of enthusiasm to confront Miss Cole and her mother, and his fears of losing Gerald’s regard. If the young woman was as greedy and grasping as Agnes thought, as conniving and common, then Gerald would thank them in the end . . . if he ever forgave Forde and his mother for interfering in his life. By Jupiter, Forde barely forgave his own father for saddling him with Priscilla, and they had both been dead for years.
    Thinking of saddles made Forde decide to hire a horse when his coach finally reached the little village of Brookville. The incessant rain had stopped at last, and he was tired of being jostled inside the carriage. Besides, the fewer servants to speculate about his conversation with the Cole women, the better. By riding, he could leave his groom and driver and valet behind at the only inn in town, a decent enough place, it seemed, despite his sister-in-law’s dire predictions of hedge taverns and drovers’ pubs. The ale was good there, at any rate.
    The gray gelding he hired was not of his usual caliber or pedigree, but the hostler assured him that Smoky was a goer, once he shook the fidgets out and got over his little crotchets.
    “Nothing a fine gentleman like yourself cannot handle, my lord.”
    Forde was ready for the challenge, rather than for the ladies of Cole Cottage. Following the innkeeper’s directions through the village and a mile out, he made his reluctant way there, steering the equally reluctant gelding away from rain-filled wheel ruts and fallen tree limbs. He did not dare set the horse to a gallop, not with the road in such poor condition, but they arrived at the house with no ill effects, sooner than Forde wished.
    Well, the place was not a hovel, at least. Not quite a gentleman’s expansive country residence, it was no thatch-roofed, dirt-floored shack, either. The grounds were tidy, with late-blooming rosebushes and still-colorful flower beds obviously well tended, ivy neatly trimmed away from the windows. The square building itself was three storeys high, made of stone with slate roof tiles. So the females were not indigent, if the house’s appearance was anything to go by, and the vista must be pleasant on a clear day, with rolling fields and wooded hills.
    He rode up to the front walk, but no one came out to take his horse. He saw no hitching post or nearby fence, either, and did not trust Smoky not to bolt, not when the gelding shied at every bird and waving branch in the wind. Crotchets? The horse had more quirks than mad King George.
    After calling, “Halloo the house,” with no response, Forde rode around the side of the building, hoping to find a gardener or the stable.
    To the rear he saw chickens and goats, a barnlike structure, and a cultivated patch that was far more extensive than any kitchen garden. Mrs. Cole appeared to be augmenting her widow’s portion by growing or raising her own food, or taking the surplus to market. No true lady would have kept chickens at her back door, but Forde admired the woman’s spirit and drive. Naturally he would not admire her ambition to better herself if it came at Gerald’s expense. One was gumption; the other was greed. He would have to wait to see for himself.
    With the clouds gathering again, the wind increasing, a dampness chilling the air, and still no groom or gardener, Forde decided to see if there was room in the barn for Smoky. He had not come all this way only to return to the inn without speaking to the females and making his decision. Besides, the rain would start soon, and he had no fancy to ride back to the village in a downpour. The smoke he could see rising from the house’s chimneys and its promise of hot tea