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his eyes. Beneath his pleasant manner lived the cold, hard man who had taken advantage of her brother’s foolishness.
    Isobel stiffened her spine and tried to recapture her formal tone. “Mr. Kensington . . . I should like to take another look at the papers you showed me earlier. I fear I was too taken aback to give them a sufficient perusal.”
    He studied her for a moment, his handsome face unreadable. It was no surprise that he was adept at card games. Unlike her brother, whose every emotion and thought showed on his face, Jack Kensington gave away nothing. “Of course.” He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew the folded papers, extending them to her. “I think you will still find that they are quite in order.”
    Isobel took the documents, unfolding them, and was struck with despair at the familiarity of her brother’s handwriting. She had made no mistake. The flourish of the A in his signature, the bold, careless stroke of the pen, the misspellingof their as Andrew always did—it was his hand. Still, she read through the transfer of deed as well and the repetition of her brother’s signature.
    “Yes. I see.” She lifted her head, keeping her gaze flat and even. “Still, I should like my solicitor to go over the papers.”
    “Of course. Whenever he wishes.” He lifted the documents from her cold fingers, refolding them and settling them back in his pocket.
    “How could you?” Isobel snapped, stung by the indifference of his manner. “How could you have taken advantage of a naive, foolish boy like that?”
    “Foolish?” His eyebrows rose fractionally. “I will grant you Sir Andrew is that. But he is a man, I think, not a boy, and far from naive. I fear you see him through a sister’s fond eyes.”
    “I see my brother quite clearly,” Isobel retorted. “I realize that it takes little to lead him into gambling.”
    “I did not lead him anywhere.” For the first time, a touch of asperity was in Jack’s well-modulated voice. “He was already deep into play before I joined the game.”
    “And you saw that he was ready for the fleecing?”
    “If you are accusing me of cheating your brother, Miss Rose, I can assure you that I did not.” Unlike Isobel’s voice, flaring with heat, Kensington’s was cold as a winter’s night. “Sir Andrew is an inept cardplayer, and he amplifies his poor play by being convinced that he is quite clever at it. It is a common failing among the young blades of London. I won Baillannan fairly, and the fault for dispossessing you from your home lies squarely with Sir Andrew.”
    Isobel clenched her fists, and her cheeks flamed with color. She wanted to rage, to fly at this man with her fists,but years of courtesy—and the truth of his statement—kept her still. She swallowed hard against the anger clogging her throat, reminding herself that she could not afford to antagonize this man. At the moment she was too furious to care if he tossed her out the door, but she had to think of her aunt. “I beg your pardon. You are right, of course. I should not blame you for my brother’s failings. Pray excuse me. I must go inform my aunt.”
    “Your aunt? There is another—”
    “Yes, Aunt Elizabeth lives at Baillannan as well. No doubt you will meet her tonight at supper.” Isobel could not bear to stay here and discuss her deplorable situation any further. Giving him an abrupt nod, she turned and strode from the room.
    She was in too ill a humor to speak with her aunt, but neither could she just walk past the sitting room where Elizabeth sat, so she turned in to the room, forcing her face into more pleasant lines.
    “Isobel!” Aunt Elizabeth looked up, relieved. “Dearest, what is happening? I saw a strange man just now walking down the hall. Who is he? Do I—I don’t know him, do I?”
    “No, Auntie, you’ve never met him. He is the man who arrived earlier this afternoon.”
    “Oh, yes, of course. The friend of Andrew’s. What was his