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reasonably expect that Lady Livia would not give him this advantage. But there must be some lever he could pull.
    He cut into his sirloin. If he knew a little more about her and her circumstances, it would help, but Masters had had almost no information beyond the address on the letter. He’d somehow fixed upon a mental image of the lady as an elderly, reclusive, country spinster, but what of the children? They didn’t fit the image at all. But surely, if there was a husband on the scene, Masters would have known of it. Could she be a widow?
    He reached for his coffee. Presumably all would be revealed at his first meeting with the lady, and he would adapt his approach according to the circumstances he found.
    He finished his breakfast and went upstairs to his bedchamber. His valet was brushing specks of lint off a coat of dark green superfine. “Nasty weather, m’lord,” he observed, gesturing with the clothes brush towards the dreary prospect beyond the window. It was a typically filthy English winter morning, rain sheeting down from leaden skies that bled all light from the day.
    â€œA few spots of rain could ruin this coat,” he added almost sotto voce. “I’d be taking a hackney m’self.”
    Harry hid a smile. His valet knew perfectly well his master would never take a hackney except in the direst emergency.
    â€œI’m driving, Carton,” he said gently. “I’ll be wearing a driving coat.”
    â€œThat won’t protect your boots,” the man muttered. “Spent hours polishing them, I did.”
    â€œA little rain never hurt anyone,” Harry declared, slipping off his brocade dressing gown and putting his arms into the sleeves of the coat that Carton held for him.
    The valet closed his lips tightly and smoothed out the set of the shoulders. The coat fitted like a glove as the tailor had intended. Light gray doeskin britches and gleaming top boots completed the viscount’s ensemble.
    Harry checked his reflection in the long cheval glass and nodded. There was nothing about his appearance to remind the old retainer of the somberly clad man with a muffler up to his ears, a hat pulled down over his eyes, and a hoarse voice, who a week or so ago had come to inspect the contents of the house for probate. And been turned away empty-handed for his pains. But this time he would at least gain entrance to the house…as long as that insolent maid or companion or whatever she was had taken his card to her mistress and delivered his message.
    He dropped a dainty jade snuffbox into the pocket of his coat, took the voluminous driving coat and hat proffered by Carton, and went lightly down the stairs, almost relishing the prospect of a confrontation with the blue-eyed guardian of the gate.
    â€œSend to the mews for my carriage, Hector,” he instructed the butler, and turned aside into the library.
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    â€œNow, let’s see what we can find to dazzle the viscount with.” Livia bounded energetically to the armoire in Cornelia’s bedchamber. A sullen fire in the grate did something to take the damp chill off the air, but not enough to render the room welcoming. “You mustn’t look remotely like the woman he mistook for a skivvy yesterday.”
    â€œThat won’t be difficult,” Cornelia remarked. “I only need to look clean to achieve that.” She chuckled suddenly. “I’ve thought of an interesting twist to this little plot of ours.”
    â€œOh?” Livia turned from the armoire to look at her.
    â€œYou’ve got that look of the devil in your eye, Nell,” Aurelia accused with a tiny laugh. “What are you plotting?”
    â€œWell, I just thought that it might be more amusing if the viscount is initially led to believe that the woman he insulted yesterday was actually Lady Livia Lacey herself,” Cornelia said. “He’ll ask for Liv at the door, and Morecombe can simply show him