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disturbed her before. If she now couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be kissed by Mr Courtenay, it was entirely Sir Barnabas’s fault for putting such notions into her head.
    Glancing once more around the room in search of distraction, she noticed for the first time a door in the wall behind her bed --a connecting door, to Mr Courtenay’s chamber. Painted white, it was almost invisible.
    She slipped out of bed, glad of the green and brown rag rug on the chilly floorboards, and made quite sure the bolts at top and bottom were firmly shot on her side.
    * * * *
    Miles was dressing when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a bath being prepared next door. Miss Wingate was following his example. How fortunate that she was too tall and slender--and far too respectable--to attract him, otherwise he might have been tempted to weave a fantasy about those sounds.
    His gaze wandered involuntarily to the connecting door. He tore it away sternly and concentrated on his neckcloth.
    “Admirable, sir, if I may be so bold.” The cadaverous face of his godfather’s valet brightened until it was merely mournful, instead of lugubrious. “It must be confessed that the late Sir Barnabas took little interest in his attire and continued to wear the styles of the past century until the end. I anticipate with pleasure serving a gentleman conversant with the London fashions.”
    “I don’t aspire to alamodality, Simpkins, merely to making a presentable figure in Society. I trust you’re not expecting a dandy for a master.”
    “Oh no, sir,” said Simpkins, shocked. “We already have one dandy in the house. False calves, sir,” he whispered, “dyed hair, and no doubt you heard his Cumberland corset?”
    “Ah, Simpkins, but Mr Aubrey was a beautiful young man. You and I cannot know what pressures are felt by an aging beauty.” Miles ran a brush over his thick black hair and stood up to allow the valet to help him into his coat.
    “Very true, sir, though I venture to say, sir, that you will never need false calves nor padded shoulders.” He bestowed twin pats of approval on Miles’s robust shoulders. “We shall aim for a neat propriety of dress.”
    “The neatest and most proper Porchester can supply,” Miles promised him, amused by the man’s assumption of their common goal.
    He noticed that Simpkins did not blink at the mention of Porchester rather than London as the source of his clothes. No doubt the servants were acquainted with every detail of the Will by now. He wondered how many would side with himself and Miss Wingate, how many with the family they knew. Sir Barnabas’s Will had suggested that Mrs Chidwell, at least, was less than popular with his staff.
    On the other hand, while servants resented the sort of Turkish treatment they received from Euphemia Chidwell, equally they despised a weak master--or mistress. Miss Wingate, with no experience of ruling a large household, had actually dreaded meeting the butler.
    She also suffered the handicap of the shocking reputation given her by her grandfather. A young man might sow his wild oats and be looked upon with indulgence; a young woman received none of the same tolerance.
    With a last glance at the mirror, Miles went down to the housekeeper’s room.
    When he visited Addlescombe as a child, Mrs Hibbert had been an unfailing source of barleysugar. A brisk, imperturbable woman in her fifties, dressed in black as befit her station, she greeted him with delight.
    “‘Tis that good to see you again, Master Miles, or Mr Courtenay, I should say.”
    “Master Miles will do very well, if I may still call you Hibby.”
    “That you may, sir. Now sit you down and take a dish of tea for you missed drawing-room tea if I’m not mistaken. Or will a glass of wine be more to your liking?”
    “A glass of the home-brewed, if that’s a jug of it I spy on your table.”
    “Nay, ‘tis new cider.”
    “Excellent.” He poured himself a glass of the crystal-clear, pale-gold