Muttering an oath, Sir Develin Dundrake rose abruptly from the desk in the study of his country house. Crossing the oak-paneled room to the French doors leading to the terrace, he watched in amazement as a lone female marched along the pebble path toward Dundrake Hall. Judging by her ugly ensemble and determined air, the woman had to be some local busybody bent on asking for a charitable contribution. Why else would such a creature venture forth on this cool, misty autumn morning? And did she not know better than to approach the manor house from the garden?

Whoever she was and whatever she wanted, he was in no mood to be harassed by an overbearing female, however noble her cause. He already gave a considerable sum to several charities of his own choosing and he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days.

He looked out again to see where she was—and nearly jumped out of his skin. She stood just outside the French doors looking into the study like Banquo’s ghost.

A surprisingly young, not terribly homely ghost, in spite of that ghastly pelisse the color of dung and droopy straw bonnet.

He strode to the doors and wrenched them open. “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded.

With a little gasp of surprise, the young woman took a step back, giving him the upper hand, or so he thought until an expression of determined resolve came to her not-quite-homely features. Her arched brown eyebrows lowered over storm-gray eyes, the nostrils of her slender nose flared and her full lips thinned before she replied in an unexpectedly husky voice, “Good morning, Sir Develin. You are Sir Develin Dundrake, I assume.”

“Visitors should call at the front entrance,” he replied without any attempt at courtesy or directly answering her query.

“Have I the honor of addressing Sir Develin Dundrake?”

Was that sarcasm in her voice? “Yes, I’m Sir Develin,” he said shortly, and with slightly better grace. If she was here on a charitable mission, he was wrong to be rude, even if she didn’t observe the rules of etiquette.

“I beg your pardon for not calling at the main entrance,” the young woman answered, her tone conveying neither remorse nor regret. “I intended to walk around to the front until I saw you. Given that my business with you is of a very personal nature, I decided it wouldn’t be amiss to speak to you directly and in private.”

No doubt she’d decided. She seemed nothing if not decided, and unfortunately for her, that was not a point in her favor. His father had been decisive, too. As for any business of a personal nature, he’d never seen her before in his life, of that he was certain. He would remember those large eyes and full lips, if nothing else.

Nevertheless, there was something about her that seemed familiar...

“May I come inside?” she asked. “Or if you would rather remain where you are, I have no objection. However, I must and shall speak with you today, Sir Develin, whether in your garden or your house.”

No matter how resolute this woman was, he could easily have her removed from the premises and charged with trespassing, too.

Yet he did not. What he did next surprised him then and ever afterward. He opened the door wider and stepped aside to let her enter.

The young woman walked into his study and stopped in front of the marble hearth. A portrait of his father hung over it and she regarded it as if fascinated. Sir Randolf Dundrake had been painted seated at the desk that still dominated the room, one hand curled in a fist, the other on a book, even though he hadn’t read a book since he’d left school some thirty years before the portrait was painted. The only background was a dark curtain, making his pale, hard face stand out like a mask. His black hair was thick, like his son’s, and brushed back from a high forehead. He had the same brown eyes and strong jaw as his son, too, but thank God Dev hadn’t inherited his father’s thin lips and wide nose.

The young woman turned toward him. “That isn’t you.”

“No, it is not,” he confirmed, wondering if he should ring for the butler. Perhaps it would be wise to have another person in the room.

He started toward the bell pull.

“I am Lady Theodora Markham.”

God help me. Trying to calm his suddenly racing heart, Dev took a deep breath and slowly swiveled on his heel to face her. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

He’d heard her as clearly as if she’d been standing right beside him, but he needed time to think.

“I am Sir John Markham’s daughter. I’m sure you recall the name. My father lost a great deal of money gambling with you in London a fortnight ago.”

Recall the name? He couldn’t forget it or Sir John Markham. More than once Dev had suggested ending their game, but Sir John had insisted they continue playing even after he began losing, going so far as to call Dev a poor loser and a coward for wanting to quit. They had played on until the man had lost all the money he’d had with him and written Dev several promissory notes. The game had finally ended when Dev realized the man would never willingly quit. Ignoring Sir John’s increasing scornful remarks, he’d finally walked away from the table.

Since that night, he’d been half expecting Sir John to appear on his doorstep to plead for time to pay his debt. That would have been bad enough, but to send a female relative to plead in his stead, even one as apparently self-possessed as this, was the act of a blackguard.

However, the question now was, how was he to deal with this forthright relative?

Before he could come to any conclusion, she spoke again, her tone just as forceful. “In fact, Sir Develin, he lost all his remaining funds except for a very small sum that was in my keeping at the time.”

Although

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