They had reached the gates of the Park and turned into the carriage drive. Soon, the curricle was bowling along at a steady pace under the trees, still devoid of any by the earliest leaves. A light breeze lifted the ends of the ribbons on Margaret's hat and playfully danced along the horses' dark manes.

Felix watched as Margaret gazed about her with interest. "I'm afraid you'll not see many notables at this hour. Mostly nursemaids and their charges. Later, between three and five, it'll crowded. The Season's not yet begun in earnest, but by now most people will have returned to town. And the Park is the place to be seen. All the old biddies come here to exchange the latest on-dits and all the young ladies promenade along the walks with their beaux."

"I see." Margaret smiled to herself, a secret smile as she imagined how she and her sisters would fit into this scene.

Felix saw the smile and was puzzled. Margaret Fleming was decidedly more intelligent than the women with whom he normally consorted. He could not guess her thoughts and was secretly surprised at wanting to know them. Then, he remembered one piece of viral information he had yet to discover. "Apropos of my uncle's plan to marry you all off, satisfy my curiosity, Miss Fleming. What do your sisters look like?"

This was the question she had been dreading. Margaret hesitated, searching for precisely the right words with which to get over the difficult ground. "Well they've always been commonly held to be well to pass."

Felix notes the hesitation. He interpreted her careful phrasing to mean that the other three girls were no more than average. He nodded, having suspected as much, and allowed the subject to drop.

They rounded the lake and he slowed his team to a gentle trot. "As your guardian, I've made certain arrangements for your immediate future." He noticed the grey eyes had flowed to his face. "Firstly, I've opened Twyford House. Secondly, I've arranged for my aunt, Lady Hillsborough, to act as you chaperon for the Season. She's very well-connected and will know exactly how everything should be managed. You may place complete confidence in her advice. You will remove from Guile's tomorrow. I'll send my man, Gibson, to assist you in the move to Twyford House. He'll call for you at two tomorrow. I presume that gives you enough time to pack?"

Margaret assumed the question to be rhetorical. She was stunned. He had not known they existed at nine this morning. How could he have organized all that since ten?

Thinking he may as well clear all the looming fences while he was about it, Max added, "As for funds, I presume your earlier arrangements still apply. However, should you need any further advances, as I now hold the purse-strings of your patrimonies, you may apply directly to me."

His last statement succeeded in convincing Margaret that it would not be wise to underestimate this Duke. Despite having only since this morning to think about it, he had missed very little. And, as he held the purse-strings, he could call the tune. As she had foreseen, life as the wards of a man as masterful and domineering as the present Duke of Twyford was rapidly proving to be was definitely not going to be as inferred as they had imagined would be the case with his vague and easily led uncle. There were, however, certain advantages in the changed circumstances and she, for one, could not find it in her refine.

More people were appearing in the Park, strolling about the lawns sloping down to the river and gathering in small group by the carriageway, laughing and chatting.

A man of slight stature, mincing along beside the carriage drive, looked up in startled recognition as they passed. He was attired in a bottle-Green coat with the most amazing amount of frogging Margaret had ever seen. In place of a cravat, he seemed to be wearing a very floppy bow around his neck. "Who on earth was that quiz?" she asked.

"The quiz, my dear ward, is nine other than Albert Harrington, one of the food. In spite of his absurd clothes, he'd unexceptionable enough but he has a sharp tongue so it's wise for young ladies to stay on his right side. Don't laugh at him."

Two old ladies in an ancient landau were staring at them with an intensity which in lesser persons would be considered rude.

Felix did not wait to be asked. "And those are the Misses Henley. They're as. Old as bedamned and know absolutely everyone. Kind would. One's entirely vague and the other's sharp as needles."

Margaret smile. His potted histories were entertaining.

A few minutes later, the gates came into view and Felix headed his team in that direction. Margaret saw a horseman pulled up by the carriage drive a little way ahead. His face clearly registered recognition of the Duke's curricle and the figure driving it. M then his eyes passed to her and stopped. At five and twenty, Margaret had long grown used to the effect she had on men, particularly certain sorts of men. As they drew nearer, she saw that the gentleman was impeccably attired and had the same rakish air as the Duke. The rider held up a hand in greeting and she expected to feel the curricle slow. Instead, it flashed on, the Duke merely raising a hand in answering salute.

Amused, Margaret asked, "And who, pray tell, was that?"

Felix was thinking that keeping his friends in ignorance of Miss Fleming was going to prove impossible. Clearly, he would be well-advised to spend some time planning the details of this curious seduction, or he might find himself with rather more competition than he would wish. "That was Lord Westleigh."

"A friend of yours?"

"Precisely."

Margaret laughed at the repressive tone. The husky sound ran tingling along Felix's nerves. It flashed into his mind that Margaret Fleming seemed to understand a great deal more than one might expect from a woman with such decidedly restricted past. He was prevented from studying her face by the demands of successfully negotiating their exit from the Park.

They were just swinging out into the traffic when an elegant barouche pulled up momentarily beside them, heading into the Park. The thin, middle-aged woman, with a severe, almost horsy countenance, who had been languidly lying against the silken cushions, took one look at the curricle and sat bolt upright. In her face, astonishment mingled freely with rampant curiosity. "Twyford!"

Felix glanced down as both carriages started to move again. "My lady." He nodded and then they were swallowed up in the traffic.

Glancing back, Margaret saw the elegant lady remonstrating with her coachman. She giggled. "Who was she?"

"That, my ward, was Molly Humphrey. A name to remember. She is the most inveterate gossip in London. Hence her nickname of Silence. Despite that, she's kind-hearted enough. She's one of the seven patronesses of Almack's. You'll have to get vouchers to attend but I doubt that will be a problem."

They continued in companionable silence, threading their way through the busy streets. Felix was occupied with imagining the consternation Lady Humphrey's sighting of them was going to cause. And there was Westleigh, too. A wicked smile hovered on his lips. He rather thought he was going to spend a decidedly amusing evening. It would be some days before news of his guardianship got around. Until then, he would enjoy the speculation. He was certain he would not enjoy the speculation. He was certain he would not enjoy the north of his friends when they discovered the truth.