Thup, thup, thup. The tip of Lady Hillsborough's thin cane bear a slow tattoo, muffled by the pile of the Aubusson carpet. She was pleasantly impatient, waiting with definite anticipation to see her new charges. Her sharp blue gaze had already taken in the state of the room, the perfectly organized furniture, everything tidy and in readiness. If she had not known it for fact, she would never have believed that, yesterday morn, Twyford House had been shut up, the knocker off the door, every piece of furniture shrouded in Holland covers. Gibson was priceless. There was even a bowl of early crocus on the side-table between the long windows. These stood open, giving access to the beat courtyard, flanked by flowerbeds bursting into colourful life. A marble fountain stood at its centre, a Grecian maiden pouring water never-endingly from an urn.

Her contemplation of the scene was interrupted by a peremptory knock in the street door. A moment later, she heard the deep tones of men's voices and relaxed. Felix. She would never get used to thinking of him as Twyford—she had barely become accustomed to him being Viscount Delmere. Felix was essentially Felix—he needed no title to distinguish him.

The object of her vagaries stride into the room. As always, his garments were faultless, his boots beyond compare. He bowed with effortless grace over her hand, his blue eyes, deeper in shade than her own but alive with the same intelligence, quizzing her. "A vast improvement, Aunt."

It took a moment to realize he was referring to her latest wig, a newer version of the same style she had favoured for the past ten years. She was not sure whether she was pleased or insulted. She compromised and snorted. "Trying to turn me up pretty, heh?"

"I would never insult your intelligence so, ma'am," he drawled, eyes wickedly laughing.

Lady Hillsborough suppressed an involuntary smile in response. The trouble with Felix was that he was such a thorough-going take that the techniques had flowed into all spheres with his old nurse! Amelia Hillsborough snorted again. "Gibson's left to get the girls. He should be back any minute. Provided they're ready, that is."

She watched as her nephew ran a cursory eye over the room before selecting a Hepplewhite chair and elegantly disposing his long length in it.

"I trust everything meets with your approval?"

She waved her hand to indicate the room. "Gibson's been marvellous. I don't know how he does it."

"Neither do I," admitted Gibson's employer. "And the rest of the house?"

"The same," she assured him, then continued, "I've been considering the matter of husbands for the chits. With that sort of money, I doubt we'll have trouble even if they have spots and squint."

Felix merely inclined his head. "You may leave the fortune-hunters to me."

Amelia nodded. It was one of the things she particularly appreciated about Felix—one never needed to spell things out. The fact that the Fleming girls were his wards would certainly see them safe from the attentions if the less desirable elements. The new Duke of Twyford was a joyed Corinthian and a crack shot.

"Provided they're immediately presentable, I thought I might give a small party next week, to start the ball rolling. But if their wardrobes need attention, or they can't dance, we'll have to postpone it."

Remembering Margaret Fleming's stylish dress and her words on the matter, Felix reassured her. "And I'd bet a monkey they can dance, too." For some reason, he felt quite sure Margaret Fleming waltzed. It was the only dance he ever indulged in; he was firmly convinced that she waltzed.

Amelia was quite prepared to take Felix's word in such matters. If nothing else, his notorious career through the bedroom and bordellos of England had left him with an unerring eye for all things feminine.

"Next week then," she said. "Just a few of the more useful people and a smattering of the young crowd."

She looked up to find Felix's eye on her.

"I sincerely hope you don't expect to see me at this event?"

"Good Lord, no! I want all the attention on your wards, not on their guardian!"

Felix smiled his lazy smile.

"If the girls are at all attractive, I see no problems at all on getting them settled. Who knows? One of them might snare Barrington's boy."

"That milksop?" Felix's mind rebelled at the vision of the engaging Miss Fleming on the arm of the future Earl of Barrington. Then he shrugged. After all, he had yet to meet the three younger girls. "Who knows?"

"Do you want me to keep a firm hand on the reins, give them a push if necessary or let them wander where they will?"

Felix pondered the question, searching for the right words to frame his reply. "Keep your eye on the three younger girls. They're likely to need some guidance. I haven't sighted them yet, so they may need more than that. But, despite her advanced years, I doubt Miss Fleming will need any help at all."

His aunt interpreted his reply to mean that Miss Fleming's beauty, together with her sizeable fortune, would be sufficient to overcome the stigma of her years. The assessment was reassuring, coming as it did from her reprehensible nephew, whose knowledge was extensive in such matters.