The Dangerous Lord by Sabrina Jeffries

almost hoped the rumor weren’t true, for a former pirate was sure to be another of those men with groping hands, like Papa’s patrons. But before Papa’s death, he’d said that the Worthings spent most of their time on an island or at sea, which one would expect of a pirate. Papa had considered their long absences a blessing, since it meant they didn’t trouble him during his work. Indeed, they’d been away when he’d taken his fatal dunking in the Thames.
    Suddenly the coach topped a rise and the house leapt into view, banishing all thoughts of her host and hostess. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered, a lump catching in her throat. No wonder the Worthings had been so pleased with it. It was Papa’s best, for certain. He’d always excelled with the Gothic style—the curving lines of the ogee arch, the battlemented parapets, the pointed sashes made to fit the pointed windows. The style’s imposing, irregular elements reflected her imposing and entirely irregular father.
    Tears stung her eyes. Drat him for letting his excesses haul him to ruin! If not for his weakness for the enjoyments only his titled and wealthy friends could afford, he might have left a legacy as great as that of the brilliant Sir Christopher Wren. Instead, he’d left only a nearly destitute family and a few beautiful buildings. Fifty was too young to die. Too, too young.
    The coach arrived at the imposing entrance, and she collected herself, wiping away the tears now dampening her cheeks. It was time to be the daughter of the brilliant Algernon once more—the clever Miss Taylor, the amusing Miss Taylor.
    The penniless Miss Taylor. With a sigh, she braced herself for the servants’ condescension when they saw she’d traveled by hired coach. To her surprise, however, the butler supervising the unloading of her trunk was genuinely friendly. “The gentlemen are out shooting pheasant, miss, and the ladies just now went to join them for luncheon.”
    â€œIn this cold?”
    â€œThey’ve laid a shooting luncheon at a cottage on the estate. My lady said if you arrived in time and weren’t too tired, you’re welcome to join them.”
    She wasn’t tired, but she’d half hoped to wander the main house a while. But she suspected that Lady Worthing would prefer to show the house to her herself. Besides, this wasn’t a holiday—it was work. And the best time to hear gossip was when one’s subjects were relaxed. “I believe I will join them,” she told the butler.
    â€œVery good, miss. The footman will show you the way.”
    Despite the chilly air, the walk was pleasant, affording her a look at the grounds. Though winter had stripped leaves from the foliage and killed the grass, the number of trees and the shapes of the hills led her to think the grounds might be quite fine during summer. A copse startled her gaze in one place, a small, frozen pond glittered like a sapphire in another, and there was a long stand of overreaching oaks that Mama would have liked. Papa had always enjoyed the contrivances of mankind; Mama had preferred the contrivances of nature.
    A short time later, Felicity spotted the hunting cottagethe servant had described. Had Papa built this, too? Not Papa, surely. He hated anything rustic. And a wooden cottage with a thatched roof and barkless tree trunks for a doorframe would certainly have offended his sensibilities.
    The footman ushered her into a scene of warmth and energy. Three men crowded about the substantial fireplace, discussing the advantages of their weapons, while Lady Worthing and another woman chatted in a corner, and the servants bustled about laying a feast of scotch broth, game pies, venison stew, and crusty bread.
    As soon as Lady Worthing spotted her, she came forward with hand extended. “You’re here, after all! When you didn’t come last night, I feared the heavy snow might keep you