Lord Randolph Parkhurst nudged aside the heavy velvet drapery and gazed out over the garden. A slight figure, basket over her arm, moved among the neatly planted rows of English wildflowers. Here and there she paused and snipped a flower stem, placed it in her basket, then moved on to another clump of late blooming plants. She was, he knew, Margaret Harris, or Meg, as the servants called her, and she was his Great Aunt Esme's nurse. Or, so she was for the present, but not for much longer as her elderly patient slipped closer and closer to Heaven's gates.

Randolph let the drape fall back into place, went to the liquor cabinet and refilled his glass with brandy. He wrapped his long fingers around the glass and swirled the amber liquid before taking another healthy sip. Too bad about the girl, he thought. Too bad about Aunt Esme. Too bad about me.

Undoubtedly Meg would find someplace else to work. Servants came and servants went, but the Parkhursts stayed exactly where they were put--forever. He vaguely remembered something he was supposed to do on this dreary, gray afternoon, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was. Surely the butler would know, he reasoned.

Randolph walked to the library doors as quickly as he could while under the influence of countless brandies. His hand fumbled at the knob a time or two before he was actually able to grasp it and heave the door open. He used too much force, and it swung back against the wall with a bang. Ignoring the racket, he lurched into the hallway and collided with something.

A female shrieked--not loud, but startling nevertheless.

Randolph took an unsteady step back and narrowed his eyes. "Meg?" Of course it was Meg, he thought, as he eyed the subject of his earlier drunken perusal. She was clinging to the high back of a chair, her hand pasted across her bosom as if she'd seen a ghost. The basket, shears, and flowers lay scattered between them. "Sorry, Meg," Randolph uttered as he awkwardly bent, intending to pick up the basket.

"No." She quickly stopped him. She went down on her knees and hurriedly scooped the fallen blossoms into the basket and retrieved the shears. "There's no harm done, My Lord," she murmured as she rose.

"What? No harm done?" Randolph squinted his eyes as if that small action would clear away the cobwebs of drink and permit him to see her better. She was wearing one of her two gray dresses, he noted. He knew she had two because one of them was worn shiny in the back where she sat, and the other had a neatly mended patch over the elbow. This one sported the patch.

"No. None." She backed away with her basket in front of her like a shield. "I'd better get these upstairs and into water. If you'll excuse me, My Lord." She dipped a graceful curtsey without meeting his eyes.

Why, she acts like she's afraid of me, he thought. Quite likely she was, and Randolph couldn't blame her. He must look a sight himself. He didn't remember bathing in the last fortnight, although he must have. All he really remembered was coming home from Wellington's war and being told his older brother had died while he was gone. He was now the Duke of Bramleigh: his fate was sealed. Then, he had simply walked into the library and started drinking. Oh, yes, he recalled. Somewhere in his drunken quest to forget his brother's death, and the war, he remembered that Meg had two gray dresses.

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