Yes, Lord Nicholas St. John was most definitely a sign.

The man was an antiquarian—an expert in the history and, more importantly, the value of Grecian marbles. And she just so happened to have a collection of Grecian marbles in need of valuing. And selling. As quickly as possible.

She pushed aside the tiny ache that consumed her each time she considered the plan. This was the only possible solution. She needed money. Quickly. Lord Nicholas could just as easily have been the highly questionable Lord Densmore.

And if he had been, Isabel—and the rest of the women at the Park—would be in serious trouble.

But he wasn’t. She took a deep breath at the thought.

No, he was the answer to their problems.

If her father had left her ten thousand pounds, she couldn’t have been happier.

Well, ten thousand pounds would have made her slightly happier.

But the marbles were worth something—enough to rent a new house and get the girls out of trouble. With any luck, she would have a second Minerva House ready within the week.

She never thought she’d say it, but that magazine was something of a godsend.

She watched as Lord Nicholas read the letter she had drafted that morning. It was really no wonder he had been named a Lord to Land. He was rather a remarkable specimen of manhood. Empirically, of course. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and Isabel knew firsthand that his decimated topcoat hid a muscled bulk that dwarfed most men in Yorkshire, and likely in all of Britain.

But it was not his size that was so clearly his draw. It was his face, lean and handsome. His lips, now set in a firm, strong line, were easy to smile, and his eyes were a lovely blue, a stark contrast to the rest of him, his dark hair and tanned skin. She’d never seen eyes so blue—they were almost stunning enough to make one miss the scar.

And then there was the scar.

It was several inches long, extending from above his right eyebrow diagonally across the upper half of his cheek—a thin, white line that had faded with time. Isabel winced as she imagined the pain it must have brought with it. It ran dangerously close to the corner of one glittering blue eye, so close that he was lucky he hadn’t lost it.

It should have been wicked—a warning—a sign that this man was dangerous and not to be trifled with. And there was a part of Isabel that saw the scar as a manifestation of the intensity that she had seen in Lord Nicholas before he’d tackled her in the street and landed them both out of the way of the horses. But she did not feel fear as she looked at it. Instead, she was desperately curious. Where had he received it? How? When?

“Lady Isabel.” She was shaken from her musings by the sound of her name.

How long had he been waiting for her to respond?

Willing herself not to blush, she met his gaze. “My lord?”

“You are daughter to the Earl of Reddich?”

“Sister to the current one.”

His gaze turned sympathetic. “I had not heard the news of your father. Please accept my condolences.”

Isabel’s eyes narrowed. “Were you acquainted with him?”

He shook his head. “I am afraid we did not move in the same circles.”

She released a breath she had not known she was holding. “No. I don’t imagine you did.”

If he understood her meaning, he did not show it. He lifted the missive she had written. “I am to believe you have a collection of antiquities?”

“There is no collection finer.” She could not keep the pride from her voice. One dark eyebrow rose at the words, and she blushed. “Well, no private collection finer.”

His smile was there, then gone. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It was my mother’s,” she said quickly, as though that made everything clear. “I assure you, it is well worth your time.”

He gave a little nod. “If that is the case, my lady, then I accept your offer to have a look. I’ve something to do this afternoon, but perhaps I could come tomorrow?”

So quickly?

“Tomorrow?” The word came out on a hitch of breath. She had not expected to welcome an appraiser for at least a week—likely more. After all, who would have expected one to be milling about in Dunscroft? What were the odds?

The estate was in no condition to be visited by a man, much less a Londoner. The girls would have to be prepared for his arrival; they would have to be on their best, most discreet behavior when he arrived. A day was not much time. “Tomorrow,” she hedged.

How could she postpone his visit?

“By all means. In fact,” he added with a glance toward the inn, “my man is on his way with our horses. Depending upon the speed of our errand, we might make it this afternoon.”

This afternoon.

“Your man.” She looked over her shoulder in the direction of his gaze, where she saw an enormous man leading a gray and a black toward them. Her eyes widened at his sheer bulk. He was a good six inches taller and several inches broader than the village blacksmith. She’d never seen anyone so large. Or so imposing.

She had to get home. The girls would need fair warning.

Turning back to St. John, Isabel hedged. “My lord—I—I am certain that you have much better things to do with your afternoon than to come and have a look at my marbles. You clearly had plans before I—”

“Nearly got us both killed, yes,” he finished for her. “Well, as luck would have it, we have nothing at all better to do. We would likely have spent the afternoon in search of excitement, but, since you’ve already provided me with quite enough of that, I should very much like to visit your statues.” He paused, registering the trepidation in her eyes. “You are not afraid of Rock, are you? He’s a kitten.”