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asking five hundred sicca rupees for her. That would be over fifty pounds.”
    The vicar cleared his throat, and his wife fanned herself vigorously. Lord Howard noticed and said, “You need not fear I’ve returned a Hindu. I’m still a Christian, Reverend. You’ll see me decorating the family pew come Sunday.”
    At every mention of future dates, Lady Monteith squirmed visibly.
    “A man who has a taste for feminine companionship would do well to consider marriage,” Reverend Russel felt obliged to say.
    “Women are much on my mind,” Lord Howard assured him. “I will be looking sharp about me for a replacement for Jemdanee.”
    “Howard!” Lady Monteith objected. All the other guests looked extremely uncomfortable.
    “Now what has set you to gasping like a bunch of stuck pigs?” Lord Howard demanded. “We are talking about marriage, ain’t we?” As he spoke, he turned his gaze to examine the specimens of English womanhood around the table.
    The Sutton ladies stared at him as if he were a yahoo, and were very thankful they had the protection of their husbands. Mrs. Bright was the next to fall under his gaze. Samantha’s mother was a pretty, delicate lady, bright of eye, dainty in her movements. She was plenty young enough for Lord Howard. Indeed, she considered his fifty-plus years too old to be of interest to her. “Your name was Nora something, if I ain’t mistaken?” he asked.
    “Yes, Nora Bright.”
    “I made sure I recognized those eyes, but I can’t quite recall —are you married?” he asked.
    “I am a widow,” she answered with tolerable composure.
    “Ah, well, that lets you out,” he said bluntly. “And this pretty little lassie is your girl, is she?” he asked, turning to examine Samantha.
    “My daughter, Samantha.” She nodded.
    “A blonde is a welcome change to me after India,” he said, and studied Samantha as if she were a painting. “A nice full cheek, teeth in good repair —a fine buxom lass. Nay, don’t blush, missie.” He laughed. “I shan’t say a word about your figure, though between you and me and the milk jug, I haven’t seen one finer since I left the theater last night.”
    Bewildered, she said, “Thank you,” and looked helplessly around the table.
    “High praise, Uncle,” Monty said. “Can I offer you some wine to kill the taste of that sour orange?”
    Lord Howard shook his head. “It would take more than wine. I’ve brought some mangosteen seeds back with me. We’ll plant them in our conservatory tomorrow.”
    Lady Monteith girded her loins for battle. “The conservatory is full.”
    “You may root out these tasteless melons, if that is where they came from.” Howard reached for a handful of nuts and began cracking them with his bare hands. Between cracking and popping them into his mouth, he turned his attention to the Sutton ladies. “You two girls have managed to trap a husband before now, I daresay?” he asked.
    They were extremely relieved to be able to point to their respective spouses. “There is no accounting for taste,” Lord Howard mumbled, and made four new enemies.
    Reverend Russel felt severe qualms about having this rake loose in his village. “We have several nice widows in Lambrook,” he said.
    Lord Howard shook his head sadly. “Christian though I am, I must say I admire the Hindu’s custom of suttee. Once a woman’s husband is dead, what is left for her? She’s fulfilled the role she was put on the earth for. She is nothing but a weight on the rest of society having to support her. No woman should have to suffer such degradation as that.”
    “Lord Howard!” Mr. Sutton gasped, and looked to the love of his life, the widowed Lady Monteith. “I never heard anything so barbaric in my life! It was my understanding the English are eliminating that savage custom of incinerating widows on the funeral pyre!”
    “Trying to, but the ladies keep leaping into the flames despite our efforts. It is wrong for us to try to impose