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never known but whose portrait graced the gallery at Kendicott Park. At least no one could question his birthright.
    He observed Harold’s intent profile now, comparing the strong, evenly proportioned features to his own longish face—all cheekbones, jaws, and knobbly nose. His mother always used to say, “Poor dear, never mind, it’s your mind and heart that people will notice. You were born with all the brains and sensibility your brother seems to lack. He is all Marfleet, excelling at physical prowess but thoughtless and careless about people’s feelings.”
    The comparison had been no comfort to Lancelot during his first years of adulthood. Thankfully, he was past that now, having found solace, as his mother had predicted, in his books and then at Cambridge under the inspirational preaching of Charles Simeon. That encounter had changed his life.
    Lancelot was roused from his reminiscences by his brother’s lazy smile. “That you, Lancelot? Got tired of playing the wallflower at Lady Abernathy’s?”
    Lancelot grimaced. “Especially when you dumped me there and absconded before the coachman had even gone around the block.”
    Harold’s grin only deepened. “I’m only discharging my duty toward you, as I promised Mama. I have no need to procure a wife by the end of the season. It’s enough I take you to these functions. You can’t expect me to endure them.” He picked up his cards and examined them. “Nor is it my fault if you refuse to lift a finger on your own behalf.”
    Impatience rising in him, Lancelot blurted out, “You needn’t trouble yourself anymore. I have met two charming”—at least Miss Phillips fit the description—“young ladies. I think I shall ask Mama to invite them to her dinner party. That should satisfy her.”
    Harold’s golden brows lifted. “What’s this, not one but two young ladies? Don’t tell me, one is cross-eyed and slack jawed and the other weighs fourteen stone.” He guffawed before turning to place his bet.
    Lancelot bit back a retort. It annoyed him that even after all these years, Harold had the ability to rouse his ire. Since boyhood,Harold’s teasing had always gotten a rise out of Lancelot, which only made people point out that his temper matched his hair.
    Only years of disciplining himself through prayer and Scripture reading had helped curb his temper. It was disheartening to think how little he’d progressed and that any self-possession had more to do with having been away from his big brother than any spiritual maturity.
    Exclamations around the table drew Harold’s attention back to the play, and Lancelot was forced to sit back once more and wait.
    An hour later when Harold was ready to leave, his pockets flush, he brought the subject of the two young ladies up again.
    In the meantime, Lancelot had had plenty of time to repent his loose tongue. What had he been thinking of? Of course he wouldn’t invite the two young ladies to dinner. As they drove home in his brother’s curricle, Harold chuckled. “So, you’ve set your eyes upon two lovelies? Do give me the particulars.”
    “I’ve done no such thing.” Lancelot turned away with little hope that Harold would let the matter rest. “They are just two young ladies in London for the season and scarce know a soul. I took pity on them.”
    Harold’s lips curled upward. “Always the compassionate clergyman.” He glanced sidelong at him, clucking his tongue. “Taking pity on them won’t fadge with Mama. You’d best take my advice and tell her you fancy yourself violently in love with at least one of them. It will put her in alt, and you may do as you please for the rest of the season.”
    Lancelot shoved his hands in his pockets, resigned to hearing Harold’s unwelcome advice until he tired of the topic.
    Jessamine and Megan joined Lady Bess in the breakfast room late the next morning. The older lady greeted them with a cheerful smile from her place at the round table at the back of the