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any money toward Chantelle’s support, any of her own money. He had obviously thought Ellen was well enough situated to support them both, or he simply didn’t care. She had had to disabuse him of that notion finally. Pride was pride, but it didn’t put food on the table. Her own inheritance from her father had long ago been reduced to a very modest income, adequate only for one. But several months had passed and Charles still had not answered her letters. And now he was in London again, squandering Chantelle’s money on his own family while Ellen pinched pennies and sold heirlooms to keep Chantelle from discovering the truth about the appalling predicament her father had bequeathed her.
    No, to be fair, Ellen thought, it wasn’t her brother’sfault. When his heir, their older cousin, had died, Oliver had made every effort to discover the whereabouts of the younger cousin, who was by default his new heir to the baronetcy. That Oliver had died, too, before Charles was found could not have been foreseen. Nor could Oliver have known what a wastrel Charles was, or he would have made suitable arrangements for Chantelle instead of leaving no stipulation at all—which left Charles, as her only male relative, her lawful guardian.
    At least Chantelle had Ellen. With the twenty years’ difference in their age, Chantelle was more like a daughter, though Ellen had not helped to raise her. She had always been traveling during Chantelle’s younger years, and when she did finally settle down, it was not to come home to live with her brother and his family. She was too independent for that. She had bought this cottage in Norfolk, where she had lived these past ten years, alone. It was how she liked it, though she hadn’t minded at all Chantelle’s coming to stay with her when Oliver died. She loved the girl dearly.
    Ellen had no children of her own, which was perhaps why she felt so close to her brother’s only child. By her own choice, she had never married. She was a plain-looking woman of thirty-nine, with light brown hair and blue eyes that were her best feature. She had been asked to marry. She had even had several love affairs that she remembered fondly, so it wasn’t that she didn’t like men. She just didn’t want to live with one. She liked her independence too much.
    Perhaps it hadn’t been wise to keep Chantelle with her for the past year and a half. Chantelle had learned to be independent as well. That was finefor a woman who didn’t plan to marry, but Chantelle would marry.
    Unlike Ellen, who had the unremarkable Burke looks, Chantelle was the lone flower in the weed patch who took after her mother’s French side of the family. Oliver had always claimed she was the image of her maternal grandmother, who was reputed to have been the mistress of kings, a rare beauty in the French court. Chantelle was even named after her. And it was true she looked nothing like a Burke with her platinum-blond hair and striking eyes the color of spring violets. She might not be small and delicate, but she wasn’t too tall at five and a half feet either. She was too lovely by half, actually, certainly too lovely for men to ignore. She would be able to have her pick of beaux. She would be able to marry well—if she ever got the chance with Charles Burke as her guardian.
    Ellen sighed. If that man didn’t answer her letter soon, she would have to think seriously about taking Chantelle to London herself. She deserved to have her season, to be brought out in a style befitting her means and station. If Charles tried to deny her that, as it seemed he was doing with his lack of communication, he would have a fight on his hands. Ellen still had enough friends and influence in London to make things very unpleasant for her American cousin if he didn’t own up to his responsibilities.
    “Aunt Ellen, I’m back!” Chantelle called suddenly from the kitchen, and a moment later stepped into the parlor. “I found a nice chunk of beef for