narrow nose, sloping forehead, and prominent, some-
what pointed ears depicted in the ancestral portraits
that hung on the wall behind where he sat. Penelope
could read the names off the engraved brass plaques
mounted below each painting: Admiral Percival Racine
Ashton. The Honorable Judge Pax Ashton. Lord Edward
Ashton. The one of Lord Edward was her least favor-
ite of the paintings (although she could not honestly
say she liked any of them); he was a very rotund man
and even the painted-on buttons of his coat looked as
if they wanted to pop off the canvas. She found his
expression decidedly unpleasant and made a point of
averting her smoke-stung eyes from that harsh, heavy-
lidded gaze.
“Of especially naughty children, it is sometimes
said, ‘They must have been raised by wolves,’” Lord
Fredrick finally remarked, tapping his cigar into a
bronze ashtray shaped like a fox. “And, by Jove, these
rascals actually were!”
“I take it,” Penelope said, blinking, “that they are
not your own natural-born children, then?”
“Mine? Certainly not. I don’t know who in blazes
they belong to, nor do I much care to know.” His eyes
glinted with pleasure. “A fascinating trio they are,
though. Suitable for scientific study, what? I suppose
you want to hear the story of where I found ’em.”
“It may be useful in explaining their current con-
dition,” Penelope said, unflinching. She could forgive
the enigmatic coachman, Mrs. Clarke, and even silly
Lady Constance for concealing the truth from her
until after she had accepted the position, but she really
was quite furious that the children had been locked in
the barn. Mrs. Clarke assured her that food and water
was brought in daily and that they had plenty of hay
and the saddle blankets for warmth—but no watercolor
paints? No decks of cards? Not a single book to pass
the time? Granted the children could not yet read, but
surely they could turn pages and admire the illustra-
tions? To Penelope’s way of thinking, it approached the
barbaric.
“Very well, but I warn you, it’s a most unbelievable
tale.” Lord Fredrick leaned back in his armchair. “Miss
Lumley, have you ever gone hunting?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I am rather tenderhearted
about animals, in fact.” She fixed her eyes straight
ahead as she spoke. Except for where the paintings
hung, the walls of the study were completely covered
with stuffed and mounted heads of every imaginable
type of beast—from tiny rabbits to a massive, antlered
elk. Their sightless glass eyes made Penelope feel
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