"Nonsense." She smiled insanely, confident I would save Literature Live, congratulating herself on having brought me to England in spite of the Lost Letters embarrassment.

Randolph's door opened.

He had arranged that, after a tour of the festival and a meeting with Nigel, we would discuss my ideas for Newton Priors. His visit provided the incentive necessary to force the business plan into existence. Pages had been finalized that morning in a panic as Vera flitted like a nervous moth, contributing helpful remarks such as, "Randolph must produce an heir; they say the House of Lords will be extinct by the year 2047."

Randolph stepped out of his car. There was no turning back. The unlikely social phenomenon—me mixing with an English lord—was about to happen, plausible or not. And Vera blanched as if it suddenly occurred to her that she might have been wrong. Maybe he did have me mixed up with someone else. "An English lord, for God's sake. In a silver Jaguar," she said, touching my hand.

He locked the car and then ran toward our door. "He's taller than I remember," I said. His hairline had receded since I last saw him and his shirt looked like something my father would wear bowling. Must be really expensive. My hand flew to my mouth as he ran through raindrops. Suddenly, I was in over my head.

"Go." Vera pushed me.

Randolph approached, his gaze lowered and a faint smile graced his lips. He appeared far away in thought. Near the door, he looked up; his brow arched mildly, a peer of the realm coming for me. I grasped the doorknob as our eyes met through the window; his warm smile encouraged me, but the knob left its socket and fell out of my hand. I pointed to the floor. Randolph looked down. I knew then that Jane Austen would never eat me for lunch for the simple reason there would be nothing left to eat after I finished with myself; she'd starve to death if she were counting on me for a meal.

"Oh, the door." Vera rushed over. "Lord Weston, welcome," she said through the glass. "If you don't mind, just pushing on the frame will open the door from your side."

Randolph pushed and the door cooperated.

"These old doors," Vera explained.

"House is full of them." Randolph's easy smile calmed me. "Lily." He reached for me and I gave him both hands, too late to bow or curtsy. I had been right in expecting strong aftershave; it seemed to go with first dates, even when they were business meetings with peers of the realm.

"Vera," he said, extending both hands and kissing her cheeks.

Nigel joined us and quietly offered condolences while I studied Randolph's confident manner, his polished exterior, a man who knew life's secret rules. I slid my eyes sideways to enjoy Vera's reaction. Randolph's face had not fallen when he first saw me.

*   *   *

Vera guided Randolph on a tour of Newton Priors, his ancestral home, engaging the usual suspects, all of whom had been prepped. Although Randolph had grown up around Literature Live, it was his project now, and Vera wanted him to see it in a fresh light. Randolph leered at a volunteer wearing a flimsy, almost see-through gown. Vera dismissed his blatant behavior later, saying, "Their clear understanding of the changing world in 1890 caused the Westons to divert investments to overseas equities and save the family from early extinction. Randolph descended from people who evaluated opportunities; of course he's going to leer at provocative volunteers."

Vera served us to Sixby, who appeared to be leading a last-minute rehearsal of several cast members in the Freezer, something he'd never done. We watched Alex pretend not to know how to deliver his line, and Sixby coach him. "Place the emphasis here," Sixby said, pointing to the script. We watched, in the room where Magda and Archie's unquiet spirits felt especially strong to me, until Vera decided Randolph had seen enough "behind the scenes."

The ballroom appeared to be buzzing with patrons when I recognized people from the volunteer staff posing as tourists. Mrs. Russell had wisely joined her considerable resources with Vera's to save the house. Their partnership implied the obvious truth: no house, no ball. And the ball remained the ultimate goal, in spite of undead Jane Austen's admonitions to the contrary. The appearance of a new male volunteer, conspicuously uncomfortable in period attire, did not escape my notice. Mr. Russell had taken to working the ticket desk on Wednesdays.

Randolph touched my arm, leaning in to speak to me. He treated me gallantly and I grew to expect opening of doors and the pressure of his hand on my back as we entered a room. He couldn't possibly be interested in me—a girl totally lacking in artifice chaperoned by her prickly Jane Austen—but pretending he was made me feel better, even temporarily. "You're not on stage today?" he asked.

I couldn't remember if we had decided on a response to that question when we scripted the afternoon, but Vera, hovering nearby, said, "We recast the scene today to free Lily for meetings." Then she added, "But you'll see her perform Amelia in the tea-theatre."

Randolph winked at me and I began to see a way out of missing Willis. But when the actors took the familiar stage and spoke the familiar lines, I couldn't concentrate because, for one thing, I sat next to the owner of Newton Priors, and for another thing, he was not paying attention. Almost immediately, he began jiggling his knee. He stopped jiggling to shift position, but he started again and completely missed the line when Henry Crawford says: "I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham any more than on the north; I will be master of my own property."

*   *   *

Two full hours past the time we'd set to discuss my business plan, Vera summoned me to Nigel's conference room where Randolph and Nigel were sharing a bottle of wine. They had not attended the tea-theatre.

"I was hopeful the numbers would look better," Randolph said as he swirled his wine.

I accepted the glass Nigel poured for me and took the chair next to Randolph. While they met, I'd rehearsed the basic premise of my business plan: the idea was tourists living in a Jane Austen novel. I ignored my gnawing anxiety he'd not been interested in the festival. Now, Randolph looked at his watch and shoved papers into his portfolio. "I'm afraid we've gone a bit long. And now something's come up in London." He looked at me.

Something had changed while he met with Nigel; the ground had shifted.

"Could I persuade you to join me for dinner another night this week to go over your plan?" he asked.

"That would be fine." I smiled, knowing it would never happen, ripping off a cuticle.

*   *   *

"I expect you're rather busy now," I said as we walked to his car in the gathering dusk, warm and humid after the rain. I couldn't imagine how he spent his days. Vera said people like Randolph sat in the House of Lords, observing august traditions far older than anything in Texas.

"Yes, quite busy."

"Will you take up politics?" I asked, imagining Randolph inheriting a robe, the pesky hairline problem concealed beneath a wig.

"Can't," he said, folding his arms.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Tony Blair. House of Lords Act, 1999." He smiled.

I would have to look it up.

"But I can reserve an excellent table at just about any restaurant." He looked at me as if he noticed my presence for the first time that evening, causing me to wonder where he stood on girls without artifice. "Right now I'd like to take up acting."

"Did you have a chance to look at my plan?" I asked.

"Not yet." He patted his portfolio. "But I will, before we meet again."

Just then, a tourist snapped our photo: Aristocrat and Texas Girl Outside English Manor House with Jaguar.

"Good," I said, "because I have some marketing ideas that might be lucrative for Newton Priors."

"I'm glad to hear that, because I'm quite torn actually," he said as he threw his portfolio on the seat. He looked past me into the evening air where I imagined pieces of torn Randolph floating out of order. "Quite simply, I find I'm the steward of a burdensome asset in which I have no real interest."

My Jane Austen smiled knowingly as I sighed over the unwelcome piece of information. "But it's such a magnificent house," I said.

"So I'm told." Randolph leaned against his car as if we had all the time in the world.

"Do you ever think about living in Newton Priors?" I asked, wondering what the house looked like to someone who'd known it from birth.

"Not a chance," he said, frowning, as if I should have known better. "Nobody lives in these houses."

"Your grandmother was quite fond of it," I said.

"Oh yes, sentimental really. In her backward thinking, the economics would reverse, and all of England would return to an agrarian economy, with servants."

I'd assumed he had servants.

"I don't subscribe to that cult of country house nostalgia," he said.

I didn't hold out much hope that Pippa did, either. "But you said you were torn."

He paused, choosing his words carefully, his hands supporting his weight on the car. "Regardless of my personal inclination, I must be mindful of my stewardship," he said, "to both past and future."

I imagined him at the deathbed, accepting a golden orb from his failing grandmother, while the past—Newton Priors—and the future—equities in Prague—waited nervously, to see what sort of steward he would be.