CHAPTER ONE

One year later

Peering over the rail and down the stairs, Delaney watched Miss Pursglove disappear through the front door. If nothing else, that horrid woman was punctual about her morning errands.

The moment Hershwell, their head butler, closed the door with a click, the air seemed to lift instantly. Delaney drew in a satisfying breath, turned on her heel, and headed in the direction of the morning room.

Buckley was already at his post. Hunched over the gilded writing desk, his pale halo of curls moved in time with the feverish scratching of the quill over the page in the ledger. They’d been meeting in secret each morning for the past few weeks. Of course, it wasn’t common practice to teach one’s servant a trade. For that matter, it most definitely wasn’t common to hire a youth with only one arm to perform the duties of a groom—or tiger, rather. But Buckley wasn’t like anyone else. While he was only eleven years old, he seemed to possess a streak of determination that rivaled hers.

“Your report, Mr. Simms,” Delaney said as she moved behind him and looked over his figures.

“I heard Mr. Croft speaking to Lord Everhart. He said that his last horse was a real bone-setter. So I expect he’ll be at Tattersalls this morning.” Impertinent as ever, Buckley didn’t even look up but dipped the quill into the inkpot and continued his accounting lesson. “After that, to Thomas & Bailey’s for a new coat, as he’ll be escorting two of his sisters to the Sumpters’ musicale later this week.”

Good and good. It should be easy to avoid Mr. Croft this week.

Buckley was also exceptional for his uncanny ability to blend in with his surroundings—a talent Delaney never possessed. It made him the perfect spy. She’d been employing him to keep her abreast of all of Mr. Croft’s social activities since last Season. After the incident at her debut, she couldn’t risk being seen with that particular gentleman without dredging up the past horror. Not one candidate had been tempted enough by her dowry to overlook it. Nevertheless, she’d come up with a plan.

The idea had started years ago. After constant reminders that she was little more than a living, breathing pile of money, Delaney wondered why she couldn’t use her fortune to her own advantage. More than anything, she wanted to live a life of her own choosing. Regrettably, her dowry made that impossible without a husband. Her fortune would only be released once she married. Even then, freedom was not guaranteed, unless . . . she could find a gentleman who was willing to sign a contract, discharging half the sum to her.

The problem was that finding such a gentleman was not at all simple for a societal pariah. The entire matter required discretion. Therefore, in order to find herself a husband this Season, she needed to stay clear of the gossip pages. Which meant she absolutely must avoid Mr. Croft.

It was imperative, especially now that much more than her own financial freedom was at stake. Her plan had altered the moment she’d first met Buckley.

Surprisingly enough, she could credit her father for that. If it hadn’t been for his tendency to lose his temper, she never would have discovered Warthall Place. After her father had scared off the last two maids—who’d both had brothers employed as young grooms, or tigers—Delaney had gone to Mrs. Hunter’s agency to look into the servant registry. As it was, Mrs. Hunter had run out of candidates for tigers. And that was when she directed Delaney to Mr. Harrison at Warthall Place.

The children of Warthall Place were not born with the privileges Delaney had once taken for granted. Most were crippled and poor, abandoned by their parents and society. Mr. Harrison wanted to change their circumstances because he’d been born with a clubfoot, yet had been given the chance to prove himself. He’d spent his life in service until his benefactor died, leaving him the sole proprietor of Warthall Place. Soon after, his purpose had shifted to finding others like him and giving them a sense of purpose. In a way, he’d given Delaney a sense of purpose as well.

“Watch that you don’t mistake those nines for fours,” Delaney said, pointing to the middle of the page where Buckley had done just that.

He cursed under his breath but immediately started a fresh column.

“Language, Mr. Simms,” she said with a tsk. Yet even as her words came out, a shudder coursed through her. Blast it all! She sounded like Miss Pursglove.

Buckley’s head jerked up. He scanned the room and then looked at her. “You gave me a right proper fright. I thought ol’ Miss Gloom and Doom was here.”

Delaney fought the urge to smile. “Mr. Harrison would not like to know that one of his charges forgot his manners, would he?”

His shoulders slumped, the empty sleeve of his livery coat drooping. “No, miss.”

She reached out and ruffled his curls, directing his attention back to the ledger. Apparently, her heart had a weakness for impertinent towheaded boys. “Since Mr. Croft will be absent from the park this morning, I’m going for a walk. Finish that column and then leave the ledger in my room before Miss Pursglove returns.”

Griffin Croft carefully avoided the squeaky bottom stair that usually gave him away. Stepping onto the foyer rug, he headed for the door, pausing only to take his top hat.

“Ah, Griffin. There you are,” his mother said, unexpectedly appearing in the doorway of his father’s study. The woman had ears like a bat. Likely, the whisper of beaver pelt across the glossed rosewood had alerted her to his location. “I sent your sisters to find you, but I see you managed to evade them once again.”

While their home on upper Brook Street was large by townhouse standards, it still did not offer him the tiniest space for a moment of solitude. Of course, he could easily move to his own home, but the truth of the matter was . . . they needed him.

Slyly, he tucked his hat behind his back and returned it to the round table. “I must not have heard them.”

Octavia Croft wasn’t fooled for an instant. Those dark eyes of hers bored directly through his pretense. Beneath the hem of the blue morning dress draped over her plump figure, the toe of her slipper tapped against the floor. “As you know, I’m making the final adjustments to the guest list for the twins’ debut.”

He swallowed. This was precisely the reason he’d wanted to escape. She wanted to know if there was anyone special that he’d like to invite.

There wasn’t.

More than anything, he wanted to give his mother a name, if only to ease her constant worry. Father’s health was failing. After his last heart seizure, it had become harder for him to catch his breath. The title, lands, and responsibility that went with becoming the Earl of Marlbrook were closer than Griffin would have liked. The importance of his finding a bride, producing an heir, and securing the futures of his four younger sisters was foremost on everyone’s mind.

His mother seemed to read the answer in his expression and let out a sigh. Retreating into the study, she smoothed the variegated brown and gray strands of hair toward the heavy bun at her nape.

“I was thinking that perhaps a walk in the park would inspire me,” he said, following her.

His father was there in the study, sitting by the fire with a wool blanket over his lap. The leather upholstered wingback chair had always been a focal point of this room, looking much like a throne and his father a king. Yet now, his father—who’d always been larger than life—had grown thin, his cheeks pale and drawn. The silk morning jacket hung over his shoulders, and the collar of his shirt gaped, exposing paper-thin flesh and the blue veins beneath.

“Good morning, sir,” Griffin said, glad to see him out of the sickbed. Part of Griffin wished he were less pragmatic and dared to hope his father would make a full recovery. Unfortunately, he knew it was only a matter of time.

His father smiled with affection and lifted his reedy hand for Griffin to take. “I agree. A walk might be just the thing,” his father said, giving him an encouraging pat. “Besides, you’ll want to find a bride who enjoys walking out of doors as much as you do.”

“What about that charming Miss Culpepper? She’s only two doors down, and I see her walking with her maid in tow quite often,” his mother chimed in, sitting at the desk with paper and quill at the ready.

His father made a sound. “Sickly gel. Walks with her nurse to improve her constitution. She doesn’t get further than two doors before she has to turn back around. Not likely she’ll produce any sons.”

Under normal circumstances, this conversation would have made Griffin color. Discussing his need to produce a male heir in the presence of both his father and mother was not common practice. However, in the past eighteen months, it had become such a common occurrence that he actually caught himself nodding in agreement with his father’s logic.

Griffin shook his head. Clearly, he needed fresh air now more than ever. A trip to Tattersalls to find a decent horse that didn’t rattle his teeth each time he rode was necessary as well.

Before he could take his leave, his mother spoke again. “What about that Miss Danvers I saw at the end of last season? She was quite healthy-looking and pretty, in an unassuming way.”

“I believe she’s spoken for, my dear,” his father said.

“No, you must be thinking of her friend, Miss Wakefield. It’s rumored that she has been engaged for quite some time . . .” His mother scratched Miss Danvers’s name onto the list.

His father scrubbed a hand over his jaw, his dark blue gaze turning thoughtful. “I’m certain of it. The way that Rathburn fellow hovers around her . . . well, if he hasn’t proposed yet, he will very soon.”

“There’s always Miss Leeds,” Phoebe, the elder of the twins, said as she walked into the study, as if this conversation were a family affair. Sure enough, Asteria, the match to the set, followed her.

Perhaps he should ask his great-uncle, the Earl of Marlbrook, to bring up the topic in Parliament. Griffin closed his eyes and blew out a breath. Why not? The man already saw him as a complete failure, so this shouldn’t make the least bit of difference.

“Gads, no!” Asteria said, plopping down on the tufted hassock at father’s feet. “Have you heard Miss Leeds laugh? I couldn’t bear it, even if I had to endure her only for family dinners.”

“True.” Phoebe clasped her hands behind her back as she peered over their mother’s shoulder at the list. “And not Miss Danvers. I’m certain she’s spoken for.”

Their father cleared his throat to hide a chuckle.

Their mother took offense, pointing the tip of her quill sharply to the paper. “She is not yet engaged.”

“Yes, but have you seen Lord Rathburn?” Asteria sighed as she fiddled with the looped braids on either side of her head, making sure her chestnut tresses were in place. “Griffin wouldn’t stand a chance.”

For that, he tweaked one braid. It pulled free of the twisted configuration at her nape. She stuck out her tongue, proving to him that his sisters were far too young to be out in society.

“Your brother is five times more handsome than Lord Rathburn,” his mother declared, soothing his slightly bruised ego.

Mischief glinted in Phoebe’s dark eyes. “You only say that because you’re his mother. Besides, he’s . . . Griffin. No wonder he’s having trouble finding a bride.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His mother, father, and the twins exchanged a look.

“You have to admit that you’re rather particular.” This proclamation came from the doorway as Calliope—the eldest of his sisters—walked in, her gaze lifted up from her book just enough to keep her from stumbling over the fringed edge of the carpet. “After all, Miss Ambry was the toast of the Season last year, yet you said her eyes were too plain and her smile too brittle.”

Tess, the youngest, skipped in next, her honey colored tresses held in place by a crown made of blooming purple chives and yellow daffodils. “You only danced with her once. Mother told me.”

Oh, good. Now everyone is here at last. No need for Parliament after all.

“Then there was Miss Langfeld,” Calliope added as she turned the page and settled into the window seat. A lock of dark golden hair fell unnoticed across her forehead. “I believe you said she was too quiet and prone to blushing.”

Exasperated, Griffin looked to his father, only to see him grinning from ear to ear, his shoulders vibrating with barely concealed laughter. Et tu, Father?

George Croft coughed and attempted a stern expression. “A man knows when a man knows. Now, we just need to give Griff some space in order to find the one who suits him best.”

“Oooh! Phoebe and I have that all figured out,” Asteria announced, jumping up from the hassock.

When all eyes turned to Phoebe, she grinned in a way that filled Griffin with dread. The twins were too mischievous by half. How could his parents think to unleash them on society? They were only eighteen. Besides that, Calliope was not yet married . . . although she’d decided long before she’d reached three and twenty that she would never marry. Not after what had happened in Bath, at any rate.

In addition, it didn’t help matters that his mother was bound and determined to plan a wedding by year’s end. Especially now that the daughter of her younger sister would be married soon. At least one of Octavia Croft’s own children was getting married—she’d make sure of it.

“Since we are about to grace society with our presence,” Phoebe began, grinning like a devil, “we thought it only right to know beforehand how to decide which man we want to have pursuing us.”

“Or rather, which two men,” Asteria corrected, looking rather impish herself.

“I believe you have it the other way around, girls,” their father corrected, regal wisdom in his tone. “The man is the one who decides which woman will make the best wife for him.”

The women in the room exchanged sly smiles. Curious, Griffin sought Calliope’s gaze for confirmation. She tilted her head in something of a shrug, as if refusing to be the one to shatter their father’s illusions, and went back to her book.

He shook his head, more inclined to his father’s way of thinking than that of the Croft women. After all, it was the man’s responsibility to protect and guide the fairer sex. However, he was a gracious enough brother not to point out their patently flawed notions.

“And how would you have asked me to dance that first time, if I hadn’t dropped my fan at your feet, hmm?” Octavia asked, lifting her brows at her husband. “Then I had my mother invite you to dinner. It was only later, when I took you on a tour of the gallery, that you were finally bold enough to hold my hand.”

His father blinked. “If I remember correctly, you said your hand was cold.”

“Did I?” She beamed. “I don’t recall.”

“Saucy minx,” George murmured with affection.

Phoebe cleared her throat. “Clearly, a young woman sends a gentleman signals, indicating her interest. Dropping a fan at his feet and adding his name to the invitation list are more obvious examples.”

“But we could just as easily flatter a gentleman’s appearance,” Asteria added. “Or send a compliment of his character by way of his sister.”

“Then, perhaps remark on his mother’s fine sense of style in order to gain an invitation to an intimate family dinner.”

Calliope looked up from her book. “She will also dissuade his pursuit of any other woman, but in a way that does not make her own character appear lacking.”

“She might even put herself in the path of danger, simply to have you come to her rescue,” Tess added with a dreamy sigh, which earned her a frown from their mother. Thankfully, this one was only thirteen and had plenty of time to lose those fanciful notions.

“All right, girls,” their father said. “I think your brother has heard enough advice for one morning. I know I have. More and more, I’m beginning to wonder if I know my own mind or if I was just a lamb to the slaughter all these nine and twenty years.”

Octavia Croft pressed her lips together to hide her smile. “Listen to your father, dears. Now, your brother is going on a walk through the park. I imagine he won’t wait above ten minutes for any of you to join him.”

When his mother’s gaze met his, he instantly saw where the twins received their penchant for mischief. He exhaled a short sound of impatience through his nostrils but nodded his acquiescence. “Eight minutes,” he announced and watched as all four of his sisters leapt from their places, rushed through the study door, and clambered up the stairs to make ready.

So much for his idea of clearing his head during a pleasant, quiet walk. Tattersalls would have to wait as well. At least at this hour, his sisters were the only terrors he was likely to encounter.

The instant Delaney saw Griffin Croft turn onto the path ahead of her, she stopped cold.

Buckley, she scolded silently, you assured me he would be at Tattersalls!

She wasn’t prepared to see Mr. Croft so soon. This was her first glimpse of him in months, since last Season. Not that she gave him much thought.

“Why have you stopped?” Bree asked with an exasperated huff. Even frowning did not detract from her ever-annoying beauty. “If you’ll recall, this walk was your idea, not mine.”

“I think we’ve gone far enough for today.”

Fortunately, Bree had turned just enough not to notice the gentleman approaching, along with those who were most likely his sisters. Equally as fortunate, the man himself had his head turned in conversation and therefore had not seen Delaney. At least, not yet.

She hadn’t a moment to lose.

Bree huffed again, as if it took every ounce of strength simply to stand upright. “I’d much rather return home and perhaps drop by the sweet shop for a peppermint stick.”

“You’d waste your pin money on sweets?” Delaney always looked for a way to turn her money into something of value. Of purpose. When it came to store credit, however, she had no trouble spending her father’s money. Because, when she spent enough of it, he would call her into his study, demanding to know what items she’d bought. This was the only time he listened to her. The only time she had the chance to discuss the importance of a proper wardrobe. And if the argument didn’t escalate to window-shattering proportions, she might even have the opportunity to talk to him about the children of Warthall Place and Mr. Harrison’s mission. She hoped her tenacity would wear him down eventually. After all, she had convinced him to hire Buckley.

“Not my money,” Bree answered with a smirk. “I was hoping you’d waste yours, since your allowance is far greater.”

“Fine,” she agreed, but only because they must hurry. Delaney most definitely could not be seen with Mr. Croft.

Prepared to head back the way they’d come, they turned on the path. Yet in the same instant, a sudden gust of wind whipped around the tree line. Delaney’s bonnet went flying. With a startled exclamation, she reached for it but was too late. Caught by another gust, it rolled away. Ribbons flailing, it continued down the path like a spinning top on a slanted table.

“Your hat!” Bree began to turn, but Delaney grabbed her arm.

“No. Leave it. I . . . I’ll get a new one. We’ll stop by the milliner’s on the way. And I saw a lovely shade of cerise ribbon at Haversham’s the other day. Perhaps . . .” Her maniacal ramblings were to no avail.

Bree turned on the path anyway. “Oh, look it’s Mr. . . .” Awareness dawned on a gasp. “Oh, dear.”

“Precisely,” Delaney whispered. Now, it was no use. They’d been spotted. First, her bonnet had betrayed her, and then her sister. She expected it of the latter, but not so much the former. It was a heavy blow.

“Miss Pursglove is forever warning you about tying your ribbons,” Bree admonished.

Delaney gritted her teeth. “Which is precisely why I never do.”

Appalled, she watched her bonnet finally stop directly—of all places—at Mr. Croft’s feet. She looked up to the heavens and prayed for a sudden deluge or something that would make fleeing the scene a necessity. Unfortunately, the sky was uncommonly clear and bright. More’s the pity.

At least when he stood erect, she was rewarded with his look of utter dread upon seeing the owner of the bonnet, now in his grasp.

Oh, yes. Hullo. You might not remember me, but I’m the young woman who cast up her accounts and her dignity all over your shoes on the night we met.

And just like that night, all she could do was stand there and gape in horror.

“It’s like the story of Mother’s fan,” she heard one of the girls say as they approached.

Whatever it meant, the alarm in Mr. Croft’s expression took on a new dimension. His steps slowed as if he were approaching the gallows. She, on the other hand, would rather hurry him along. Best to get this over with sooner rather than later.

She took a step and then two, her chest feeling suddenly tight, her heart close to bursting under the pressure. “Thank you, Mr. Croft,” she said when they were at a close enough distance for conversation. “You didn’t have to go out of your way for my bonnet.” Anyone else’s but mine.

“Oh, but he did,” the youngest of his sisters said, answering for him. “Mother named us all with purpose. Griffin is a guardian and protector. I’m certain that applies to stray bonnets.”

Caught off guard by the exuberance of the girl wearing a crown of flower blossoms, Delaney smiled. “Is that so?”

The girl stepped forward, a gleam of familial pride in her eyes as she gestured to each of her sisters. “The one holding the book is the oldest of us girls. Mother says her first cry was so beautiful that she named her Calliope.”

Mr. Croft cleared his throat and settled a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Miss McFarland, you must forgive my manners. Please allow me to introduce my sisters.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she cut in the instant she saw his youngest sister’s smile fade. Delaney had a soft spot for children who didn’t always follow the strict rules of society. “This amiable girl was doing a splendid job. She’s quite the skilled orator.”

The youngest beamed and lifted her face to her brother. Delaney didn’t catch his gaze before he bent his head forward in a slight bow of concession, yet she distinctly noted the way one corner of his mouth drew tight in something of a smirk. “Then, by all means . . .” he said.

His sister gestured to the other two. Except for the color of their eyes, they would have been identical. “Then, because Phoebe,” she said as she gestured to the one with the brown, “and Asteria,” she said, gesturing to the one with the blue, “turned her into a giantess, Mother named them after Titans.”

Phoebe and Asteria wore a similar expression of exasperation that told Delaney they were likely the same age as Bree, but affection for their sister was there as well.

Delaney smiled at them and then glanced to Mr. Croft in a moment of commiseration. He certainly had his hands full. When their eyes met, however, she felt a terrible constriction of her lungs.

Abruptly, Delaney returned her gaze to the youngest. “And what about your name?”

“Because I was born in autumn with the harvest, she named me Tess.” She shrugged, apparently unimpressed with her own story.

“I think Tess is a beautiful name,” Delaney said and went on to explain that Bree’s name meant exalted one, and made a face for amusement’s sake. “I was named after both my parents, but I go by my middle name, which is my mother’s maiden name. Nothing at all interesting, like your family names.”

Tess brightened again. “Do you know what it means?”

“I do,” Bree said, only too eager to interject. “Delaney means challenging.”

That earned a giggle or two. Delaney didn’t mind. Talking to Mr. Croft’s sisters kept her mind off of the fact that she was standing in close proximity to him, knowing he must be remembering the last time. How could he not? Another mark in his sisters’ favor was the fact that not a single one of them backed away as if they thought she might spontaneously combust, the way most of the ton did, aside from her closest friends.

Mr. Croft stepped forward and held out her bonnet. His look of horror had altered to one of mild amusement and perhaps a touch of surprise. Like her, he probably hadn’t expected their second official meeting to be less of a disaster than the first. “Your hat, Miss McFarland.”

Her gloved hand closed over the brim, and suddenly she felt that odd crackling sensation again. She hadn’t felt it in nearly a year. She’d even convinced herself that she’d imagined it. Yet here it was again, these hot little pinpricks of sensation skittering beneath the surface of her skin.

She still couldn’t tell if his eyes were brown or blue, as they were shaded beneath the brim of his John Bull. Yet, quite strangely, she felt desperate to know.

“You have my eternal gratitude, Mr. Croft,” she said, meaning it as a lark. Instead, the words came out breathless because her mouth and throat had gone suddenly dry. She licked her lips and then felt the crackling burn hotter as his gaze caught the insignificant action. Although for reasons she couldn’t fathom, it seemed significant now.

He released her bonnet and took a step back, his brow furrowed. “A moment’s gratitude is more acceptable for such an easy task,” he corrected.

Of all the arrogance, Delaney’s inner voice growled, sparking a flame of a different sort. Regardless, she was determined to end this encounter better than the last. She pasted on a smile. “Perhaps. Though someone less skilled in bonnet rescue might not have returned it unmangled.”

A slow grin lifted one corner of Mr. Croft’s mouth, as if he found her amusing. Her eyes narrowed.

Then, one of the twins nudged him, drawing his attention. It drew Delaney’s, as well—but only because she needed the distraction. A look passed between brother and sister as if something important had just happened. Delaney couldn’t begin to guess what it was.

That same mystery gleamed in Phoebe’s brown eyes. “Our debut party is in three days. Do you think Mother could add Bree to the invitation list?”

“And, of course, Miss McFarland should attend as well,” Asteria added, her grin spreading by the moment.

No. Absolutely not. Attending a gathering at the Crofts’ home would only resurrect last year’s incident—which would surely hinder her chances of finding a husband.

Delaney had a plan in place for her future. She couldn’t risk drawing too much attention, or it would fall apart. For now, she had to do everything she could to avoid Mr. Croft and further disaster. And that included keeping Bree from entangling both of them with the Crofts.

“Actually,” Delaney began, prepared to make a polite refusal. “I’m afraid—”

“Oh yes, that would be splendid,” Bree answered before Delaney or Mr. Croft or anyone with any sense could stop her.