CHAPTER TEN

Alone in the carriage, Delaney was confused. Somehow, she’d let Griffin Croft get the better of her. Again. Without a single word of argument, she’d given him leave to take Buckley with him to Warthall Place. There was no telling what her former spy was revealing.

She blamed her confusion on the fact that Mr. Croft had surprised her. Outside the shop, a moment ago, he’d simply taken hold of her hand as if it was his right. The audacity of his action had bewildered her enough for her to imagine it gave her pleasure. She’d even felt a kinship with him, admiring the way he’d defended Buckley.

Unfortunately, she would have no one to talk to about it until she saw her friends later that afternoon. Then again, she couldn’t very well discuss this with Penelope, Emma, or Merribeth without revealing the sordid quandary in which she found herself—that the one man she’d sworn to avoid until her death was now challenging her to seek him out.

Now, arriving at Warthall Place, Mr. Croft was there in an instant, opening the carriage door. Again, he took her hand whether she wanted him to or not. Much to her ever-increasing astonishment, she wanted him to. Delaney liked the feel of his large hand surrounding hers. His touch was as warm as bath water. Not too hot. Just perfect for a good, long soak. She imagined what it would feel like to slowly sink into his embrace, those hands gliding over her . . .

She shook herself free of the distraction as she stepped down from the carriage. Feet firmly on the walk outside the tall, narrow stone structure of Warthall Place, she couldn’t fathom why her hand was still in his grasp—why he hadn’t released her or why she hadn’t snatched it back from him.

Taking advantage of her uncharacteristic stillness, Mr. Croft removed his hat and bowed. His gaze raked over her slowly. No doubt, he was taking in her exceedingly wild hair this morning, as well as the lack of flounces of her lavender pelisse. Instead, her garment was rather fitted, with small leaf-like points of fabric gathered over the bodice. As he appeared to notice every one, a thrill washed through her.

When at last he lifted his gaze to hers, a full grin widened his mouth. Surprisingly, his teeth were not perfectly straight. Not perfectly in order. Their slight crookedness seemed to coincide with the glimpses she’d had of the impulsive nature he kept locked inside him. It was a decidedly wicked grin.

She felt her lungs constrict and drew a breath to inflate them again, though it didn’t seem to work as long as she kept her gaze on Mr. Croft.

Pulling her hand free, she turned to the driver. “Dorsey, please return to the market and retrieve Tillie and Betsy. I should be finished in an hour.” Normally, when she went on these early morning excursions without Bree or Miss Pursglove, she took Tillie with her. Today, however, Tillie had wanted to go with Betsy to the market, and Delaney decided to be generous and have the driver drop them off first before taking her and Buckley to that horrid shop.

With a nod and a flick of the reins, Dorsey set off. Packages in hand, Buckley ran past her without a word and up the steps to the large lacquered door. Since Mr. Harrison left it unlatched during the day, he only had to nudge it open with his shoulder—which left her quite alone and out in the open with Mr. Croft.

She looked down the street both ways, hoping this encounter—and the one at the shop earlier—would go unnoticed and not wind up in the Post.

Mr. Croft seemed to find her worry amusing, as he, too, peered down both ends of the street. “Looking for a way to escape, Miss McFarland? I believe I see a horse cart coming our way. Perhaps the man driving it is in need of a wife with a good fortune. Should I hail him, do you think?”

“You make a habit of taking enjoyment in matters which are no concern of yours.”

That grin reappeared, but he did not bother to respond to her question. “Young Mr. Simms tells me that you are teaching him a trade, and he intends to manage your accounts when he is older.”

She wondered if that was the only bit of information he’d managed to winkle out of Buckley. “He deserves to have a sense of purpose as much as anyone else.”

“And what is your purpose, hmm? To have everyone believe that you exist solely to charge up your father’s accounts and make a nuisance of yourself?”

She clenched her fists at her sides and felt her nostrils flare as she drew in a breath. So many scathing comments crowded together on the tip of her tongue that she was left fuming in silence.

He used it to his advantage. “If there is one thing I know about you,” he said, his voice low as he took one step closer, “it is that you have a reason for every action you take.”

There was no reprimand in his tone but something resembling admiration instead. She hardly knew what to make of it. Then, in that instant, their discourse altered. With his nearness, she felt those crackling flames lick over body. Heat rose from her flesh, blurring the air between them.

She wet her lips. “How can that be true of someone so often accused of being impulsive and reckless?”

“Because you are too quick-witted for your own good. I shudder to think what a mind like yours could do if it were bent on world domination instead of on vexing me.” He leaned in ever so slightly and traced the silk piping along the outer edge of her sleeve. The sensation was so sharp, she felt as if her clothes were part of her, connected by nerve and tissue. “No doubt, there would be a special prison for men with sloppy cravats.”

Though she wore the finest cambric chemise, it suddenly felt coarse, causing her nipples to pucker and ache. That same sensation traveled lower as well, as if she wore bristly fabric on the inside of her skin. Below her navel, her insides drew up tightly like the cords of a reticule being cinched closed. Looking over his attire, from his mathematical knot down to the buttons of his striped waistcoat, she wondered if he were conscious of the way his shirtsleeves felt against his skin, of what his shirt would feel like against her skin . . .

“It takes little effort on my part to vex you,” she said, hearing a slight tremor in her voice. The same tremor that rushed through her limbs.

“Then I fear your keen mind all the more,” he said quietly and without amusement. The lake water in his gaze churned as if a cauldron brewed beneath the surface. Abruptly, he removed his hand from her sleeve, straightened, and took a step back.

As he had during the Binghams’ dinner, he swept the tips of his fingers against his lips.

Delaney drew in a breath, off balance by the chaos his gesture wrought within her. She pressed a hand to her stomach, as if to keep those reticule cords from being cinched too tightly. “You were the one who challenged me.”

“I beg to differ.” He shook his head slowly. “You’ve been a challenge to me since the moment we met and every meeting since.”

The reminder of the incident instantly doused the flames within her. She was almost grateful for the reprieve from the heat. Still, she could not pass up the opportunity to scold him. “What a very ungentlemanly remark, Mr. Croft.”

“Yes, and there was nothing of a gentleman in me when I said it but someone far more primitive,” he said but made no apology.

She would have continued the exchange and asked him to clarify his statement, but in the same moment, Mr. Harrison appeared in the open door.

“Miss McFarland,” he said with a wrinkly grin that lifted his jowls. His gaze moved from hers to Mr. Croft with the reserved assessment of one who’d spent a lifetime in service. “How kind of you drop by.”

She suddenly felt like a guilty child who’d been caught sneaking slippers from her mother’s wardrobe. To make sure he didn’t have the wrong idea—not that there was a right idea when it came to Mr. Croft—she proceeded up the steps to the door. “Mr. Harrison, you’ll be delighted to know that Mr. Croft has taken a particular interest in your mission.”

Unable to remove years of being a butler, Mr. Harrison kept his hands to his sides and bowed his head. “Very good, sir.”

Inside the incomparably polished, immaculate house, seven young men of varying heights stood in a line near the base of the stairs. Even Buckley filed in—second place from the last, according to his height. And like him, each of the boys had suffered either the loss of a limb, multiple digits, eyesight, or even burns.

As the boys were introduced, Delaney glanced up at Mr. Croft. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Strangely, she felt nervous. She’d never brought anyone here, not even her closest friends. Bree knew of the place but only by name and by the constant pleas to her father.

Still, Mr. Croft didn’t reveal what he was thinking, and it was driving her mad. For some unknown reason, she wanted his approval. But what surprised her most of all was that she wanted him to know that she was more than just a dowry.

Griffin was stunned.

Certainly it wasn’t every day one encountered a place like Warthall, or even a retired butler like Mr. Harrison. But what stunned him the most was Miss McFarland. This was not an act of charity for her. He could see it in the way her eyes brightened with determination.

Mr. Harrison walked with a pronounced limp as he escorted them into the parlor. Two of the boys, along with Buckley, were sent off to the kitchen to have a tray of tea prepared, while the others were told to return to their work.

Over the next few minutes, Mr. Harrison went on to explain how this institution had begun. “Many years ago, I encountered Lord Warthall near Saint Giles after he was set upon by ruffians, beaten, and robbed of his purse. Even though I was a lad at the time and passed over because of my clubfoot, I did my best to see the master home. In return, he gave me the chance to prove myself and hired me on here in this very house. Throughout my youth, into adulthood, and even in the later years, I was always offered opportunities to achieve great things.” He sat up a little straighter. “I was head butler for this house for forty odd years until His Lordship’s passing. And when he left me this house, along with a generous endowment, I wanted to give others the same chance to live a life of purpose.”

At that, Griffin looked to Miss McFarland. He wondered about the enigma sitting in the chair beside his. Making sure these children felt a sense of purpose was something for which she lived.

His admiration for her grew by leaps and bounds.

Was this part of her reason for wanting to marry a pauper in name only? Was she afraid that if she married anyone with whom she couldn’t strike a bargain, then she wouldn’t be permitted to aid Mr. Harrison in his quest?

He mulled over the last thought, feeling a sudden tightness in his gut. By all that was right, a husband took control of his wife’s funds and would do with them as he saw fit. Most men of good character would permit their wives an allowance. Of course, there had been quite a few who’d spent their own fortunes only to bleed through their wives’ in under a year.

So that begged the question, what would her husband do?

His gut clenched again. Abruptly, Griffin stood and moved to the open parlor door, as if to examine the boys at their tasks across the hall. The truth was, he felt restless. An image of Montwood flashed in his mind. Would the infamously charming rake take her up on her offer for a marriage in name only and two separate addresses? Or would he decide a more intimate agreement should be made? And once the cad spent all of her money and used her body, would he abandon her and their children, forcing her to beg for a place back inside her father’s home?

“Mr. Croft!” Miss McFarland hissed as she stepped beside him. “Has the door offended you in any way for you to abuse it so?”

He blinked and looked down. Only now did he notice his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the old door and the faint spider-webbing of the painted wood beneath his thumb. He released it instantly. “I apologize. My thoughts were distracted.”

Then, before she could ask, he posed a question to her. “Is this the reason you wish to sell your fortune to a pauper by way of marriage? So that you can aid Mr. Harrison? Because there are other ways to achieve your goals.” He couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Harrison was using Miss McFarland to get to her father’s fortune as well. He felt another rise of temper at the thought. Of course, there was only one way to find out.

She took a step back and straightened her shoulders. “I believe I’ve already stated that my affairs are no concern of yours.”

“Mr. Harrison,” he said, raising his voice for the older man, even though he kept his gaze on Miss McFarland. “I admire the work you do here. To me, it seems there are more young men who could also thrive beneath your tutelage.”

“Indeed, sir. Though I am only one man. Miss McFarland has made the suggestion that I should take on more and hire a tutor as well.”

Griffin waited for him to continue, to explain how funds were needed for such a venture. Then after a moment had passed with no request made, he felt the need to prod Mr. Harrison. “No doubt even the generous stipend left to you by the late Lord Warthall would quickly diminish if that were the case.”

Miss McFarland fumed at him, her hair in tangles about her face, her hands fisted to her sides, her small bosom rising and falling with each quick breath. “Stop this at once. I won’t have your interference.”

Another weighted moment passed without a request for aid. Miss McFarland’s irritation faded to a look of embarrassment, telling him far more than she would ever admit.

Griffin stared at her, dumbfounded. “He hasn’t even asked for your assistance, has he?”

She looked askance at Mr. Harrison, who politely averted his gaze and walked over to the mantel to adjust the time on the clock. “You don’t understand how greatly he’s improved their circumstances. He’s found them abandoned on the streets, thrown out of orphanages, confined to workhouses.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, her anger falling away. “There are so many others. So many who need one single chance to prove themselves.”

Suddenly, Griffin realized what this meant to her. He also understood why she’d warned him not to underestimate her young Mr. Simms. Delaney McFarland saw herself as someone who wanted one single chance of her own.

Something stronger than admiration stirred within him, but he did not name it.

When she opened her eyes, she speared him with their intensity. “And there are girls, so many girls too. Of course, another school would have to be started . . .” She gestured to the man across the room. “Mr. Harrison knows a former housekeeper who would be perfect.”

“In a separate house, of course,” Mr. Harrison said quickly as he approached. “Naturally, as I’ve explained to Miss McFarland, this is an enormous undertaking. Not to mention, I cannot guarantee how long I’ll be able to continue to be of service.”

The man had spent his life in service and likely would do until his dying day. Griffin felt humbled to be in the presence of such devotion and ashamed at what his first assumption had been. “I see why Miss McFarland has taken to carrying your banner, sir.”

Mr. Harrison’s jowls lifted, and he cast an affectionate glance to the woman in question. “Miss McFarland is a true gem.”

A day ago, that statement would have made him question the sanity of the speaker. But today, he was inclined to agree. For the first time since their acquaintance, he began to wonder if—

“Hand it over, Maxwell! I’ll carry the tea tray.” One of the boys whom Mr. Harrison had introduced as Geoffrey pulled hard on the opposite side of a glossy wooden tray, overladen with a large porcelain teapot, several cups and saucers, and a basket of scones.

“Just because I’m blind”—the other boy pulled back—“doesn’t mean you can stop me from excelling at my duties.”

“Boys! See here,” Mr. Harrison said, limping forward.

Griffin stepped into the hall as well, hoping to prevent a catastrophe.

“Your duties are to fill the cupboards and play the violin,” Geoffrey huffed with another yank. “Not . . . to . . . carry . . . the—”

Suddenly, the tray flew from Maxwell’s hands as Geoffrey stumbled back. Plates, cups, saucers, scones, and the porcelain teapot lifted in the air and hovered for one infinitesimal moment.

Mr. Harrison caught the tray. Miss McFarland pulled Maxwell back and covered his head with her hands. And Griffin reached out to save what he could. He managed to take the neat stack of saucers in one hand. With the other, he attempted the teapot, catching the base of it in the palm of his hand. But it slipped from his glove and toppled toward him.

The lid flew off the top. Tea shot out in an arc of amber liquid flecked with leaves. Somehow, he hooked a thumb into the handle—at the precise moment the scalding liquid drenched the front of his buff breeches. He hissed in pain, biting back an oath.

“Mr. Croft!” Miss McFarland covered her mouth with a hand, presumably to keep her laugh from bubbling out. However, her indelicate snort gave her away.

Just then, Buckley reappeared. With a peppermint stick hanging from the corner of his mouth, he took in the carnage of shattered teacups, crumbled scones, and a deluge of tea. “Cor! What a right proper disaster!”

Ah yes, Griffin thought. He should have known it was bound to happen.