CHAPTER SEVEN

“Father, do you think I could wear Mother’s sapphire necklace to the Moncrieff ball tomorrow evening?” Bree asked before taking a dainty bite of the braised lamb on her plate. “I’m told the color would complement my eyes.”

Sitting across the dining room table from Delaney, Bree seemed oblivious to the way the mention of their mother only brought her absence into sharp focus. Their father’s hand stilled briefly before he resumed cutting into his chop.

With a terse nod, he said, “You may. But only if your sister isn’t planning on it for herself. Needless to say, there’s no reason to give her an excuse to run off to the jewelers tomorrow and charge up my account.”

Delaney didn’t bother to be offended by the comment. The truth was, she’d been known to make that excuse. She still felt she should protest, however, strictly as a matter of principle.

But before she could say a word, Bree added, with a different sort of bite, “She already has her own jewels that match her eyes.”

Instantly, she knew the reason behind it. Their mother had given Delaney her necklace shortly before her debut. Even though their mother had been absent for both of their debuts, Bree had yet to receive a gift for hers. Never once, until this moment, had the thought occurred to Delaney.

Thinking back to the promise she’d made to their mother, Delaney felt ashamed for not having taken better care of her sister’s feelings through all this. Not to mention, there was a great deal of anger toward both of their parents for creating all this idiocy in the first place.

“Mother’s sapphires suit your coloring perfectly,” Delaney said to her sister as a small token of kindness.

“Then it’s settled,” their father said. The terseness of his words indicated that the subject was closed, and further mention of their mother or her jewelry would not be welcome.

They ate in silence for a time. Gil McFarland opened his embossed gold watch and placed it on the glossed teak table beside his silverware. Delaney despised the sight of it. Without a word, he made it patently clear that he would rather be anywhere else than with his daughters at dinner.

He usually spent time at his club or working late hours in his study, pouring over account ledgers and managing his many estates. As a second son, he took great pride in exceeding both his father’s and elder brother’s income.

“Did you read the letter I left on your desk about Mr. Harrison and the children of Warthall Place?” Delaney asked, knowing full well he couldn’t escape her this time.

“I did.”

“And?” She dared to hope he would use some of his wealth to aid Mr. Harrison in expanding Warthall Place.

Her father expelled a breath. “The answer is the same as it was the first seven times you asked.”

When Delaney had first met Mr. Harrison and heard him utter the words, “Everyone deserves to have a sense of purpose,” she’d felt an instant connection. All her life, she’d known her purpose was to marry advantageously, as her mother had done. In other words, it never mattered who she was as a person, only the money mattered. Yet the idea that marriage was her only purpose left her feeling empty. Or at least, until she met Mr. Harrison and realized that she could do some good for someone else, especially through such a marriage to Montwood. As soon as he agreed to her terms . . .

“Mr. Harrison visits workhouses and orphanages,” she continued, “in search of children who normally aren’t given many opportunities because of misfortune.”

“Delaney,” her father warned, his knuckles whitening on the grip he had around his fork and knife.

“These children are seen as a burden because of a missing limb or lack of sight, instead of being given a true objective and the means to support themselves for the rest of their days—”

“Enough!” His silverware clattered against the plate.

She knew she shouldn’t have pushed him, but she had as little success in keeping her mouth still as she had the rest of her person. In fact, she was probably the reason her father hated these weekly dinners. After all, he’d married so that someone else could see to the messy business of raising the children and keeping up appearances—that, and for her mother’s fortune, of course. He never wanted to be bothered with his children.

Yet as a member of the ton and having two daughters of marriageable age, he would have to be bothered at some point. Since Mother had gone away, more often than not in these past years he’d been forced to hire a chaperone to remove the burden of having to spend any more time than absolutely necessary with his daughters.

Unfortunately for him, even the most reputable decorum instructor earned a night off once a week.

“Miss Pursglove informs me that you attended a picnic this afternoon.” Her father directed this to Delaney, even though he stared at his watch with each word.

“Yes, sir.” While she wanted to go into detail and share the wonder and magnificence she’d seen at Hawthorne Manor, she couldn’t bear to see him react in his typical manner. His fork would still over his plate. He’d release an exhausted breath through his nostrils. And in his gaze, she would see how desperately he wanted to quit the room.

She despised that look, and even more, hated the tears that had followed when she was alone in her room. Too many times, she’d let anger cloud the hurt she felt. Too many times, she’d been the one to leap up from the table in her rage, toppling her chair behind her as she’d quit the room before he could.

Her mother always said she was too much like her father in that regard.

Elspeth McFarland had often told her husband that he needed to put his temper through a sieve before he put the pot on the flame. Delaney supposed the same was true for her. After all, hadn’t that been one of the reasons her parents had made her wait until she was twenty before her debut?

In all fairness, she credited her mother’s frequent absence for teaching her to rein in the more volcanic aspects of her personality. Father, too, didn’t shout as much these days. Strangely enough, his more temperate and distant persona unsettled her more than the boisterous father she’d always known.

In certain ways, he was still the same. Gil McFarland was a man who saw only two solutions to any problem—throw money at it, or yell at it. Worst of all, instead of yelling at her for horrendously ruining her chances for a suitable match and forever staining her name, as well as the family’s, her father had added an enormous sum of money to her already generous dowry and summarily closed the accounting ledger—both on the matter of her dowry and on their relationship. He never yelled once about the incident.

Sometimes, Delaney wished he would.

At least then she could yell right back. And maybe find out why her parents had so easily abandoned her.

She set her knife and fork down across her plate, her appetite gone. There were certain things she couldn’t bear to ask, because he might actually give her an answer. “Have you heard from Mother?” she asked instead.

Her father’s fork paused over his plate. He exhaled through his nostrils and glanced at the watch. “Just today, as a matter of fact.” He set his fork down, wiped his mouth, and laid his napkin over his plate. Instantly, a footman rushed over and removed it. “It seems your aunt’s health is much improved.”

“Did she inquire about us?” Bree asked before he could push away from the table. “Did she wonder how my first Season is progressing?”

Delaney looked across the table at her sister, who was so much like their mother in her coloring and demeanor. Golden locks curled to frame her face. Neither blemish nor freckle ever marred her creamy complexion. Her regal features had already gained her recognition as one of the premier beauties of the Season. And yet, just now, on the surface of her blue gaze, Delaney saw so much hope and longing that it gave her heart a sharp pinch.

She’d felt that way too, when their mother was absent for her first Season.

“Of course your mother inquired,” Gil McFarland answered, glancing first to his watch and then to the door. He set his hands on the edge of the table.

Bree wasn’t finished. “And what did you tell her?” She still had years before she understood that their parents’ marriage had never been anything other than a monetary transaction. Which begged the question—were they doomed to share their mother’s fate?

This time, their father stood. “I explained that you are both in excellent health.” He strode out of the room, gesturing for the footman to close the door behind him.

Delaney saw her sister’s eyes glisten with unshed tears as she stared at the door. Though Delaney hated to admit it to herself, she’d held on to a wild, girlish dream that their parents had once been passionately in love too. The more she matured, however, the more she realized the truth: theirs had never been a love match.

Sometimes she wondered if the same realization had occurred to her mother and if that was the reason she often went away to tend to a sick relative. After all, how many ill children could Aunt Charlotte possibly have?

“I imagine she’ll return soon,” Delaney offered.

Bree regarded her with a skeptical sniff. “She didn’t for your debut.”

“Yes. Well, if you’ll recall, I’d disgraced the family name at mine. For her to rush back on my account would have made it a bigger ordeal than it was.” At least, that’s what Delaney had told herself. It had been the only way to keep from succumbing to the loneliness she’d felt without her mother to see her through the worst trial of her life. “One day, you’ll thank me for lowering society’s expectations in order for you to make a grand debut.”

Her sister’s watery gaze swiftly transformed to sharp daggers, letting her know that the comment was exactly the right thing to say to draw Bree away from a bout of melancholy. “And one day, I’ll marry a duke and beg him to allow my spinster sister to live with us in order to care for his slobbering hunting hounds.”

Delaney bit back a grin. “It’s a good thing you’re looking for a duke who doesn’t mind slobber. Therefore, your tendency to drool will never be an issue for marital discord.”

Delaney ducked in time to miss the fork launched at her head. Perhaps they were more alike than she’d thought. Oddly enough, the idea made her laugh. Heaven help the ton if that were true.

Griffin wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “What say you, Everhart? Man enough for another beating?”

“The cut on your lip states quite clearly which one of is receiving the beating,” Gabriel Ludlow, Viscount Everhart, grinned, his teeth outlined in his own blood. “How will you manage to find a bride when your face is mangled? It isn’t as if you’ve charm on your side.”

The taunting was typical for a boxing saloon and even more typical between Everhart and Griffin, as they partnered regularly. They were not necessarily friends, though they were of equal height, strength, and reach. While his opponent might be lighter on his feet, Griffin possessed more bulk in his shoulders.

“True,” Griffin said, approaching the center of the ring, shoulders forward, fists at the ready. “However, some of us do not need charm because we have other substantial attributes to offer. Pity for you, I suppose.”

That brought Everhart to the center, eyes and teeth flashing. Bare knuckles tapped against Griffin’s in a sign that Everhart was ready. Not surprisingly, their exchange had drawn a small crowd, and this was only a practice session. Neither of them performed in bouts but came here for the exercise. Commoners and gentry alike gathered for Jackson’s lessons. There was even a little towheaded scamp who came here regularly.

“And here I thought you made all the ladies ill, Croft.”

His blood boiled in an instant, seething and barely restrained beneath the surface. To bring up Miss McFarland here, besmirching her honor, was unforgivable. He reacted without thinking. His right fist connected hard with Everhart’s jaw. His left, with Everhart’s abdomen.

Everhart’s head snapped to the side as blood sprayed in an arc from his mouth. He staggered back but somehow managed to keep his footing. Bending over, hands on his knees, he spat on the floor. “Bugger!”

Griffin was still hot, ready to go again. He danced from one foot to the other. Thus far, he’d been holding back. Ultimately, it would not serve to break the nose of the Duke of Heathcoat’s heir. Not to mention, Everhart’s grandmother was a veritable dragon. It would be foolish to make an enemy of her.

He never lost his temper. But damn, that had felt good.

Everhart straightened, working his jaw back and forth. “I’d no idea, Croft.”

“That I could best you any day of the week?” Oh, yes, this rage and aggression felt good. For weeks now, he’d been like a kettle on the boil. It felt even better to release some steam.

Everhart offered a cocky grin in response. “No. That you have found yourself a bride, only she can’t stand the sight of you.”

Griffin took his meaning instantly. The idea of Miss McFarland as his bride stunned him, causing him to drop his guard for a moment. It was long enough for Everhart to get in an uppercut. Thankfully, the hit was enough to knock sense back into him. Miss McFarland as his bride? Never. They were like fire and water.

After that comment, it was a no-holds-barred battle of brawn. Griffin didn’t know if Everhart was wrestling with his own demons, but he knew his own were being exorcised quite thoroughly. His need to find a bride, his father’s health, his mother’s and sisters’ peace of mind, and his great-uncle’s constant criticism all weighed on his mind day and night. To top it all off, his thoughts were beleaguered by the calamity he knew as Miss McFarland. For some reason, he couldn’t go even half the day without thinking of her and wondering whether or not she was meeting with Montwood.

Now, after another hour of pummeling fists, both he and Everhart were breathing hard. Bent at the waist with hands on their knees, they sized each other up. “Had enough?”

“I’m man enough to realize I’ve stepped over a line.” Everhart grinned and held out his hand. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

Griffin shook his hand and nodded. He could easily have corrected the misguided assumption, but he wanted to leave the matter alone—for his own sanity’s sake. “See that you don’t.”

In the antechamber, after wiping off the sweat, Griffin donned a fresh a shirt. He was in the process of buttoning his waistcoat when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the towheaded boy. One couldn’t miss the head full of pale curls or even that one sleeve of his jacket fell empty against his side. Griffin had seen enough street urchins with missing limbs that one rarely stood out from another. What did stand out, however, was the quality of his clothes. This was no street urchin.

The lad frequented these practices. In fact, he was present each time Griffin was here. Coincidence? Ten days ago—before the Dorset ball—he would have thought so. Now, prickles of suspicion skittered through him.

Without trying to be obvious, he paid closer attention. The boy wore livery, as if employed by a great household—familiar livery at that. Griffin could have sworn he’d seen that particular combination of green and blue before.

Suddenly, it dawned on him.

It was that of the McFarlands. He nearly laughed aloud. Could this be the illusive spy employed by Miss McFarland?

There was only way to find out. “You there, boy. Fetch me that coat,” he said with an absent gesture toward the peg on the wall. When the boy in question stood frozen in place, he snapped his fingers. “Make it quick. I’ve plans for the evening.”

Pale curls sprang into motion as the boy darted over to the wall. “This one, sir?”

Griffin nodded, and the boy hurried over. Griffin gave the impression of disinterest, even turning his back on the lad as he attempted to shrug on his coat. Unfortunately, all his recent exercise had increased the girth of his arms and shoulders, turning it into a struggle. “I’ve seen you here before. Like boxing, do you?”

“Yes, sir. Allow me, sir.” The boy brought a stool over and hopped up on it with the agility of an acrobat. He was so nimble with his movements that one would never know he possessed only one arm unless he saw it for himself.

When the coat was in place, Griffin tossed a coin in the air, not surprised that the boy caught it soundly.

“My thanks. I might have been here all night if not for your assistance,” Griffin said as he rolled his shoulders. The fit was snug. No doubt he’d rupture another seam before he reached home. He was forever tearing out the stitches in his sleeves. Assuredly, he’d make his tailor a wealthy man by the end of the Season.

“Couldn’t have that, sir. You said yourself that you have plans. Couldn’t have you late for the . . . Moncrieff ball?” The boy hopped off the stool. A sly grin slid in place as if the little spy thought to hoodwink Griffin.

“Of course,” Griffin confirmed. “It’s the only noteworthy function I can think of, unless you can name another.”

The boy blinked. “Another, sir?”

“Yes. I’m certain not every member of the ton will be crushed together in the Moncrieffs’ ballroom.”

The boy swallowed, his face going as pale as his curls. “Someone of your ilk wouldn’t attend a boring dinner when there’s a fancy ball to be had.”

Griffin scoffed as if the answer were obvious. “Of course not.” A dinner? Hmm . . . He just happened to know that a certain Lord and Lady Bingham were hosting one of their elaborate dinners this very evening. Not only that, but Lord Bingham was a particular friend of Griffin’s father’s. He wondered, should he happen to stop by on his way home, if he might discover that a certain auburn-haired miss was on the guest list.