CHAPTER NINE

The following morning, Delaney found Buckley in the kitchen, charming a bun away from the cook.

“I’ve grown four inches since I first came here a year ago, Mrs. Gawain,” he said with a proud smile as he lifted onto his toes. “It’s your fair cooking, it is. Imagine how much taller I should grow if I had a mite more. Not even the whole bun but just a bite.” When the cook tried to hide her grin, he went on in a rush. “And I didn’t want to mention it to you, but I might have seen this one right here knocked to the floor.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Gawain set her hands on her hips. “And who’d be knocking it down?”

“No one here,” he assured her, and with such innocence that anyone would expect a halo to glint in the sunlight. “But there was a mighty wind that blew through the door when I carried out the ash buckets this morning. That could have done it.”

Now it was Delaney’s turn to hold back a grin. From the doorway, she cleared her throat. “Mrs. Gawain, if you’ve no need of Buckley at this very moment, I have a task for him.”

Buckley, who didn’t possess an ounce of shame, looked from her to the cook. “I imagine I’ll need my strength.”

At that, Mrs. Gawain looked to Delaney and shrugged, as if she couldn’t help herself, and then handed Buckley the bun. “Go on with ye now, wee scamp.”

The boy followed Delaney out of the kitchen’s back door, up the recessed servants’ entrance, and to the outer edge of their small walled garden.

Thankfully, there hadn’t been any mention in the Post that morning, regarding the fact that both she and Mr. Croft had attended the same dinner. Not one mention of her sitting next to him or any reminder of the incident. No mention of how inappropriate it had been for him to lay a napkin across her lap. No mention of how frequently he’d bent to whisper to her. And absolutely no mention of Miss M—combusting in her chair.

She credited her fortune to Miss Beatrice Snodgrass of Cheshire, who had shyly announced her engagement to Reginald Hargrove during dessert. Now, the ton’s focus was on the widower and the quiet country miss.

At the memory of last night, Delaney still bristled. Especially, when Mr. Croft had withdrawn her chair at the end of dinner but leaned in just enough to incite her temper with one last remark. “Such a pity. I seem to recall Hargrove was quite dissolute. He would have been perfect for your plot.” He’d tsked, his breath curling like steam against her cheek. “It seems yours is not the only attractive dowry this Season.”

“Yes, miss?” Buckley said, drawing her back to the matter at hand. Seemingly unconcerned at her reason for seeking him out, he licked the remains of the pastry from his fingertips before wiping them on his breeches.

Delaney tried to be cross with him—she did. In fact, she even placed her hands on her hips and gave him a scowl of disapproval. But truth be told, she was far too fond of the little man standing before her.

Dropping her hands to her sides, she shook her head and let out an exhale. “How certain were you about Mr. Croft’s plans for last evening?”

He straightened his shoulders as if offended. “As certain as I could be. I heard it from the man himself.”

“Directly from Mr. Croft?” This puzzled her. Buckley’s skill at eavesdropping had never failed her before. “Perhaps you misunderstood. To whom was he conversing?”

“Why, not a soul, miss. He said the words to me.”

She gave a start but did her best to hide it. “You spoke with him?”

“Don’t worry, miss. He doesn’t suspect a thing. He thought I was there to watch him box Lord Everhart. It was a sight to behold,” he said, giving a whistle. “Never seen such a hard fight, except from Tom Spring. Cor! They didn’t hold back neither.”

Delaney swallowed. She’d heard that the gentlemen removed their coats, waistcoats, and sometimes even their shirts during these lessons. An image of Griffin Croft—sweating, breathing heavy, and wearing nothing more than a pair of snug breeches—filled her mind and caused a swift tide of heat to flood her. She fought the urge to fan herself with her fingertips.

“And so, after the match, you spoke with him.”

“Aye. And I helped him on with his coat. It barely fit after the fight.” The boy grinned as if he were suffering from a small case of hero worship. Turning, he jabbed his fist in the air as if fighting an unseen opponent. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he busted a sleeve loose before he got home.”

“Really,” she mused. If that were the case, he’d need to see his tailor this morning. And it just so happened she knew the one on Bond Street he frequented. However, first things first. “What exactly did Mr. Croft say about his plans for last evening?”

Buckley lowered his arm and focused on the toe of his shoe burrowing into bits of crushed clay on the path. “He said that he didn’t think the Montcrieffs could fit the entire ton in their ballroom and wondered if there was another event.”

She closed her eyes. He knew. Somehow Griffin Croft had discovered her spy was Buckley all along. After her confession at the Dorset ball, he’d probably kept close watch on those around him, wondering whom she employed as her spy. Blast! She never should have let it slip. After all, the only reason Griffin Croft would ask a boy about society events would be to answer his own suspicions.

“Don’t worry,” Buckley said quickly. “I assured him that he wouldn’t want to go to a boring dinner.”

Not unless he had something to prove. And after his throwing down the gauntlet last night, she had something to prove as well.

She stepped forward and ruffled Buckley’s hair. “You were quite right. It was a rather boring dinner. Do you know, I’ve a mind to fix that sleeve of yours,” she said, giving the empty sleeve a tug and earning a smile in return. “What would you say to a trip to Bond Street to see a certain tailor and have a jacket that doesn’t get snagged or caught between doors?”

Griffin strolled into Thomas & Bailey’s on Bond Street and stopped short. He’d know that particular shade of auburn hair anywhere. Not to mention the haphazard way the untamable mess was tied with a blue ribbon at the base of her neck.

He felt a peculiar smile tug at his lips. After the challenge he’d issued last night, he wondered when he would see her next.

With the carriage out front, he’d assumed her father was here, so it was a surprise to see Miss McFarland instead. Women frequenting this shop were usually accompanied by their husbands. This morning, Delaney McFarland was the only woman present, which could account for the look of disapproval from the hawk-nosed clerk. In fact, she was the only customer at the moment, although it was rather early. Most of the ton were only waking at this hour.

She turned. Her expression didn’t show an ounce of surprise at discovering that he was the one who entered the shop. In fact, the deep violet of her eyes was bright as amethysts. During their previous encounters, he’d determined that her eyes turned this shade when she was angry.

“Mr. Croft, you are here at last,” she said with a hint of exasperation, as if he’d kept her waiting for some time. “I simply must have your assistance on this matter.”

He removed his hat and bowed, indulging her. “I am ever at your service, Miss McFarland.”

It was only then that he noticed the towheaded boy step out from behind her. The lad managed to grin and offer a guilty shrug at the same time. The ruse was up. Apparently, Miss McFarland no longer felt the need to hide her spy.

She held a small jacket aloft. Since it had one sleeve cuff pinned to the shoulder, he knew it belonged to the boy beside her. “Mr. Simms is in need of a tailored jacket, one that would allow him more freedom of movement. However, I cannot seem to appeal to this gentleman’s”—she shook the jacket at the clerk—“sense of rightness or his pocketbook.”

“Thomas & Bailey’s is a reputable establishment, sir,” the clerk said. “We simply do not tailor clothes for the servant class.” He sniffed and adjusted his cravat, casting a spurious look down at the boy and Miss McFarland. “Dignity cannot be purchased.”

Under normal circumstances, Griffin would have agreed. In this particular instance, the clerk’s snobbery rubbed him the wrong way.

“Surely, your sense of dignity would allow you to make an exception this once.” Or not, he guessed by the stony look he received.

Griffin glanced at Miss McFarland and the boy. The latter looked up at him as if he’d just left Mount Olympus and could smite the clerk on the spot. Beside him, Miss McFarland’s nostrils flared as she glared across the counter. Now, if looks could smite . . .

“Perhaps Miss McFarland’s maid wouldn’t think it beneath her,” the clerk added. “Or someone from below stairs.”

Worse and worse. Griffin could feel waves of heat rise from Miss McFarland. With the light coming in through the shop’s window behind her, he could almost see a puff of smoke rise from the top of her hat.

She aimed that fire toward the clerk. “Or perhaps you have a tailor,” she suggested. “Or does your tailor have a tailor of his own to see to the more menial tasks? Perhaps he should open a shop.”

Beside her, the towheaded boy squared his shoulders and took a step between Miss McFarland and the counter, as if daring the clerk to say anything else that would offend his mistress.

The clerk looked from Miss McFarland and down to the boy, adjusting his cravat once again. “Furthermore, only our patrons or gentleman’s valets are permitted to step foot into Thomas & Bailey’s. Kindly remove your cripple—”

Miss McFarland gasped. Still clutching the jacket, her hands automatically covered the boy’s ears as if to protect him. “How dare you!”

Griffin’s temper ignited in a flash. Faster than he could draw a breath, he shot forward. Leaning across the counter, he stood nose to nose with the clerk. “You’ve overstepped. Perhaps you believe your behavior upholds the highest of standards, but you are lower than vermin’s offal. You will apologize to the lady and the lad.”

Griffin could never tolerate blatant cruelty. The words and that disdainful tone were far too similar to those used when his great-uncle had railed at him, time and time again, when he was a lad. “Have you no sense, boy? Speak, boy! Speak. Stop tripping over your tongue like a cripple.”

Red-faced and wide-eyed, the clerked stammered out an apology.

Griffin stepped back. “Kindly send my final bill to my address, as I’ll be settling my account here.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked to the door. Miss McFarland was already there, waiting for him, his hat in her grasp. With the light behind her, he couldn’t read her expression. And for some nameless reason, he needed to know what she was thinking right at this very moment.

Young Mr. Simms held the door open. Taking his hat, Griffin also claimed Miss McFarland’s hand and escorted her to the sidewalk and her waiting carriage. This time, when he looked at her, the brim of her bonnet shielded her eyes as she bent her head to look down to where he still had possession of her hand. Her small fingers felt so natural, curled into his palm, that he’d hardly noticed. Or perhaps that was the opposite of the truth.

He released her at once. Yet with this fierce energy boiling in his veins and seeking an outlet, he wished he had some other employment for his hands. Perhaps he should look into carrying a cane, something he could grip so he wouldn’t think about how her slender shoulders had also fit perfectly into his palms when he’d kissed her in the Dorsets’ conservatory.

“You are uncharacteristically quiet, Miss McFarland. Have you nothing to say of the . . . spectacle I made just now?” He’d lost control. It was unacceptable.

At last, she lifted her gaze. For the first time, he could not name her expression. The identity of this one eluded him. It looked entirely too tender, too full of admiration.

“Uncharacteristically quiet? When you know so little of my character?”

“I know enough,” he said on a breath and felt his lips curl into a grin in response to hers.

She held his gaze for a fraction longer. “Highly unlikely, Mr. Croft.”

Before Miss McFarland could notice how his hands opened and closed at his sides in an almost transparent plea to haul her into his arms, she turned to the boy and gave him a few coins.

“We are leaving here and going to visit your friends,” she said. “I cannot, in good conscience, arrive without a parcel of sweets from the shop next door. Make sure to get one for yourself.”

“One for now,” the lad said, with a particularly sly smile. “Or one for later?”

“If you pay close attention to how you spend it,” she said, bending to whisper, “you may have enough for a sweet each day this week. This will be your accounting lesson for the day.”

With that, the boy was off like a Knightswold Thoroughbred. But halfway there, he stopped and headed back. His brown gaze flitted from Griffin to Miss McFarland. “Will Mr. Croft be coming with us?”

She began to shake her head, but Griffin spoke first. “Of course.”

The boy beamed at him and took off at a run again.

Her expression altered to one with which Griffin was more familiar—exasperation. That deliciously small, deceptively generous mouth released a sigh. “You don’t even know where we’re going.”

“It matters little,” he said, suddenly conscious of tilting his head slightly in a way that would fit their mouths together perfectly if he were to close the distance between them and then fit his hands around her shoulders, haul her to her toes . . .

“And why is that, Mr. Croft?”

Those three syllables sent a shudder through him. For a moment, he forgot what he was saying. Abruptly, he straightened his neck as well as his posture. “I . . . I need an occupation or might very well find myself doing something I should not.” Like kissing you senseless here on Bond Street.

She glanced toward the shop door as if it had everything to do with the clerk, whom he’d left rather purple in the face. “You surprise me. Until a moment ago, I never would have guessed we were alike in any regard. I thought your aloofness and arrogance meant you are always in control. That every action you take is calculated.” She lifted her gaze to his, eyes bright, lips curled in something just shy of mockery. “But now, I know that sometimes even you give in to impulse. I am seeing you in an entirely new light.”

The breeze set free four—no, five—untamed auburn locks from her ribbon. They swept forward, the ends dancing in his direction like five fiery arms extending toward him, beckoning him closer to the flames. “This was not the first time I’ve given in to impulse, as you might recall,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, as if a tide of heat had dried his throat. He made sure she saw his gaze dip to her mouth, in case there was any question to which impulse he was referring. “Though perhaps you prefer to believe that action was calculated as well.” He thought he’d made himself clear at dinner last night.

Two spots of pink tinged her cheeks as her grin faded. “I don’t prefer to think anything. In fact, I don’t think about it at all.”

Griffin laughed at the absurdity of her lie. Hell, even he’d been lying to himself. “It seems we are more alike than you’d care to admit.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but at the same moment, the boy bounded out of the sweet shop, carrying his treasures—two parcels tied with string, one smaller than the other, hanging by his fingers.

“You must have used your coin quite wisely,” Miss McFarland said, her smile returning. Griffin even caught a glimpse of the elusive dimple.

“The others’ll be agog,” he said proudly. “Soon everyone will want to come to work for your father.”

She ruffled his pale curls and gently tweaked his ear. “They will not work for sweets, and for now, that is all I can give them.”

Until she married, the statement implied. All at once, their previous conversation in the Dorsets’ conservatory regarding her need for a husband—in name only—rushed to the forefront of his mind.

Did this have something to do with the reason why she was willing to marry a pauper? He wasn’t sure, because he didn’t even know where they were going. It was apparent by her words that it was a place where one could acquire a new servant. That was all he knew.

With a glance to Miss McFarland and knowing that she was as likely to reveal all her secrets as a pugilist was to have both hands tied behind his back, he decided another tactic was in order. “Mr. Simms, have you ever taken a ride in an open curricle or held the reins?”

The boy’s eyes went round as pennies. “Cor! No, sir.”

“Would you like to?”

Miss McFarland placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder before he bounced out of his skin. “Just what are you up to, Mr. Cr—”

“Not a thing,” he interrupted before she could complete his torment. “I just imagine it would be simpler for the boy to spy on me if he’s in same carriage. That is all.” He knew it would be easier for him to question the lad about his mistress as well.

“Buckley is quite resourceful. It would be wrong to underestimate him in any fashion,” she said, with such pride in her voice that the statement sparked a bit of admiration in him.

He smiled and touched the brim of his hat. “I’ve certainly learned my lesson on that account today.”

“Oh, but the day isn’t over quite yet, Mr. Croft.”