“I can’t believe you got hold of these so easily, Jas.” Charlie thumbed through the pile of IOUs during breakfast. “Amelia will be most grateful.” He grinned. “I wish I’d been there to see it. How did you do it, Jas?”

Jason shrugged. “Just a little reverse blackmail. What will Miss Groton decide to do? Return to Oxford?”

Charlie stabbed a kidney on his plate with his fork, releasing a tasty aroma. “Good heavens, no. She loves London. I’ve promised to take her driving in Hyde Park today. I thought the high perch phaeton with the grays. It’s an opportunity to show her how skilled I am with the reins.”

Jason was aware of Charlie’s desire to become known as a notable whip. But he had yet to learn discernment. “Take the curricle, Charlie.” He was unsure his nerves could withstand Charlie demonstrating his skills in the phaeton, an unstable carriage at best, and tempted to spring the horses while driving around the park.

Charlie looked crestfallen. “Rather a tame vehicle, Jas.”

“Is it? I believe all the young bucks prefer it because it’s light and fast.”

“Fast, eh? Right you are then.”

Charlie finished his breakfast at great speed. “I’m off to the stables and can hardly wait to tell Miss Groton the good news.”

Jason eyed his brother’s broad back as he hurried from the room. He was a good-looking young man. Would Miss Groton resist the attraction? It would be a test of her character should she be swayed by a prospective beau who was plumper in the pocket. Jason sighed. Life was filled with disappointments, but even so, he would hate to see Charlie hurt.

He took up the broadsheet but mused over what he’d learned about Bart’s death. He’d sent a note to Bow Street and expected a runner to be assigned to the case. He hoped it would be one of their best men. Bow Street didn't always work well with the government.

A sensitive handling of this was required, for it appeared that the answer lay within the walls of Kinsey House. Despite his warning, might Lady Helen take it upon herself to discover what had happened to Bart? Such a possibility was unnerving and made him put aside the newspaper. He would be relieved when her father returned home. Until then the family was vulnerable. Lady Kinsey was smart, but a woman’s power was limited, and Toby, as the only male member in residence, was just fifteen.

He’d have a word with the watchman and urge him to keep a sharp eye out when he called on Lady Kinsey tomorrow. Today, he planned to seek out the herbalist named on the bottle.

As he drank a final cup of strong coffee, bitter the way he liked it, Lizzie entered in a lavender and cream striped walking gown. “That color becomes you, Lizzie,” he observed. “You’re up early this morning.”

“I am to assist the baron with the placement of several paintings that have just arrived in London.” She poured a cup of tea from the fresh pot brought by the footman.

Jason knew it would be a waste of time advising her to take her maid. “I gather the exhibition goes well thus far?”

Her eyes brightened. “Jas, I can’t wait for you to see the fine art the baron has brought to England.” She shrugged. “Although I suspect I am not a great deal of help to him. He insists that I am. While we consider the best arrangement for the paintings, he talks always of his home in Florence. Statues amongst the aged cypress trees, groves of olives, and grape-laden arbors. And the sunshine. So very different to England. It does sound appealing.”

“You have been seen alone with him now on several occasions. Has he made his intentions clear?”

A small frown creased her forehead. “Not precisely.”

“Take care, Lizzie.”

“Widows don’t come under as much scrutiny as unmarried girls. And what the gossips might think doesn’t concern me. He may not want to marry me. After all, there’s no guarantee I’ll give him an heir.”

“Isn’t that so for every woman? Who’s to say the problem didn’t lie with Greywood.”

She flushed and shook her head, unwilling to find any fault with her dead husband. “But the fact remains that Greywood and I were childless after five years of marriage. It may sway Bianchi’s decision.” Her eyes darkened. “I enjoy being with him, Jas. I feel happier than I have for ages. Is that so very bad?”

He reached across and patted her hand where it moved restlessly on the table. “I understand your need to find love again.”

“Do you?” Lizzie proceeded to butter her toast. She eyed him thoughtfully. “Why don’t you believe in marriage?”

“I haven’t seen many good marriages to persuade me.”

“You are thinking of our parents.”

“That is one example, certainly. It seemed to me that Father was more content after Mother was gone.”

Lizzie paused, her spoon hovering over the pot of marmalade. “That’s not true! He was miserable! You didn’t see it. You weren’t there very much.”

“I was there in the early days, Lizzie. You were a baby. You didn’t witness the rows, the threats, the smashing of ornaments. Father riding off for hours alone.” Recalling it saddened him. “But toward the end, he seemed peaceful.”

She spread jam over the toast. “Theirs was a fiery, passionate relationship.”

“Well, I would never want that.”

“You did want to marry, once.” She took a bite and chewed pensively. “Does your reluctance have anything to do with Phoebe?”

Phoebe. They had both been so young and thought they had the whole of their lives ahead of them. He drew in a deep breath. “That was a long time ago.”

Lizzie gave him a careful glance. “It was such a tragedy when she was thrown from her horse.”

“She was always a neck-or-nothing rider. Shouldn’t have been riding Juno, her father’s stallion, let alone jumping him over that brick wall.” The memory still had the power to tighten his throat, although it had lessened over the years, leaving him with profound regret. After Phoebe had ignored his appeal, he should have pulled her off that skittish horse. He’d gone after her, but too late.

“You joined the army almost immediately after her death,” she said. “Father was furious.”

“He was at the time.” Father had said he’d never forgive him. He’d accused Jason of letting the family down. Father had Charlie, Jason had argued, but it fell on deaf ears. In the following years, when he’d returned from the army intact, physically, at least, they’d made peace with one another, and their relationship had been a cordial one when his father died.

“You and Phoebe practically grew up together, on neighboring estates. I can well understand if her death has left a hole in your heart. But that doesn’t mean you should go through life alone.”

Lizzie made him uncomfortable, forcing him to take a close look at himself. She was one of a few who could. He fought to distract her, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not a monk.”

“Bah! What of mistresses, they care little for their patrons, beyond what they can get from them.”

“They have to make their way in this hazardous world too. But I refuse to discuss the merits or otherwise of mistresses. I believe I know what is best for me.” He pushed away his plate. “Think very carefully about what you want for yourself. A man such as Bianchi may be personable, more demonstrative than an English woman is used to, perhaps. But finding yourself alone in Florence may not be so charming if the baron isn’t quite what he appears.”

With a scowl, she leaned back in her chair. “I believe we’ve had this conversation. Are you making inquiries about him, Jas?”

“It’s my responsibility as head of the family.” He wanted to say more, that he acted out of love and concern for her, but before he could explain, she’d thrown back her chair and left the room.

Sighing, he slowly followed in her wake. He had expected it to come to this.

 

***

The ball gowns had been delivered. Diana insisted Helen come to their bedchamber to try them on.

“Oh, they’re exquisite!”  Helen gasped with pleasure as Mary assisted her into her gown. While Mary tugged at the hooks, Helen studied herself in the cheval mirror. It was quite the prettiest gown she’d ever worn. Of white lace over a lilac satin slip, the tight-fitting bodice featured a deep square neckline decorated with a narrow rouleau, the skirt embroidered with a broad pattern of flowers and leaves and a matching rouleau puffed and corded around the hem.

Mary turned her attentions to Diana. The simple but artfully designed white muslin was perfect. Flowers embroidered in silk thread decorated the deep, square neckline, stiffened hem, and puff sleeves.

“We each have a beaded reticule to complement our gowns.” Diana’s eyes sparkled. “And satin shoes. Mine are white, and yours are lilac.” She removed everything from the boxes, silver paper strewn around.

Helen was caught by her reflection. She frowned and placed a hand on her chest. “Perhaps this needs more lace.”

Diana stood beside her. “Goose. It is perfectly presentable, or Mama would have told Madame Fabre to alter it.”

“I suppose so,” Helen said. “I must remember not to take a deep breath.”

Diana giggled. “You do look quite lovely; the color makes your skin glow.”

“I never liked myself in white.”

“White doesn’t suit everyone,” Diana said, turning to view the back of her gown in the mirror. “I think it’s unkind to insist girls wear white when they wish to make a good first impression. I shall wear pastels after the ball, but I look my best in a more dramatic color, such as bright yellow or crimson.”

Helen grinned. “Oh, no, not crimson! Not until you’re an old married lady.”

Mama opened the door. “You look beautiful, both of you, but take them off, please, and allow Mary to put the gowns away. It wouldn’t do to have them look shabby before you even have a chance to wear them.”

Shame-faced, Diana hurried over to Mary. “Yes, Mama.”

Mama perched on the bed, her eyes on Helen. “We are expecting a visitor tomorrow. Lord Peyton is to call.”

“Oh, good,” Diana said in a muffled voice as the maid carefully pulled the gown over her head. “I hoped to see him again.”

“But not tomorrow, Diana. This is not a social call,” Mama said. “I would like you to attend, Helen. He may have questions only you can answer.”

Diana emerged from the gown with a grimace and stood in her chemise, corset, and drawers. “What more can be said about poor Bart now he is in his grave?”

“We shall see. Shall I ask your father to invite Peyton to the ball?” Mama’s eyes twinkled. “I consider him more than capable of wrestling the other gentlemen away for a dance with you.”

Apparently mollified, Diana kissed their mother’s cheek.

Helen turned her back for Mary to undo her gown, trying to ignore the little skip in the region of her heart. Should Peyton come to the ball, would he ask her to dance? It surprised her how much she wanted him to. After all, one dance could hardly matter to anyone but her. Or would she be relegated to the corner where the wallflowers gathered, some of who had become friends over the years? She no longer feared such a thing. It had become a refuge of sorts. After the gossip of her first Season had died down, and she’d rejected two suitors who made it plain they were taking her on sufferance, there were only the fortune hunters or widowed gentlemen in need of a governess for their children who exhibited any interested in her, and they were given short shrift by her father.