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The music was wonderful. A violinist, a pianist, and a cellist, each performing solo, and then as a piano trio. Lily had spent the evening alternately wishing she’d had more years to study the pianoforte and wishing Lord Grampion weren’t such an eligible parti.

Mrs. Bascombe affixed herself to his side and introduced him to every unmarried woman in her vast music parlor, while Uncle Walter remained equally attentive to Lily.

“Deuced inconvenient,” Uncle said, “when only the older brother socializes. Worth Kettering used to be quite the charming rogue, and now we’re left with the earl, who’s hardly his brother’s equal.”

“Grampion’s appeal lies in a different direction,” Lily said. He played a patient game of catch, took better care of his ward than some men did of their nieces, and did fine justice to evening attire.

Only once this evening had his blue, blue eyes met Lily’s gaze, and she’d seen humor, patience, and determination in that passing glance.

“A title is the only direction some women pursue,” Uncle said, rising. “I’m parched. Behave yourself, and we should be able to slip away in the next half hour. If Mrs. Bascombe allows you the privilege, please do further your acquaintance with Grampion.”

He was off in the direction of the men’s punchbowl, so Lily sought the refuge of the ladies’ punchbowl in the parlor across the corridor.

She’d no sooner accepted the glass of lemonade dipped out for her by a footman than an older woman Lily didn’t recognize appeared at her elbow. The lady had brassy blond hair, and her gown was well made but several years out of date. A portion of lace across her ample décolletage would not have gone amiss.

When Lily took her drink out to the balcony, the same woman followed her, which was beyond presuming.

“Good evening, Miss Ferguson.”

“Ma’am. You have me at a disadvantage.” Lily loathed being at a disadvantage. Her first year in London had been one tense encounter after another. Every new face had been potential disaster, every introduction a chance to blunder.

“I am being forward, aren’t I?” The woman slowly waved a painted fan. She held the fan too low to send a breeze over her face, low enough to call attention to her bodice. “But then, I knew your mother, and in all the years I’ve seen you out and about in London, I haven’t taken the time to introduce myself.”

Polite society frowned on people who introduced themselves, and yet… this woman had been Mama’s friend.

“Should I recognize you?”

“Oh, my gracious, no. I was out several years after your dear mama made her bow, but we became friends and correspondents. I’m Roberta Braithwaite, widow of the late Colonel Hilary Braithwaite. Your mother wrote me of you often.”

No, she had not. “Thank you for introducing yourself, Mrs. Braithwaite. I hope your memories of my mother are cheerful.” 

Lily allowed that observation to stand alone, for she’d learned that silence was her friend. Let others prose on, leaving hints and details for Lily to stash away in memory. She’d keep quiet and avoid mistakes. Then too, Hessian had taken Mrs. Braithwaite into dislike, for the widow had she’d attempted a sneak attack on him as well.

“Your mama was very dear,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, setting her drink aside untouched. “She was also very lively. I note that you are not plagued with her sense of adventure, shall we say?”

The innuendo was unkind and the scent of Mrs. Braithwaite’s neroli perfume overwhelming.

“We must not malign the departed,” Lily said. “Particularly not the dearly departed. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Braithwaite, I appreciate the introduction, but my uncle—”

A manacle in the form of Mrs. Braithwaite’s gloved hand closed around Lily’s wrist. “Walter Leggett was the bane of your mama’s existence. In your grandparents’ eyes, he could do no wrong, while your mother was judged for every witticism and glass of wine. Her marriage was an escape, and I do believe it was a happy one.”

Lily had barely known her mother. Periodic visits that never lasted long enough, an hour or two while Lily was supposed to play with a sister she’d found more fascinating than likeable. A few letters written to a child that conveyed equal parts loving concern and self-indulgence. Lily kept Mama’s letters with her money, and if she’d had to choose, she would have parted with the coins first.

“Uncle says little about his sister other than to remark her high spirits.”

Mrs. Braithwaite’s fan moved faster. “And he probably says they were her undoing, though I can tell you from experience, a widow goes slightly mad when the grief becomes too much.” She leaned closer, using the fan to shield her words. “I know about your sister, my dear—your half-sister—but your secret is safe with me.”

Nobody, not even Uncle Walter, had ever spoken the words your sister to Lily. They sent a prickling sensation over her skin, part dread, part rejoicing.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Braithwaite?”

“Maybe Walter thinks you’re too delicate to hear the truth, but he’s a man. What do they know of the strength women claim? You have a half-sister.”

Lily heard Hessian’s laughter, warm and relaxed, amid the chatter coming through the French doors.

“Mrs. Braithwaite, this is not the place to make such an allegation. My mother was the much-respected widow of Lord Alfred Ferguson. I will not hear her maligned by a supposed friend.”

Mrs. Braithwaite closed her fan and tapped Lily’s forearm with it. “I mean nobody any harm, Miss Ferguson, though you deliver a very convincing set-down. Your mother was merely lonely, and some handsome rascal sought to comfort her grief in the most intimate manner. These things happen.”

Lily turned from the view of the garden below, which was lit with torches and occupied by strolling couples, any pair of whom might overhear the wrong words.

“You’ll excuse me, please. My uncle does not like to keep late hours.” She must put distance between herself and the temptation to learn more of her mother, for Mrs. Braithwaite had had years to make Lily’s acquaintance.

This was a carefully planned ambush, and Lily should have known better than to remain anywhere private with this woman. 

Mrs. Braithwaite snapped her fan open. “I have letters. From your dear mama, revealing the extent of her indiscretion. One cannot fault her for half measures. Your sister, if she survived, would be little more than two years your junior.”

Oh, Mama. “That is preposterous.” And very close to the truth. “Take your allegations to my uncle if you seek to gain by them.”

Through a sheer curtain, Lily could see Hessian in earnest discussion with the evening’s pianist, a ducal son turned composer. The pianist had his lordship’s whole focus, as did any matter—or person—to whom Hessian gave his attention.

Daisy, for example, and on a few precious occasions, Lily.

She had never expected a fairy-tale future. Food, clothing, shelter, a measure of safety in exchange for hard, hard work had been her fondest dream. Then Walter Leggett had come along, making promises and threats, and more promises.

“You are a sensible creature,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “So am I. We women must manage as best we can, and your uncle has nothing I want. You, however, do.”

“I haven’t even pin money,” Lily said, “and I refuse to discuss this situation where anybody might overhear.”

Another tap to her arm. “Such dignity. Your mother would have been proud of you. The more public the venue, the greater the privacy. You’d know that, if you had a tenth of your mama’s penchant for mischief. In any case, you have influence over Lord Grampion.”

Lily’s mother would not be proud of her. Her mother would be endlessly ashamed, as Lily was ashamed.

“Say what you have to say, then, and be done with it.”

“Grampion has recently become guardian to my niece, a dear little creature by the name of Amy Marguerite. I want the rearing of her, and he’s being contrary. I respect his sense of duty, but that girl belongs with me.”

Mrs. Braithwaite spoke like an ambitious horse trainer: I want that filly. She’ll fetch a pretty penny once she’s schooled over fences.

Nothing about Roberta Braithwaite was remarkable, for London in spring abounded with pragmatic widows. Her eyes, though, struck Lily as her most honest feature. Calculation gleamed from their depths, and a coldness that would destroy a child like Daisy.

Hessian had taken Mrs. Braithwaite’s measure better than he knew. “If you seek a role in your niece’s life, you should approach Grampion. He’s nothing if not reasonable.”

Mrs. Braithwaite slapped her closed fan against her palm, like a testy headmaster with his birch rod.

“I’ve tried to reason with Grampion, and he was nearly rude. I’m to await his consideration while the little imp gets her hooks deeper into his sense of honor. My sister was the same way—had an instinct for how to wrap a man around her finger.”

Bitterness lurked in Mrs. Braithwaite’s words, perhaps the bitterness of a woman scorned.

“I have no influence with his lordship,” Lily said. “He is a man of independent judgment.”

Mrs. Braithwaite’s smile would have been well complemented by a forked tongue sampling the evening air.

“Nonsense, Miss Ferguson. You are your mother’s daughter, and she never wanted for male attention. You curry the earl’s favor, grant him a few liberties, compromise him into marriage, and then insist he evict a troublesome child from your nursery before his heir arrives. I’ll be loyally standing by, ready to dote myself silly over the girl.”

The violinist, a willowy brunette with dark eyes and dramatic brows, had joined the conversation with Hessian and the pianist. She was a gorgeous woman, the daughter of some Italian count and an Englishwoman. Men had been giving her appreciative glances all evening, while Hessian, his profile to Lily, gave the violinist a respectful bow.

Mrs. Braithwaite had an asset Lily lacked. Why hadn’t Mama bequeathed Lily even a dash of ruthlessness? A hint of a spine? Surely a woman who flouted convention so boldly could have passed on some courage to her daughter?

“You want money.”

“I need money, vulgar though the admission is. Grampion has money, his brother has even more money, and they can spare a bit for Amy Marguerite’s widowed aunt. In exchange, I’ll take adequate care of the girl, and Grampion can send her flowers on her birthday. Your task is to convince him that Amy Marguerite is better off with me, which she will be.”

“And if I cannot convince him to surrender the girl to you?”

Mrs. Braithwaite snapped open her fan again. The pattern painted on the panels was a knight serenading a damsel, thorny pink roses vining around the damsel’s stone tower.

“Personal correspondence is so easy to mislay,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “Who knows what might happen to your mother’s old letters, or to your sister, should those letters fall into the wrong hands? Your sister is the by-blow of a man with a respected title, you know. Your mother let that much slip, though she didn’t name names. I have my suspicions, though.”

And those suspicions would remain beyond Lily’s reach, unless Daisy took up residence with Mrs. Braithwaite. Mama had never mentioned who Lily’s papa might be, only that the law prevented a union between Lily’s parents.

“I have no proof anything you say is true, Mrs. Braithwaite. Not a glimpse of a letter, not a shred of gossip ever to corroborate your wild stories. I very much doubt I would have gone my whole life with a younger sister about whom I know nothing.”

She had gone her first five years without meeting Annie.

“You’re wise to doubt my claims,” Mrs. Braithwaite replied, picking up her drink. “Ask your uncle. Ask the elderly aunts gracing every family tree, the pensioned governesses and former tutors. They know all the best scandals. I’ll pay a call on you next week and bring you a sample of your mother’s correspondence. In the meanwhile, do your best to insinuate yourself into Grampion’s good graces. He’s reserved to the point of coldness, but I’ve yet to meet the man who couldn’t be charmed by a pretty young lady with a fortune.”

She swanned off, leaving Lily’s world in tatters.

For more than a decade, Lily had succeeded in convincing the world she was Mama’s legitimate eldest daughter. In five minutes, Roberta Braithwaite had traded on that fiction to threaten the rest of Lily’s life.

“Thought the damned creature would never leave you alone,” Uncle Walter said, wineglass in hand. “You’re looking a bit pale, Lily. Too much galloping about in the park at all hours.”

That was the first indication he’d given that her dawn ride had come to his attention. “My mare wants conditioning. You know Mrs. Braithwaite?”

He took a sip of his wine, keeping the lady in view over the rim of his glass. “She was an acquaintance of your mother’s, and I do appreciate a healthy figure on a woman. Nonetheless, Nadine’s taste in friends was no more refined than her other inclinations. Let’s leave, before some fool begs an encore from the musicians.”

Lily spared Hessian not so much as a wave—not when her every move was observed by both a fan-wielding tool of the fiend and Uncle Walter.

By dawn on Saturday, Lily needed a plan that would protect Mama’s past from becoming public, protect Daisy from her aunt, preserve Grampion’s respect for Lily, and keep Uncle from suspecting trouble was afoot.

For the first time, Lily understood why her older half-sister, at the age of seventeen, had turned up her nose at propriety and reason, and eloped with Uncle Walter’s house steward.

Hessian had used his morning to meet with his solicitor, for updating a will was something best done sooner rather than later. On the walk back to his town house, he missed Daisy skipping at his side, missed her chatter, her questions.

Why do trees lose their leaves, but not their pine needles?

Where do different kinds of birds come from?

Does London always stink on rainy days?

Were you friends with my mama, or only neighbors?

That last question had required some delicacy. Lady Evers had been a woman frustrated by a cordial marriage to a much older man, and Hessian, at a loss for how to deter a female bent on seduction, had been lonely too.

Most peculiar of all, Lord Evers had more or less expressed gratitude for Hessian’s friendship with Belinda.

Then her ladyship’s interest in dallying had ceased—or she’d given up on dallying with Hessian—and in less than a year, Daisy had arrived. Hessian had never known—and still didn’t know for sure—whether a casual affair had rekindled her ladyship’s sense of marital loyalty, or whether…

 His steps took him past a shop that sold items for babies and young children. Daisy would delight in such an emporium, so he changed course for purposes of reconnaissance. Then too, he had nieces, and Daisy had brothers.

And what waited for him at home, besides correspondence, ledgers, and the domestic upheaval of having sacked a drill sergeant from his staff?

The shop owner had arranged the inventory to resemble a marvelously well-stocked nursery, and the whole place bore the scent of lavender, much as a nursery might. Fanciful animals sewn of cloth, embroidered blankets just the size for swaddling an infant, rattles, storybooks, a pair of hobbyhorses, and art supplies of every description filled the place.

And in the middle of this cave of wonders stood Lily Ferguson, the most delightful treasure of all.

“Miss Ferguson.”

She held a stuffed horse, a velvet bay with black yarn for its mane and tail. “My lord. This is a surprise.”

The shop girl watched the exchange, so Hessian offered a proper bow. “A fortuitous encounter for me. Perhaps you’ll advise me regarding suitable gifts for Daisy and her brothers?”

They left the shop thirty minutes later with God only knew what—a herd of stuffed horses, or stuffed bears, possibly some storybooks, and an armada of miniature sailing ships. Hessian sent Lily’s maid and footman home with her purchases and appointed himself her escort.

“I was hoping to linger a while longer at the shop,” Lily said. “Uncle is in a mood today.”

“Perhaps he was frustrated with my attention to the musicians last night. I hope you didn’t feel neglected.” Maybe that explained Lily’s less-than-pleased reception of Hessian this morning? He hadn’t wanted to single her out before a half-dozen gossips, and then the damned musicians had gone off on some flight about Herr Beethoven, orchestration, and English music publishers.

The musicians had kept the debutantes at bay, and thus Hessian had taken shameless advantage of Herr Beethoven’s acolytes.   

“I did not expect your special notice, my lord. The musical entertainment was superb.”

They paused at an intersection, and Hessian spoke without thinking. “Come back to my house, Lily. We’ll have a late luncheon, and nobody will be the wiser.”

His suggestion was most improper, but then, they would soon be engaged. That changed the rules, to the point where very few rules applied beyond don’t get caught.

“I ought not. Uncle will inquire as to my whereabouts.”

Uncle’s version of an inquiry came close to an interrogation, based on Lily’s tone. “Then we decided to go back to the shop because I forgot a purchase.” The lie rankled even as Hessian spoke it. “Or not. I’ll walk you home and look forward to riding with you later in the week.”

She looked down one street, then the other. Both were lovely Mayfair thoroughfares, with plane maples leafing out over busy traffic. Gracious homes lined each street, and to a casual onlooker, one choice would have been much the same as the other.

“Forgive me for tempting you from the path of common sense,” Hessian said. “I was troubled to note Mrs. Roberta Braithwaite among the guests last night. She did not approach me, but the mere sight of her sent my enjoyment of the evening into the ditch.”

The intersection cleared, and Lily led Hessian into the street. “She upset you.”

“A woman like that can start talk, and that talk will not make Daisy’s life easier. Mrs. Braithwaite says she wants to provide a home for the child, but I suspect she wants money.” Maybe Lady Evers’s diary could shed light on the role Daisy’s aunt should play in her life? Hessian would have to read the damned thing to find out.

“Would parting with some coin be that much of a hardship?”

Lily sounded impatient with Hessian, not with the grasping woman who’d use a child to further her own security.

“The issue isn’t coin and isn’t even entirely the principle,” Hessian said. “My concern is pragmatic: If Mrs. Braithwaite will threaten scandal or litigation over fifty pounds per quarter, what would she do to gain a thousand? What mad schemes would she fabricate, what wild stories would she propound? Why would Daisy be better off in the care of such a woman than in my own, considering I was clearly the choice of the girl’s parents?”

When Hessian wasn’t contemplating the pleasant prospect of his next encounter with Lily, such questions increasingly filled his mind. Lady Evers’s journal weighed on his conscience, much as a pistol carried in his pocket would have disturbed the line of a well-tailored jacket.

Hessian would have to investigate the contents of that damned journal, though not today. He was escorting Lily in the direction of his town house, and the choice of destination had been hers.

“You think Mrs. Braithwaite would stoop to creating scandal for her own niece?” Lily asked.

“What does she have to lose? She’ll cast herself as the wounded widow, longing for the company of her departed sister’s daughter, and I’ll be the unbending aristocrat, keeping a child from her only family on the strength of my arrogant, nipfarthing whim.”

To describe the situation thus made Hessian seem unreasonable even to himself. And yet, he could not fathom releasing Daisy into the custody of that woman.

“You are not arrogant.”

“I’m not a pennypincher either, but until recently, I had to manage my coin carefully. That is no secret.”

Hessian escorted Lily into his house, the lack of a maid, chaperone, or screeching children making the situation feel a trifle improper—or daring. Worth had doubtless flouted convention far more adventurously, but then, Worth hadn’t been the earl.

“We’ll take luncheon in the conservatory,” Hessian informed the butler, “and I’ll drive Miss Ferguson home in the phaeton.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Hessian offered Lily his arm, which was silly when no hazard greater than a carpet fringe threatened their progress.

“We’ve yet to set the tender plants outside, so my conservatory is quite the jungle.”

Lily accompanied him without comment, which was odd. She never hesitated to speak her mind, and her opinions were always well-thought-out. She had every air and grace claimed by a true lady, and yet, when conversation would have settled Hessian’s nerves, she remained silent.

He held the conservatory door for her, and then they were enveloped in warmth and quiet. Potted palms and ferns lined walkways between lemon and orange trees. Near the windows, boxes of Holland bulbs were sporting a few precocious daffodils and tulips. The fragrance of hyacinths joined the scents of greenery and rich earth.

“Daisy and her friends will discover this place on the very next rainy day,” Lily said. “It’s lovely.”

Lily made no move to touch Hessian, and neither did her expression, posture, or tone invite him to embrace her.

“I’ve kept the door locked for the most part, lest Daisy disappear up a tree.” But then, Daisy hadn’t played that game since the night she’d met Lily.

“Mrs. Braithwaite introduced herself to me,” Lily said, brushing her hand over an airy fern. “She claimed to have been an acquaintance of my mother’s.”

So Roberta Braithwaite was the serpent in the garden. “Did you believe her claims?”

Lily tugged off her right glove, finger by finger, then her left. “I wish I hadn’t mentioned her name, when at long, long last we have a few minutes’ privacy. Perhaps we can speak of her later.”

Luncheon would be at least thirty minutes in preparation, and the conservatory doors boasted stout locks.

“As always, you make great good sense. So why are we standing three yards apart when I’d rather be kissing you silly?”