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Hessian rode along, resentful of the advanced morning hour, resentful of the odd looks from nursery maids and dairymaids alike, resentful of everything.

Except the child. He could never be resentful of Daisy. He did resent worrying about her though.

Daisy said not a word, despite having begged for this outing. She’d earned a boon by going for an entire day without running off, destroying a fragile heirloom, or spilling a drink “by accident.”

Hessian nodded to a vis-à-vis full of young ladies, all of whom he’d probably danced with, none of whom he recognized. He resented that too—why must London be so full of marriageable young women and so devoid of interesting company?

Daisy sighed, an enormous, unhappy expression in which Hessian mentally joined.

“Shall we return to the house, poppet?” At the plodding walk necessitated by having a child up before him, the day would be half gone before they were home, and yet, this was one way to spend time with Daisy that both she and Hessian seemed to enjoy.

“I like it here. I like the trees.”

If Hessian set her down, she’d likely be up one of those trees, thoroughly stuck, before he’d even dismounted.

“When we come again, we can feed the ducks.” Every self-respecting earl longed to stand about among quacking, honking, greedy ducks, risking his boots and his dignity at the same time. For her, he’d do it though. In the damned rain if necessary.

His generous offer earned him no reply, but what had he expected? Daisy was becoming a withdrawn child, and that had him close to panic. Her mother had been pragmatic and good-humored. She’d loved Daisy madly, of that Hessian had no doubt.

Daisy sat up so abruptly, the horse halted. “It’s the dragon lady!”

A woman in an elegant blue riding habit sat a chestnut mare, a groom trailing her by several yards. Her hair was looped in two braids over her left shoulder, and those braids—glossy auburn, nearly matching the color of the horse’s coat—confirmed her identity.

“Miss Ferguson,” Hessian said as she halted her mare. “Good day.”

Long ago, as a boy quivering to begin his studies at university, Hessian had occasionally accompanied his father to London. He’d known Lily Ferguson then because her uncle and Papa had been acquainted, but the girl Lily Ferguson and this grown version had little in common.

In Hessian’s unerring adolescent opinion, little Lily had been a brat; and in her estimation, he’d doubtless been a rotten, self-important prig. The passage of time had wrought substantial improvements on her side of the balance sheet. For all she was petite, Miss Ferguson made an elegant picture on her mare.

She inclined her head. “My lord, and Miss Daisy. What a pleasant surprise. Shall we enjoy the park together?”

The lady’s greeting to Hessian was cordial, but upon Daisy she bestowed a beaming, conspiratorial smile. To a small child, that smile would hint of tea parties in the nursery, spying from balconies, and cakes smuggled up from the kitchen.

“Daisy, can you greet Miss Ferguson?” For the child who’d nearly leaped from the saddle at the sight of the lady had remained silent.

“Good day, Miss Lily.”

“What is your horse’s name, Daisy?”

The girl squirmed about to peer up at Hessian, but he busied himself with turning the gelding to walk beside Miss Ferguson’s mare.

“Hammurabi.”

“Ah, the lawgiver,” Miss Lily said. “What is his favorite treat?”

After several minutes, Hessian realized that Miss Ferguson was asking questions that required answers other than yes or no, and by virtue of patient silences, she was getting those answers. Daisy’s replies gradually lengthened, until she was explaining to Miss Lily that the tree branches outside her bedroom window made patterns on the curtains in the shape of the dreaded Hydra from her storybooks.

“That cannot be pleasant when you are trying to fall asleep,” Miss Ferguson said. “When next this Hydra tries to prevent your slumbers, you must banish him.”

“But the shadows are there, every night. Even if there isn’t any moon, the torches in the garden make shadows on my curtains. How do I banish shadows?”

Interesting question.

“You open the curtains of course,” Miss Lily replied, “and then you can see that the same old boring trees are in their same old boring places in the garden, night after night. No wonder they delight in dancing when the breeze comes along.”

Daisy looked around at the plane maples towering overhead. “They dance?”

“A minuet, I think, unless a storm is coming, and then it’s more a gigue. Grampion, do the trees dance up in Cumberland?”

“Oh, routinely. They’re almost as lively as debutantes during the first reel of the evening.” And ever so much more soothing to a man’s nerves.

“My mama danced.”

Hessian fumbled about for a response to Daisy’s first mention of either parent.

“My mama loved to dance,” Miss Lily observed. “I’m an indifferent dancer, though a dear, departed friend once told me that dancing improves if a lady stands up with the right fellow.”

“My papa is dead. That means he’s in heaven, except he was put in a box when he died. Does the box go to heaven? Like a package?”

Why did this topic have to come up now, without warning, in public, in conversation with a young lady whose company Hessian found a good deal more bearable than most of her kind?

“Perhaps now is not the time—” Hessian began.

“Daisy, do you remember the story about Moses?” Miss Ferguson asked. “He made the sea step aside so he could take his people to safety?”

“I remember.”

“Well, the sea doesn’t normally have such accommodating manners, does it? Something unexplainable and wonderful was involved, like dragons breathing fire without scorching their tongues. Getting to heaven is something like that. You needn’t drag along the part of you that got sick, and had megrims, and suffered nightmares. The forever part of you slips into heaven like Moses dashing right across the sea.”

“Wonderful, but we can’t explain it,” Daisy said, petting Ham’s withers. “Only good people go to heaven.”

Miss Lily guided her mare around a puddle, and just as the trees overhead were mirrored on the puddle’s surface, insight reflected off of Daisy’s comment.

Good people went to heaven; therefore, bad little girls did not go to heaven, and they thus avoided ending up in a wooden box beneath the churchyard.

No wonder Daisy saw monsters in the night shadows. Quite logical, from a child’s point of view.

“Daisy, have you ever had a good dream?” Miss Ferguson asked. “One where you could fly, or glide up the steps without your feet touching the carpet?”

“Yes. I dreamed I was a kite, and I could see all of Cumberland like a bird. It was very beautiful, and I wasn’t afraid at all.”

“You’re an astute little girl,” Miss Ferguson said. “You know that was a dream. When you were dreaming it, did you know it was a dream?”
This was all tiresomely abstract—Hess couldn’t recall when last he’d dreamed of anything more interesting than a well done roast of beef—but as the horses clip-clopped along, Daisy appeared to consider Miss Ferguson’s question.

“I thought I was a kite. I didn’t know it was a dream when I was in the sky. When I woke up, I was sorry it was over.”

“That is what heaven is like,” Miss Ferguson said, “but it’s real. When you dreamed, you forgot all about the part of you that was kicking at the covers, or a little chilly for want of an extra blanket. In heaven, you get to keep the good parts—the love, the joy, and the laughter—but you don’t have to carry along any of the hard parts.”

No vicar would explain death and heaven to the child thus, and Hessian wouldn’t either. The words sounded right to him, though, and he appreciated that Miss Lily was making the effort.

Appreciated it greatly.

“Does my mama still love me?”

Hessian could answer that. “Your mother loved you and loves you still, the way Ham loves his carrots. Even when the carrots are stored away in the saddle room, Ham loves them. Even this minute, far from his stall, he’s enthralled with the notion of his next carrot. Your parents love you, always, ten times more than that.”

Carrots. Not his most inspired analogy. Miss Ferguson hid a smile under the guise of adjusting the drape of her habit over her boots.

“My mare adores a big, crunchy carrot too,” Miss Ferguson said. “I’m not that fond of them myself. What about you, Daisy? What is your opinion regarding carrots?”

The ladies chattered back and forth about vegetables, rabbits, and dragons who ate toasted rabbits, and all the while, Hessian wondered how long it would have taken Daisy to ask him about heaven. They ambled beneath the maples, until the horses approached the gate onto Park Lane.

“I have very much enjoyed today’s outing,” Miss Ferguson said. “My thanks to you, Lord Grampion, and to you, Miss Daisy. You will remember to pull the curtains back, won’t you?”

The reminder was for him, though directed at the child.

“We will remember,” Hessian said, “and thank you, Miss Ferguson, for bearing us company.”

He inclined his head and nearly steered Hammurabi across the street, except he could feel Daisy lapsing back into a silence too brooding for one of her years. With Miss Ferguson, the girl had actually chattered, and if ever Hessian longed to hear a female chatter, it was Daisy.

“Miss Ferguson,” he said, “might you pay a call on us Tuesday? I would not want to impose, and I know the Season is demanding of a lady’s time, but—”

“Please say you’ll come,” Daisy said. “Please?”

The smile came again, the soft, sweet, slightly mischievous smile. “I would love to see you on Tuesday, Daisy. I will count the hours until we meet, and I’ll want to hear about your dreams then, so be sure they are grand.”

“I’ll be a kite again,” Daisy said. “Is Tuesday soon?”

Well, no. Tuesday was four entire, long, dreary days and nights away. “Soon enough,” Hessian said. “My thanks again for your company, Miss Ferguson.”

And for aiming just a bit of that dazzling smile at him too.

“What sort of sister dies as the Season is about to begin?” Roberta Braithwaite asked as she paced the confines of her private parlor. “Most inconsiderate of dear Belinda, but then, she was a trifle on the self-centered side.”

Belinda had been the pretty, younger sister. Her death was unfortunate, of course, but then, Belinda would never have to grow old—another injustice.

“The timing of your bereavement is lamentable, ma’am,” Penelope Smythe said.

Dealing with Penelope’s soft voice, bland opinions, and mousy ways took an endless toll on Roberta’s patience, and yet, a widow who lived alone risked talk. Penelope was the companion hired to prevent talk and boredom, though she fulfilled the first office more effectively than the second.

“You have been working on that nightgown since Yuletide, Penelope. What does it matter how many flowers you wear to bed?”

Penelope blushed, which on such a pale creature was sadly unbecoming. “The needlework soothes my nerves, Mrs. Braithwaite. If you’d rather I start on a pillowcase, I’ll happily—”

Roberta swiped her finger over the center of the mantel and revealed a thin layer of gray dust. Time to threaten doom to the housekeeper again.

 “Spare me your pillowcases. I’ll not become one of those pathetic creatures whose parlor is overrun with framed cutwork, lace table runners, and scriptural samplers. The weather is lovely. Isn’t it time for your constitutional?”

Time for Roberta to enjoy a solitary tea tray. If Penelope noticed that her walk coincided with the afternoon tea tray, she never mentioned it. Perhaps she met a beau in the park and created her flowery nightgowns with him in mind.

Doubtless, he’d have spots and only one set of decent clothes. His name would be Herman, and at best, he’d clerk for a tea warehouse in the City.

“I’ve already taken my walk today, ma’am. I happened to see Lord Grampion, and he had a small child up before him.”

“Grampion rode out with a child?” The Earl of Grampion was a widower whom polite society claimed had spent too many years rusticating in Cumberland. “I had no idea he’d remarried.”

On one of Roberta’s duty visits to Belinda, she’d met Grampion. He’d been a complete waste of good looks on a fellow with about as much warmth as a Cumbrian winter night. He’d put Roberta in mind of the proverbial bishop in a bordello.

And he was guardian of all three of Belinda’s children now. Such a pity.

Penelope bent closer to her hoop. “The child bore a resemblance to you, ma’am, though her hair was fair. She was very quiet, from what I could see.”

“She bore a resemblance to me? Do you think he hauled my poor Amy Marguerite the length of the realm? Tore an orphaned child from her home with her parents barely cold in the ground?”

“I couldn’t say, ma’am.”

Then Roberta would consult with somebody who could say, for Grampion turning up in the company of a child was a very great coincidence. 

“I have neglected dear Lady Humplewit for too long,” Roberta said, moving a candlestick and revealing more dust. “Mourning for my sister has made a complete wreck of my social life, but Dorie Humplewit is an old acquaintance. She’ll understand that one needs the occasional breath of fresh air and a cup of tea shared with a good friend.”

“You’re very fortunate in your friends, ma’am.”

Dorie was a hopeless gossip. If Grampion was in Town—how did Penelope know an earl by sight, anyway?—and if his lordship had brought the children south, Dorie would know. She also wasn’t stingy with the teacakes or the cordial, and as constrained as Roberta’s finances were, both were appreciated.

“You needn’t wait dinner for me,” Roberta said. “A cold tray in your room will do. I might be going out tonight, and I wouldn’t want you to have to dine alone in that drafty dining room.”

“Very thoughtful of you, ma’am.”

Roberta considered for a moment that Penelope was being sarcastic, but decided that the girl was simply trying to hide her pleasure at being given an evening to herself.

To embroider more flowers on a nightgown nobody would ever see. “Do you know anything about raising children, Penelope?”

The needle paused over the fabric. “I’m the oldest of eight, ma’am, six of them boys.”

“You poor thing. One can hardly imagine a worse fate. No wonder your nerves need soothing. Write a letter to your mama and tell her you recall her nightly in your prayers.”

“Yes, ma’am, and my papa and my brothers and sister too.”

Roberta swept from the parlor, lest Penelope regale her with a list of their very names.

“Come along,” Roberta snapped at the maid of all work, who was as usual lingering in the vicinity of the footmen’s stairs. “I must change into suitable attire for a discreet call on a friend. Lady Humplewit has sent a note that her spirits are very low, else she would never impose on me so soon after the loss of a dear family member. We must bear up at such times as best we can and think of our friends rather than our own needs.”

The maid followed Roberta up the steps a respectful three paces behind, and she did a creditable job of assisting Roberta into a subdued, gray outfit.

“You’re excused,” Roberta said, choosing a bonnet with a gray silk veil. “Mind you, don’t let me catch you ogling the footmen. I will be forced to turn you off without character. A widow can’t be too careful, and neither can her staff.”

The girl looked suitably horrified, bobbed a deferential curtsey, and fled the room. 

Roberta managed not to laugh until the door was closed, though the pleasure of intimidating the help was short-lived. The maid was probably doing a dratted sight more than ogling the footmen, and that was yet another injustice when a widow already had enough tribulations to bear.

“Grampion is practically your neighbor up in Yorkshire,” Lily said. “One ought to be acquainted with one’s neighbors.”

Devlin St. Just, Colonel Lord Rosecroft, and husband to the most stubborn woman in the realm, sent up a prayer for patience. Emmie had insisted that Lily Ferguson have his escort for this outing, and thus here he was, strolling the boulevards of Mayfair, when he might have been on horseback in the park.

“My dear Miss Ferguson, when next we are in the library at Moreland House, I will find a map of England and instruct you on the geography of the north. York is as much as a week’s ride from parts of Cumberland, and that’s if the weather’s cooperating.”

One didn’t instruct Lily Ferguson lightly. She was what St. Just’s countess called sensible to a fault. Coming from Emmie, who was a monument to pragmatism, that bespoke a prodigious amount of sense. Lily had befriended Emmie several years ago, when the countess was enduring her first London Season, overwhelmed by in-laws, and much in need of confidence.

And thus, Lily Ferguson commanded Rosecroft’s loyalty—and his occasional escort. “My lord, would you honestly rather be lounging about, scratching and making rude noises with your brothers while you play your ten thousandth hand of cards? It’s a fine day for a visit.”

Rosecroft had two extant brothers, or half-brothers, technically. “We no longer make rude noises. Sets a bad example for the children.” And the children were a fiercely competitive lot. “Have you taken an interest in Grampion? I’ll keep your confidences if you have.”

Lily was right about the weather. Spring was at her tantalizing best today, the air mild, the breeze scented with new foliage and possibilities. By tonight, the grass might sport a dusting of snow.

Such were the dubious charms of London at the beginning of the Season, and matters generally went downhill as the year progressed.

“The Earl of Grampion is an acquaintance,” Lily said. “His ward is new to London and in need of reliable friends. I think you’ll enjoy her company.”

In her way, Lily Ferguson was kind. She kept most people at arm’s length, though Emmie claimed that was purely self-defense when an unmarried woman was the sole heir to both her mother’s and her father’s fortunes.

“Madam, I do not befriend sweet young ladies.” Rosecroft had sounded like His Grace of Moreland. Maybe that was a good thing?

“You don’t befriend much of anybody unless they have four legs, a mane, and a tail. This is Grampion’s town house.”

The neighborhood was lovely, and the steps had recently been swept and scrubbed, though Grampion’s front door lacked even a pot of heartsease. Rosecroft didn’t account himself the heartsease-noticing sort, but his countess would have remarked the lack of flowers.

He rapped the brass lion’s head knocker, and the door was opened by a liveried footman. “Good day, madam, my lord. Won’t you please come in?”

The fellow’s wig sat perfectly centered on his head, his buttons shone as brightly as the nearby mirror, and his gloves were spotless.

Rosecroft handed over a card. “If the earl is receiving, Miss Lily Ferguson has come to call.”

The footman bowed to a deferential depth and took his leave.

“That chandelier rope would make a fine swing, don’t you think?” Lily asked, handing Rosecroft her bonnet. Her cloak and gloves came next, revealing a dress of such drab brown, Rosecroft had seen mud puddles of a more attractive hue. 

“My older daughter would be up that rope the instant she had this foyer to herself.” Bronwyn was a much-beloved bad influence on her younger cousins, much as Rosecroft had been on their parents. “My countess would notice that the carpets are either new or very freshly beaten, the pier-glass positively sparkles, and the wainscoting has a fresh coat of polish. You notice the nearest means of causing mayhem.”

“I was a child once, Rosecroft, several eons ago. Your countess would notice that you’re nervous.” Lily appeared to be assessing the weight of the chandelier when any other woman would have been stealing a glance at herself in the mirror. “You and Grampion will get on famously, which is to say, you’ll nod, exchange the minimum of civilities, and take each other’s measure with a glance. Ask him about his stables and I won’t be able to get a word in edgewise.”

“He has stables?”

Lily smirked and used the toe of her slipper to straighten the carpet fringe. Rosecroft’s countess fretted that Lily needed a bit more airs and graces. Rosecroft was of the opinion that Lily needed a bit more joy. She didn’t go through life so much as she perused it from a skeptically amused distance. He himself might once have been said to suffer from the same affliction.

The footman emerged from the corridor. “His lordship invites you to join him in the library. If you’d follow me, please?”

“One doesn’t receive callers in the library,” Rosecroft muttered.

“One receives friends there. You’d receive callers in your saddle room, if your countess allowed it.”

Rosecroft would receive friends in his saddle room. Mere callers wouldn’t qualify for such a privilege.

The Grampion library was an inviting space, with more than the usual complement of bound books. The standard appointments were in evidence—globe, ornate fireplace, comfortable chairs, reading table, writing desk—as was a suitably attired earl, though his lordship looked to have gone short of sleep.

“Grampion, good day,” Lily said, sweeping a curtsey. “My friend, Devlin, Lord Rosecroft, was good enough to provide me an escort today. Rosecroft, Hessian Kettering, Earl of Grampion. I hope we find you well?”

Rosecroft exchanged bows with his host, all the while evaluating the earl for any spark of interest in Lily, and Lily for any interest in the earl. Grampion was a reasonably good-looking fellow on the settled side of thirty—the most marriageable age in Emmie’s opinion—and his manners were correct if not quite gracious.

He and Lily would make a fine pair, all proper decorum. Rosecroft was relieved to form that opinion, but he was disappointed too.

Lily was an orphan who’d been taken in as a girl by her uncle. Life had apparently taught her early that sentiment was a quagmire for the unwary. A union between Lily and Grampion would be based on common sense and, upon that most tepid of consolations, mutual esteem.

Rosecroft could not approve of such an earthly purgatory, but Lily would likely settle for it and not even realize how much the compromise had cost her.