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“I had not taken Dorie Humplewit for a hoyden,” Roberta said.

She and Penelope were returning from donating to the poor box at St. George’s on Hanover Square. The outing was timed to coincide with the carriage parade in Hyde Park a half-dozen streets to the west.

Conspicuous charity was the only kind Roberta could justify, not that a widow needed to justify good stewardship of her limited resources.

The biweekly trek to St. George’s allowed Roberta to see and be seen without going to the expense of maintaining a team. She hadn’t sold the colonel’s town carriage yet, but she was considering it.

The dratted thing still stank of his pipes and probably always would.

“I’m sorry Lady Humplewit disappointed you,” Penelope said.

“For God’s sake, we’re not in a footrace. How am I to greet friends passing by if you insist on subjecting me to a forced march?”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“You can’t help it, I know. A long meg doesn’t realize how much harder she must work to exude womanly grace. Having some height myself, I do sympathize, but you must—”

As they crossed Bond Street, the traitor herself, Lady Dorothy Humplewit, tooled past in a red-wheeled vis-à-vis, one of her daughters at her side. The unfortunate young lady had buck teeth, which she tried to hide by affecting a serious demeanor. Difficult to do when she hadn’t a brain in her pretty head.

Roberta smiled gaily and gave a small, ladylike wave. Dorie waved back more boisterously than she ought, but then, Dorie had to affect good spirits. Her plans for Grampion had failed utterly.

“To think I call that brazen creature my friend. I barely mentioned to her that my only niece has been given into the keeping of a bachelor earl, and the next thing I know, Lady Dremel conveys the most shocking confidences. Mrs. Chuzzleton had best review the guest list for her future garden parties more carefully.”

Two years ago, Roberta would have been invited to that garden party.

“I thought Lord Grampion was a widower, ma’am.”

“And thus he’s a bachelor. Don’t be tedious, Penelope.”

“My apologies, ma’am.”

Penelope had to apologize frequently, for she had no sense of guile, no ability to anticipate the subtler currents in a conversation. She would have made a good solicitor, taking satisfaction in a life of tedium and routine.

“We shall find a bench and enjoy the fresh spring air for one-quarter of an hour.” Grosvenor Square lay across the next street, a lovely green expanse where the less socially ambitious could spend some time out of doors. “I must consider how to go on with Lady Humplewit. She is a friend of long standing, and one doesn’t discard friends lightly.”

Roberta needed to have a stern word with her dressmaker, for today’s walking dress was too snug about the bodice. One could not march across Mayfair in such ill-constructed attire without becoming quite winded. 

Two young men vacated a bench at the approach of the ladies. The handsomer of the two tipped his hat and swept a bow in the direction of the bench.

“Such nonsense,” Roberta muttered. “I’m a woman of mature years and have no time for flirting dandies.”

“Of course not, ma’am.”

The bench was hard, the sunshine bright enough to give a widow in first mourning freckles despite her veil, and the day a disappointment from every perspective.

Dorie Humplewit was known for enjoying her widowhood, but according to Lady Dremel, that enjoyment had become a business venture. Dorie would accost single gentlemen of means in private locations and arrange for friends to come upon the couple at the wrong moment. The gentleman would face a choice of offering marriage or purchasing silence—from the very woman who’d drawn him into the interlude. 

“The most vexing part,” Roberta muttered, “is that she needn’t even… well, you know. She simply endures a few kisses from a man she, herself, has chosen.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m thinking.” Dorie’s scheme was disgraceful and undeniably clever. The worst that might happen was she’d end up married to a man of her own choosing. If the fellow took umbrage at being kissed, well, a gentleman ought to have known better. That he ended up married to a woman more clever and daring than he was his own fault.

The fellows who’d given up the bench lounged beneath the shade of a nearby maple, showing off their tailoring and trying to catch Roberta’s eye.

Her finances had grown perilous, and she didn’t have time for foolish young men and their silly behavior. Something about Dorie’s scheme begged for further examination, though Roberta herself had no interest in being kissed.

Fourteen years of marriage to the colonel had been penance enough. For a lifetime of financial security, she might endure some groping, but then, marriage should have provided her that security—and in exchange for a great deal more than mere groping.

Alas, the colonel had not enjoyed much business acumen.

“Grampion’s brother is excessively wealthy.” And dear little Amy Marguerite was in Grampion’s care, without the comfort of even a female member of the earl’s household to take the girl in hand.

A devoted auntie—and Roberta was entirely prepared to fulfill that office—ought to shower the child with boundless affection, becoming the next thing to a fixture in Grampion’s household.

Roberta considered that prospect and considered inveigling Grampion into marriage.

He was a widower. He’d know how to deal with his base urges without overly troubling his wife, or Roberta would soon provide him instruction on the matter.

He was titled—never a bad thing.

He danced well enough and did justice to his evening finery, which would make all the other widows jealous—also not a bad thing.

He was very likely wealthy, and the family wealth was vulgarly abundant—the best kind.

“I’m still very much in my prime.”

Penelope was too busy admiring the foliage to comment, or she accepted that statement as so obvious, it required no assent.

Then too, Roberta was dear Amy Marguerite’s only living female relation. Grampion, being dull as a discarded boot, would see a certain economy in marriage to the person who by rights ought to have responsibility for the child’s moral development.

And yet… any earl would expect his wife to produce an heir, a spare, and who knew how many little insurance policies against the crown’s greedy ambitions.

Marriage to Grampion was out of the question. “Come along,” Roberta said, rising. “You have enough burdens in the appearance department that you ought not to risk freckles, my dear.”

“Very true, ma’am.”

One of the dandies blew Roberta a kiss.

“Wretched beasts,” Roberta said, hastening her step. “A woman is never free from the admiration of such as those when she has decent looks and a fine figure. I hope you grasp that in your very plainness, the Almighty has spared you much tribulation.”

“I’m most grateful for heaven’s mercies.”

Roberta was too, especially when heaven gave a lady a brain to equal her other endowments. Dorie Humplewit’s scheme was clever, as far as it went. More clever still would be a scheme that assured that Amy Marguerite’s doting auntie became a fixture not in the earl’s household—what an excruciating fate that would be—but in his expense ledger.

And if Roberta had to put up with a child underfoot to achieve that goal, well… nursery maids and governesses could be had for coin, and coin was something Grampion would be happy to provide to the woman who took the brat off his hands.

The poor, bereaved child, rather.

“Mama said if ever I’m in trouble, and she or Papa couldn’t come to me, I was to write to the Earl of Grampion and he’d help me.”

Daisy tucked a pink tulip into her boat. The boat was paper, so it could carry only one blossom at a time around the fountain. 

Bronwyn waited for the boat to bob across to her side. “My papa would help me, and so would my mama. Then would come Grandpapa and Grandmama and the uncles and aunties. The earl seems nice.”

Daisy was nice too, even though she was an orphan without a pony, puppy, or cat.

“I knew the earl before,” Daisy said, watching the little boat. “At home, we’re neighbors. Mama sometimes went to visit him, and I came along.”

“You miss your mama,” Bronwyn said as the boat came closer. The tulip weighed it down, and in another few passes, the little boat would sink. “Do you miss your papa too?” Daisy never mentioned her papa.

“My papa was old. He liked my brothers a lot, even though he said they made too much noise. Papa wasn’t mean. He smelled like his pipe.”

The boat arrived at Bronwyn’s side of the fountain. “Why did you choose a pink tulip?”

“They were my mama’s favorite.”

Making friends with somebody who was sad was hard, because if she was your friend, you felt sad too.

Bronwyn sent the boat back toward Daisy. “What is your favorite flower?”

“A daisy, of course. What’s yours?”

“I don’t know. I like delphiniums because Grandmama says they are the color of Grandpapa’s eyes. I like honeysuckle because it’s sweet.”

“I thought it only smelled good.”

The boat was sinking lower and lower. “We should make our next boat out of sticks. Paper boats don’t work very well. When the honeysuckle blooms, I’ll show you how to get the nectar from it. We can pretend we’re bees.”

The tulip now floated on the surface of the water without benefit of a boat. “By the time the honeysuckle blooms, I might be sent away.”

What was the point of making a new friend if she was just going to be sent away? “Have you been bad?”  

“Yes, but the earl says I’m making progress.”

Bronwyn rose and dusted off her pinafore. “If you’re making progress, he shouldn’t send you away. That’s not fair.”

Daisy popped to her feet. “I’ll tell you what’s not fair, making us wear white pinafores then sending us outside to play. A brown pinafore would be better for the garden.”

“Or green. Have you climbed that tree yet?” A big maple grew next to the garden wall, and a bench sat beneath it. “We could climb from the bench to the wall to the tree.”

“Is it bad to climb on things like that?”

“Daisy, we’re supposed to be playing. Climbing a tree is playing, and then we can pretend the tree is our pirate ship, or our long boat, or our royal barge.”

“One of the nursery maids is named Sykes. She says if I’m bad, I’ll be sent away.”

“I didn’t have a nursery maid until Mama married Papa. Heavers is jolly and stout and loves me and my sister the best.”

Bronwyn climbed the bench and scrambled onto the wall and into the tree while Daisy stood below, casting glances at the house.

“Come on, Daisy. Unless you want to be in charge of the hold on the royal barge. Even a royal barge probably has rats in the hold. You could be the Royal Ratter and use a great stick to beat all the imaginary rats.”

Daisy stood on the bench. “I don’t understand something. If your papa wasn’t your papa from the day you were born, then how is he your papa?”

“Because he loves me and he loves my mama, and he’s the only papa I know.”

Daisy was an awkward climber, but she made it up onto the wall and sat, her feet kicking against the stones.

“So you can get another papa after your first one dies?”

At this rate, Daisy would never be fit for duty in the crow’s nest. Bronwyn plopped down beside her. “Yes, if he loves you and you love him. I expect you can get another mama too.”

“I don’t want another mama.”

“Neither do I. I don’t want you to be sent away either.”

They pondered that possibility in silence. Bronwyn suspected if they talked it over, Daisy might begin to cry. Daisy cried a lot, which made sense. If Bronwyn had lost both of her parents, she’d cry forever.

“Do you know how you are called Daisy, even though your name is Amy Marguerite?” Bronwyn asked, getting to her feet.

Daisy managed to get herself to a standing position on the wall. “Yes, and my other name is Samantha.”

“Well, my family calls me Winnie, from Bronwyn. You can call me Winnie too. I’ll be Captain Winnie, and you can be First Mate Daisy. Let’s go up to the poop deck and look for pirates.”

“I thought we were the pirates.”

“We’ll be in Lord Nelson’s fleet for now. They got to win all the battles.”

“Lord Nelson was killed in one of those battles.”

Bronwyn swung up into the maple, which was at the lovely, soft stage of growing new leaves. “Everybody dies, Daisy, and then we go to heaven. You can’t worry about that. Lord Nelson got to be a hero because he died fighting for King George. Are you coming?”

Daisy took a moment to choose her route into the tree—she had probably been cautious even before her parents had died—and then she followed Bronwyn into the hold of their seventy-four gunner.

Bronwyn grabbed a sturdy branch and began to climb. “Why do you suppose they called it the poop deck? Why not the pee deck, or the manure deck?”

Daisy started to giggle, and the branch she hung on to shook with her laughter, and that made Bronwyn laugh, and they decided they’d name their ship the HMS Poop Deck.

Uncle Walter sat at the end of the breakfast table, a cup of coffee in one hand, the financial pages in the other. He was a lean, white-haired gentleman with twinkling blue eyes and a black heart.

Lily stirred a lump of sugar into her tea and waited, for if she’d learned nothing else in the past ten years, she’d learned to deal with Uncle carefully.

He finished his coffee and set the cup on its saucer. “So what have you planned for this glorious spring day, dearest niece?”

He kept despotic control of her social schedule, and when he wasn’t dictating to her outright, he was spying on her through the servants or Oscar.

“I was hoping for some time to speak with you, Uncle. I’ve encountered an unforeseen challenge.”

He poured himself more coffee, the acrid scent reaching Lily, though she sat eight feet down the table. “You excel at dealing with challenges. I’ve every confidence you’ll manage this one, whatever it might be.”

“My challenge is the Earl of Grampion.” And his tender, passionate kisses. His devotion to an orphan, his relentless decency. Lily was capable of admiring men, even of liking them—she liked the Earl of Rosecroft—but Grampion had the power to destroy her.

“He’s a challenge to many,” Uncle said, heaping sugar into his coffee. “He’s about as warm as a Methodist spinster in her shroud. All the charm in that family went to the wealthy younger brother, and he’s my objective. Pass the milk.”

Lily brought her uncle the milk. The command was a reminder: Do as I say. Do everything just as I say.

“I knew you were acquainted with the previous earl, Uncle. I did not realize that he’d brought his heir to Town with him years ago.”

Uncle poured a dollop of milk into his coffee, then another. “And how did you come across that revelation?”

“As a girl, the Lily Ferguson whom Grampion knew detested bugs. I made the mistake of taking an interest in butterflies.”

The milk pitcher was a porcelain rendition of a Greek urn in miniature, wreathed in a gold, pink, and green garland of glazed roses. The parlor was snug thanks to a blazing fire, and the sideboard held fluffy eggs, golden toast, jam, butter, and scones—a veritable feast.

Lily had sold her soul for this feast, and for many others like it.

“I do recall the previous earl dragging his sons around Town on one or two occasions. I first met the heir hacking in the park, as I recall, or possibly at some fencing exhibition. Grampion was a dull boy, never said much, not the sort to cause his pater difficulties. You’ll manage him.”

“Then I have your permission to cut him?” For this was Lily’s technique of last resort. Anybody who might have known “Lily Ferguson as a girl” was shown either impatient indifference or—how she hated what her life had become—frigid stares. 

She dwelled on a double-sided precipice. On one side were accusations of extreme eccentricity, on the other was the dangerous truth.

Uncle folded the newspaper and laid it on the table so he could sip coffee and read at the same time.

“You may not cut him, you daft girl. Remind him that you took a bad fall while at that expensive finishing school in Switzerland, and thus many of your earliest memories are hazy. God knows, most of mine are. Pass the butter.”

Once again, Lily rose and complied. “I can dis-remember all day long, Uncle, and have on many occasions, but Grampion notices details. In some small particular, I might falter, and then he’ll ask questions.”

Uncle studied her over the top of his cup of coffee. He threatened gently, he managed invisibly, he insinuated and implied until Lily dared not thwart him. To anybody else, he was a doting relation who’d generously taken in an orphaned niece and showered her with every advantage.

To Lily, he was the devil’s man of business, though he’d never raised a hand to her, never even raised his voice to her.

“You have managed well all these years, Lily. I forget to tell you that, but considering your antecedents—perhaps because of them—you have taken excellent advantage of the opportunities before you. I do appreciate it. Nonetheless, I plan to coax Sir Worth Kettering into inviting me to join him in a particularly lucrative investment scheme, and thus his brother’s favor matters. Deal cordially with Grampion, and we’ll all benefit.”

All meant Uncle and Oscar, though Lily benefitted as well. She was alive, wasn’t she?

“And if his lordship should become curious, or note some inconsistency between the Lily he knew and the Lily I am now?”

Uncle beamed at her. “You are a clever young lady, and your active mind will appeal to a dry stick like Grampion. Why else do you think I put you in his path? I’m not suggesting you engage in outright folly, but a lonely bachelor and a difficult spinster have common ground while passing a Season in London. You do so love children, and Grampion is clearly unprepared to raise a child.”

Damn Uncle to the Pit. “I am better able to serve your ends if I know what they are, sir. Grampion hasn’t taken a liking to me, but the girl—Amy Marguerite—has.”

As much as Lily hated to lie, she did not trust Uncle except to operate consistently in his own self-interest. If Uncle believed Lily and Grampion enjoyed each other’s company, then he’d use that to his advantage.

“The girl likes you,” Uncle said, turning the newspaper over, “in a matter of days, you’ve recruited the poor little mite a playmate and brought along your countess friend for a social call on the earl’s household. Neatly done, Lily. If I know you, there’s another outing of the same nature planned. You’ll take the children on a picnic in the park and do doting-auntie things with them. Grampion will be relieved and charmed, and Worth Kettering will look with favor upon my household. All comes right if you do your part.”

No, all did not come right. All unrolled in a progression of years where Lily was told what to wear, with whom to waltz, when to plead a headache, and when to ruin a young man of whom Uncle disapproved.

“I’m taking Bronwyn to visit Amy Marguerite on Monday,” Lily said. “I cannot promise to earn anybody’s favor for you, Uncle, but I will do my best.”

“You always do, dearest niece. I so admire that about you.”

He went back to the mistress who’d held him in thrall since Lily had first met him—the financial pages—while Lily sipped tea and waited for her stomach to settle.

It never did, not entirely. Fear circled her life like a raptor. When she couldn’t spot its shadow on the path before her, she knew it would reappear at the worst moment and threaten every kind of safety a woman held dear.

“I’m off to pay a call on Tippy,” Lily said. “She might remember some details of Grampion’s boyhood visits to London.”

“The very recollections I pay her for. I’m told Grampion likes to hack out on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. The usual predawn lunacy in Hyde Park. Never saw much sense in it, myself.”

“The fresh air is invigorating, and the horses are happier for stretching their legs.”

Lily had given the right answer, the answer that assured Uncle she’d drag herself out of bed at the ungodly hour preferred by London gentlemen for their morning rides. She’d drag herself to whatever balls, routs, Venetian breakfasts, soirees, musicales, and at-homes Uncle put on her schedule. She’d drag herself to the card parties and charity auctions too.

He’d never asked her to compromise her virtue, never asked her to do more than relay gossip word for word, and yet Uncle was her gaoler as surely as if he chained her to the cart’s tail and whipped her through London daily.

Next month, on her twenty-eighth birthday, Lily would gain nominal control of an inherited fortune. Uncle would doubtless continue to manage all of the money and most of Lily’s time.

If she remained under his roof.

With no money in hand, few friends, and a history of felony wrongdoing, Lily’s escape would present many challenges.

She’d faced many challenges and survived. Spending time with Grampion was simply one more torment added to a list that was as long as Lily’s memory, and as near as her own name.