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Hessian saw his guests to the door, and while the little girls were whispering and giggling like free traders who’d liberally partaken of contraband spirits, Hessian kissed Miss Ferguson’s cheek. He awarded himself this boon for having been a cordial host who never once raised the topic of clandestine embraces or passionate interludes.

“I’ll come by for you on Wednesday at eleven,” he murmured.

Both children left off conspiring to stare at him.

“You needn’t come by,” Miss Ferguson said. “I’ll collect Bronwyn, and we can meet you at the foot of the Serpentine. My companion can wait for us in the coach.”

For a woman whose kisses embodied reckless abandon, Miss Ferguson certainly seemed concerned with propriety.

“That will suit. My thanks for calling on us today.”

“Mine too,” Daisy said. “On Wednesday, we can have a sea battle.”

“On Wednesday, we will have a decorous stroll in the park,” Hessian said. “Ladies, good day.”

Miss Ferguson and her charge departed, whereupon Daisy darted to the window of the parlor. Much waving and smiling ensued, while Hessian considered options and smiled a bit as well.

“We’re going out, Daisy.”

She turned from the window. “Out?”

“To pay a call on my brother. Worth is forever dropping in on me unannounced. It’s time to return fire.”

“Like Napoleon and Wellington?”

“Similar, but with fewer casualties, one hopes.”

Worth welcomed them graciously, though his brows rose when he spotted Daisy clinging to Hessian’s hand.

Hessian went on the polite offensive. “Miss Daisy, may I make known to you my brother, Sir Worth Kettering. Worth, please make your bow to my ward, Miss Daisy.”

Worth was a big, good-looking devil, with unruly dark hair and blue eyes his wife called impertinent. He offered a silly bow, Daisy dimpled, and then Andromeda insinuated her nose into the child’s palm.

“Meda likes you,” Worth said. “That means you must be a capital little girl, despite keeping company with Grampion. Let’s find my wife and she can introduce you to my niece.”

Worth held out a hand to the girl—he was ever a favorite with ladies of any age—and yet, Daisy hesitated.

“It’s all right,” Hessian said. “He’s hopelessly friendly, and I won’t leave without you.”

“Do you promise?”

Hessian’s heart did a queer little hop, for Daisy’s question had been in complete earnest. “I give you my solemn word. I will not leave this house without you.”

Daisy pelted to his side, gave him a tight squeeze about the middle, then grabbed Worth’s hand.

Hessian was still pondering the child’s first spontaneous display of affection when Worth returned to the study.

“We are forgotten,” he said. “Avery took one look at Daisy and began rhapsodizing in French about the dolls and the tin soldiers, and then a fancy dress ball got underway. Daisy is a dear little thing.”

Worth’s observation held a question, which Hessian ignored. “She’s troubled. Sits up in the dead of night moaning and crying, but doesn’t even seem to be awake, and apparently has no recollection of the drama the next day.”

“That is odd. Avery has nightmares and can often describe them to us in detail for a week afterward. Shall we enjoy the sun while it’s out?”

Typical of English weather, the sky had gone from drizzling to sunshine in less than an hour. “So you’ve never heard of a child having a waking nightmare?”

Worth led the way to the back terrace. “Is that what you came to see me about?”

Well, no, but Daisy’s distress seemed so real in the dead of night, and all Hessian knew to do was take her hand and wait for her fear to pass. The first time it had happened, he’d nigh had an apoplexy, but within minutes, she’d curled up and gone right back to sleep.

“What do you know about Walter Leggett?” Hessian asked.

Worth looked around at the terrace furniture. “The damned chairs are wet. Let’s visit the mews.”

He was off across the garden—which was also quite damp—showing his usual lack of prudence when any odd notion wafted into his head. Money and the Kettering womenfolk were the only topics that gave Worth pause, and in those arenas, he was brilliant.

Hessian followed more slowly, tempted to turn and wave in the direction of the nursery windows.

“About Leggett?” Hessian prompted when he caught up to his brother in the stable aisle.

“Walter Leggett,” Worth said, stroking the nose of a big, black, raw-boned gelding. “Third spare to the late Earl of Dearborn. Wealthy, likable, widower, one son. Oscar Leggett is the typical university wastrel trying to cut a dash about Town now that his so-called studies are concluded. The niece is rumored to have handsome settlements, but other rumors attach to Miss Ferguson as well.”

A swallow flitted about overhead, and Worth’s horse spooked to the back of its stall.

“Miss Ferguson’s inclinations are not Sapphic,” Hessian said, “at least not exclusively so.”

Worth moved down the barn aisle. “Hess, have you been naughty?”

“Don’t sound so hopeful. Miss Ferguson has taken an interest in Daisy and found her a playmate. Daisy seems to be doing better for having a friend.”

“Screeching in the dead of night is doing better?”

Hessian greeted a mare whose proportions rivaled those of the black gelding. “I think it is, though I know that must sound odd. Daisy would probably also benefit from having a maternal figure in the household.”

The mare brushed velvety lips over Hessian’s palm.

“Gefjon doesn’t like anybody,” Worth said. “Why does she like you?”

I smell good. “My charms are subtle but substantial. I’m thinking of offering for Lily Ferguson.”

Hessian braced himself for the near-violent fraternal behavior that passed for teasing. He and Worth had been estranged at one point for several years, and they still weren’t exactly close.

“You and she would suit,” Worth said. “And not merely because a crooked pot needs a crooked lid. She’s no featherbrain, and neither are you.”

“I’m a boring old stick.”Who would slay dragons to win more of Lily Ferguson’s kisses. “Miss Ferguson seems to like Daisy, and Daisy her.”

“Hess, at the risk of pointing out the obvious, ten years from now, Daisy will be making her bow, and it’s you Miss Ferguson would be seeing over the tea and toast each morning. Do you like her?”

As a younger man, Hessian would have dismissed the question. Marriage, he would have said, was about esteem, respect, and duty. He was a widower now, and he’d been married to a woman who hadn’t particularly liked him, even as she’d spoken her vows.

“I enjoy Miss Ferguson’s company, and we share a common perspective.”

The mare craned her neck, indicating that Hessian was to scratch her great, hairy ear. He obliged, though it would result in dirty fingernails.

“What perspective might that be?”

“That life isn’t an endless exercise in frivolity, that a child’s welfare matters, that polite society is mostly ridiculous.” That kisses should be delightfully unrestrained.  

“All people of sense can agree on that last, but if Miss Ferguson is such a paragon of breeding and wisdom, why hasn’t she married previously? She’s an heiress, she’s not hard on the eye, and if nothing else, you’d think Leggett would select a husband for her from the advantageous-match category.”

Wealthy and titled, in other words.

“I’m advantageous,” Hessian said. “Or getting there.”

The mare butted him in the chest. Had she been so inclined, she could have sent him sprawling on his arse in the dirt. Worth too could have dealt a few blows—ridicule, incredulity, dismay—but he was instead looking thoughtful.

“You are in every way an estimable fellow,” Worth said, “and nothing would make me happier than to see you matched with a woman deserving of your esteem, but your first question is about Leggett, and it’s regarding him that I must raise a reservation.”

Hessian scratched the mare beneath her chin, which she also seemed to enjoy. “Miss Ferguson says he runs off the fortune hunters. All I know of the man is that he was a friend of our papa and is quite well fixed.”

“Is he? I have my fingers in financial pots that involve everybody from King George to the seamstresses on Drury Lane, and never once have I crossed paths with Leggett. Now he’s apparently sniffing around at my club, making discreet inquiries about a venture I’m putting together with some Americans. Why?”

“Because you are a genius at making money.”

“Why is Leggett only now coming to need that genius?”

“Perhaps he’s investigated all other possibilities, made a sufficient sum, and hopes by investing with Worth Kettering to make a more than sufficient sum. I have taken every bit of the investment advice you’ve offered, and in a very short time, my finances have come right.”

More than come right. Over the next five years, Hessian would accumulate capital at an astonishing rate, thanks to his brother.

Worth approached the mare, who pinned her ears. “She honestly likes you. You walk in here and command the notice of the most finicky female I know.”

“She recognizes a yeoman at heart when she sees one. I have never thanked you for dispensing that financial advice. I am deeply grateful.”

Worth wandered back to his gelding, who was affecting the horsy version of a wounded look. “You follow my advice. So many ask for it, then ignore it. I owed you after the way I left Grampion Hall in high dudgeon as a young man. You looked after Lannie, you extended the olive branch, you manage the ancestral pile. Had it not been for Jacaranda’s influence, I might still be sticking my figurative tongue out at you and ignoring your letters.”

Hessian had never considered that Worth felt guilty over the rift between them, which had been a case of mutual youthful arrogance more than anything else.

“I’m the earl,” Hessian said, giving the mare a final pat on her nose. “I’m supposed to extend olive branches and all that other. Might we regard the topic of past misunderstandings as adequately addressed and instead return to the issue of Walter Leggett?”

Worth was a jovial fellow, often gratingly so, but for a moment, in the shadows of the stable, he looked very much like their father. The late earl had been dutiful, stern, and nobody’s fool, though kind too. He had loved his children, but he’d lacked a wife at his side as his boys had made the difficult transition to young manhood.

“You have a gift for understatement,” Worth said, “and yes, we can discuss Leggett, except I know very little about his situation. Over the years, everybody’s fortune get an occasional mention in the clubs. This fellow’s stocks took a bad turn on ’Change. That one married his spare to an heiress. Some other man is mad for steam engines—as I am—and yet another just bought vineyards in Spain, of all the dodgy ventures. Leggett’s name doesn’t come up.”

Hessian found a pitchfork and brought the mare a serving of hay from the pile at the end of the aisle. “So he’s discreet. Not a bad quality in a fellow.” The next forkful went to the gelding, and thus every other beast in the barn began nickering and shifting about in its stall like drovers trying to get the attention of the tavern maid.

“Discretion is a fine quality, but I’m nosy,” Worth said. “Will you also sweep the aisle, fill up the water buckets, and muck the stalls for me?”

“I miss Cumberland.”

Worth took up a second pitchfork. “I miss Trysting.”

They worked in companionable silence until all the horses had been given their snacks. The effort, small though it was, resolved a question for Hessian.

“If I’m considering courting Miss Ferguson, learning as much as I can about her situation strikes me as prudent.”

“Stealing a few kisses would be prudent too.” Worth propped both pitchforks beside the barn door. “The wedding night is rather too late to discover that your bride likes your title better than your intimate company.”

 “You needn’t instruct me on that point.”

A pause ensued, a trifle righteous on Hessian’s part—only a trifle—and doubtless awkward for Worth.

“Sorry.” Worth stood in the beam of sunshine angling through the barn doors, his gaze on the rain-wet garden. “About Leggett?”

“I’d like to know more where he’s concerned, if you’re comfortable gathering that information. Some of the wealth he’s managing is not his own, but rather, Lily Ferguson’s. What has he done with her money?”

Hessian would rather have lingered in the stables, with the beasts and the good smells and honest labor, but he was promised to a card party come evening—a gathering of earls, of all things, courtesy of his recent acquaintance with Lord Rosecroft—and Daisy might be in need of a nap.

“Most settlement money is simply kept in the cent per cents,” Worth said.

“And most young ladies of good breeding and ample fortune are married off within a year or two of their come out. Lily Ferguson is comely, intelligent, very well-dowered, and as far as I can tell, in every way a woman worthy of esteem.”

“And yet, we heard her insulted at my very club.”

“Precisely. Most doting uncles would be anxious to see a niece well settled in her own household, a devoted husband at her side. If that were Leggett’s aim, he’s had years to achieve it.”

“And those Sapphic tendencies?”

“An exaggeration at best, a ridiculous fabrication more likely.”

Worth was silent while swallows flitted in and out of the barn and horses munched an unlooked-for treat. “Do you recall Vicar Huxley?”

“To my sorrow.” The ordained man of Christ had beat his wife and children, while preaching love, tolerance, and turning the other cheek.

“You deduced what was afoot long before anybody else did,” Worth said. “Does Miss Ferguson’s situation strike you as similar?”

When week after week a woman was too stiff to rise from her church pew unaided and her children were perfectly behaved regardless of all provocation, even a gormless lad knew something was amiss.

“I am not an expert on abused women, but Miss Ferguson moves with a deal of bodily confidence. Her caution seems to be more of words and emotions than deeds, so I’d say no. Gentlemen are to protect the ladies and ensure their well-being though. That can easily shade into stifling a woman’s freedom and disrespecting her independence. I’m sure a female of spirit and wit would be hurt by such insults.”

“Lannie taught you that.”

Doubtless, Jacaranda, Avery, and Worth’s infant daughter were teaching him the same lesson. “You’ll see what you can learn regarding Leggett?”

“He’s trying to curry my favor, so a few polite inquiries from me will flatter his ambitions. Shall we storm the nursery?”

Yes, please. “Daisy and I are walking in the park with Miss Ferguson and her young friend on Wednesday at eleven. Perhaps Avery would like to join us?”

Worth crossed to the garden and held the gate open. “How will you get to steal any kisses with an infantry square of small children underfoot?”

Hessian sauntered through the gate. “The children occupy one another, leaving many an opportunity for a stolen kiss between the adults. It isn’t complicated, Worth.”

Worth should have burst forth in whoops of fraternal disrespect, should have punched Hessian on the shoulder, should have quipped that Jacaranda had stumbled upon that strategy months ago.

Instead, Worth walked to the house without another word, suggesting to Hessian that the family financial genius could learn a thing or two from his dull stick of an older brother.

Tippy was aging, and the realization both saddened and unnerved Lily.

Miss Ephrata Tipton hadn’t been young when Lily had met her more than twenty years ago, and she was the closest thing Lily had to an ally. She was a slight woman, with intelligent brown eyes and graying brown hair. She’d doubtless been pretty when Lily had been too young and frightened to notice.

“You’re kind to pay a call on me, miss,” Tippy said, “but you needn’t bother. Mr. Leggett sends my funds regularly, and I have all I need.”

An odd thought occurred to Lily. “Do you have friends, Tippy?” She always seemed so brisk, so confident and self-sufficient.

Tippy’s little parlor was a riot of cabbage roses—even her porcelain tea service was adorned with cabbage roses—dried bouquets, cutwork, and other evidence of a woman’s pastimes, but Lily had never once come upon another caller here.

“Chelsea is growing so fast these days,” Tippy said. “I hardly know who my neighbors are anymore.”

Chelsea had the dubious fortune to lie close to London, and in a direction the city seemed determined to sprawl. Beyond the village, fields and pastures clung to the rural past, but every year, more houses and streets sprang up, and the fields receded, acre by acre.

“Does the vicar look in on you?” Did anybody take notice of a woman who’d spent her life devoted to a family to whom she wasn’t related?

“I don’t always get to services,” Tippy said, opening her workbasket. “The weather can be so nasty, and my hip does pain me.”

She took out an embroidery hoop, one she’d likely owned since before Lily’s birth. The needle moved more slowly now, but the stitches were as neat as ever.

“Tippy, if I asked you to, would you move back to Uncle Walter’s house?”

Tippy bent very close to her hoop. “Himself wouldn’t want an old woman like me about. Creates awkwardness among the help to have a pensioner at the table.”

Something about Tippy’s posture, hunched over, getting in her own light, sent a chill through Lily. “You’re afraid of him.”

“You are too,” Tippy retorted, “because we’re both sensible creatures who know what he’s capable of. You be careful, Miss Lilith Ann.”

“You’re not to call me that.” Though Lily was glad she had.

“He’s not here to chide me for it, though you’re right. I ought not. How’s that Oscar getting on?”

Why ask about him? “He’s harmless and bored, drunk more often than he’s sober. If he’s to take over the family fortune, he has much to learn, and he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to learn it.”

Tippy’s needle moved in a patient rhythm. “Or his father isn’t in a hurry to teach him.”

Walter spun a web of influence and money, money and influence. He’d never turn over control of the finances to Oscar willingly, but if Oscar made himself useful, he’d at least be prepared when the transition became inevitable.

“Tippy, do you recall meeting the Earl of Grampion’s heir?”

Tippy gazed off into the middle distance, sunlight gleaming on her poised needle. “Tall boy, blond, quiet? Odd name, something German. He was named for where his mother’s people came from.”

Increasingly, Tippy’s recollections were like this—a mosaic of useless detail, speculation, and the occasional relevant fact. She still gave off the vibrant intelligence she’d had earlier in life, suggesting to Lily that Tippy simply disliked the memories of Lily’s childhood.

“His given name is Hessian,” Lily said, “and he informed me that, as a girl, I detested bugs.”

Tippy’s hands fell to her lap, hoop, needle, and all. “Oh dear.”

Lily waited while Tippy frowned at the cabbage rose carpet.

“Children are invisible,” Tippy said, smoothing a finger over the French knots in her embroidery. “They don’t attend social functions, often don’t use courtesy titles, and are mostly relegated to nurseries and schoolrooms.”

Daisy was not invisible to Grampion, which was good. Lily was not invisible to him either, which was not good, however useful it might be for Uncle Walter.

“Outings to the park were very frequent,” Tippy said. “Headstrong little girls benefit from fresh air and a chance to move about. Other children played in the park, some with nannies, some at that awkward age, boys not quite ready for university, impossible to occupy with studies all day. You could have met him on any number of occasions, possibly met the spare as well.”

Tippy scooted about on her cushions and produced a small flask from some hidden pocket. She tipped a dollop of amber liquid into her tea.

“For my hip.”

“Tippy, Grampion says we did meet.”

Another dollop. “Then you explain to him that you’re not right in the brainbox, you took a bad fall in Switzerland, and you can’t recollect as well as other people. It happens.”

It had not happened to Lily. “He noticed that bit about the bugs, he might notice some other inconsistency. Lying doesn’t solve all problems, and one grows weary of deception.”

One grew weary of being a deception.

“One does not grow tired of eating, Miss Lily. One does not grow tired of having a safe place to sleep, or a warm cloak in winter. You’ve read all the diaries, you’ve learned all I have to teach you. You’ve spent years being accepted as Walter Leggett’s niece, and he’s a powerful man.”

The problem in a nutshell. No one dared cross Uncle Walter, least of all a frightened, half-starved fourteen-year-old girl who had no other options and didn’t own a set of stays.

“Would you care for a nip, miss? It’s a patent remedy and works a treat.”

“No, thank you.” Oscar could dwell in a continuous state of inebriation, but Lily dared not return home with a “patent remedy” on her breath. “The boy who recalled my disgust of bugs is the earl now, and Uncle wants me to cultivate his friendship.”

“I wish I could help, miss.”

Tippy had helped. For years, she’d been Lily’s sole companion, her guide and support. That support was slipping, and not only because Tippy had decided to grow forgetful. If women occupied a vulnerable position in society, older women with neither fortune nor family navigated a sea of risks daily.

Lily rose. “If you recall anything, please do send for me.” Notes were not a prudent way to communicate information of substance.

Tippy set aside her embroidery and pushed to her feet, though she moved more slowly than she had even a year ago.

“Tippy, are you ever lonely?”

Lily was lonely. Amid other emotions—terror, resentment, anxiety—loneliness had lurked unnoticed until recently. The girl Daisy had awakened it, and Grampion had given the loneliness a bitter, hopeless edge.

“I like my own company,” Tippy said, linking arms with Lily and walking her to the door. “And I’m always glad to see you, but it might be best if you didn’t come around for a bit, Lily. You can send me a note if you think I might be able to recall a detail or two, but I’ve grown forgetful, and it’s all very much in the past.”

Tippy had begun making this suggestion that Lily keep her distance about a year ago.

“Has Uncle Walter threatened you?” Though, if anything, Uncle would threaten Tippy for a lack of recall.

“No, miss. What’s he to threaten me with? I have more than a bit put by after all these years. I help you to the best of my ability whenever you ask it of me. I’ve never breathed a word to anybody, and I never will. I was governess to Miss Lily Ferguson, and she will always be in my prayers.”

And yet, something was changing, despite the tidy sameness of Tippy’s cottage. Lavender sachets held back the curtains. A rose velvet footstool sat before the window-end of the sofa. Embroidered cabbage roses adorned pillows, table runners, and framed samplers. Tippy even smelled faintly of roses, not a scent she could have afforded while in service.

God Save Our Good King George. Lily’s work, a dozen years old, but nearly indistinguishable from Tippy’s accomplishments.

And on the mantel, beneath that sampler, sat a pipe.

Oh.

Oh.

Tippy had a gentleman caller. The knowledge stabbed at Lily from many directions. She should be happy for Tippy, but instead, she was resentful, of the man, of the deception. She hoped he was worth Tippy’s time and attention, and she was terrified that he’d take Tippy away.

“I’d best be going,” Lily said, bending to envelop her former governess in a careful hug. Tippy had always been diminutive, and now she seemed fragile. “Send for me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“You drop me a note if you have more questions about your earl.”

He’s not my earl —though I wish he could be. “Thank you.”

Lily climbed into the coach, knowing the duration of her visit would be reported to Uncle Walter, though none of the servants could relay what had passed between Tippy and her former charge.

“She’s leaving me,” Lily informed the elegant comfort of the town coach. “My only ally.” Though Tippy, too, was Uncle Walter’s creature.

And yet, Tippy had been the one to advise Lily to stash what pence and quid she could in a location Uncle Walter knew nothing about. A lady needed to save against a rainy day, Tippy had said with a wink, because in England, rain fell frequently.

Lily did have some money saved, though not enough. Not nearly enough.