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Hessian’s invitation to take the children to the park had been extended in a weak moment. He much preferred a ride at dawn, when all was still and calm, and the most that might be expected of him socially was a tip of the hat or muttered greeting.

For Daisy’s sake, he’d ridden later in the morning, amid the nursemaids and governesses and their noisy, shrieking charges.

Now, he must brave utter chaos on foot for the sake of another hour spent with Miss Ferguson—and for Daisy’s sake too, of course. A rowdy gang of schoolboys was playing kickball down by the Serpentine, a toddler had erupted into tears beneath a plane maple sporting a stranded kite. Other children threw rocks into the water, while nannies and governesses read—books positioned immediately before their faces—despite all the noise.

“I’ve come armed for combat,” Miss Ferguson said, patting a large reticule. “My companion refused to stir from the house when the sun was so strong, but I have a ball, blanket, storybook, a few purloined tea cakes, and a flask of lemonade. What of you?”

“A flask of brandy.” Hessian was telling the God’s honest truth, and earned himself a smile. “Shall I carry your provisions?”

“You’d carry my reticule?”

“Of course.” Hessian slung the strap over his shoulder. “You’re the commanding officer on this sortie. You must be free to maneuver. Daisy, if you climb that tree, you’ll get no pudding for a week.”

This admonition—also entirely in earnest—provoked a spate of laughter from both Daisy and Bronwyn. They raced off after a hapless rabbit, while Miss Ferguson surveyed the surrounds as if she were indeed scouting enemy terrain.

“We want to avoid any stray boys,” she said. “They are loud, mischievous, and curious.”

The reticule weighed more than Hessian’s longest fowling piece. “Was I loud, mischievous, and curious?”

“Bronwyn, do not stomp in that puddle.”

The girl contented herself with finding a pebble to toss into the puddle, and for a moment, both children watched the rings spread across the surface.

“I mean you no insult, my lord, when I say that I can barely recall you as a boy.”

Not an insult, but lowering. “I was not particularly memorable. My younger brother made it his mission in life to make sport of me, while my father expected a miniature earl to toddle out of the nursery, complete with consequence and self-possession.”

The rabbit reappeared from the hedge, and the children crouched as if to sneak up on the poor creature.

“You were doomed,” Miss Ferguson said, regarding Hessian with more seriousness than the moment wanted. “Your brother wanted a playmate, your father wanted a peer.”

Habit prompted Hessian to disagree with her, to brush off the contradiction she pointed out.

With Lily Ferguson, only honesty would do.

“You are not wrong.”

Her gaze was commiserating more than pitying. When had anybody commiserated with Hessian, Earl of Grampion?

“We must find a place in the shade,” Miss Ferguson said, “where we can keep a vigilant eye on the children without the general public keeping its vigilant eye on us.” 

“Miss Ferguson, dare I hope you have designs on my person?” Worth might have said something like that, but the words had come from Hessian’s own mouth—more honesty.

The rabbit hopped off a few yards and resumed nibbling. Bronwyn and Daisy, hand in hand, crept along behind it.

“You dare not hope any such thing,” she retorted. “We are in Hyde Park, in view of half of Mayfair, and if I had designs on your person—not that I’d admit to such an unladylike ambition lest it fuel your manly self-importance—they would be inappropriate except in the most private of settings. I have designs on that patch of grass there.”

She marched off, and Hessian followed.

Not quite a set-down, but neither had she exactly flirted with him. Hessian chose to be encouraged, because if Lily Ferguson wanted to deliver a set-down, she’d do so without ambiguity.

She chose a spot in dappled shade, away from the busiest walkways without being secluded. The blanket was a thick patchwork quilt gone soft with age. Her storybook was Aesop’s Fables.

A second rabbit ventured from the hedge, and the girls held a conference, likely deciding whether to stalk one hare or both. Hessian offered Miss Ferguson a hand as she settled to the blanket, then took the place two feet to her right.

He had told Worth the truth: He enjoyed Miss Ferguson’s company. She was a cool, tart lemonade compared to the overly sweet, tepid tea of the typical debutante or designing widow. Hessian had sampled the wares of a few of those widows, and had his own wares sampled, and found the encounters physically enjoyable.

Also sad.

“I feel a compulsion to warn those rabbits,” Miss Ferguson said. “They are entirely too entranced by their clover.”

She made a pretty picture in a wide-brimmed straw hat and old-fashioned walking dress of faded chocolate. Her millinery was as plain as any goose-girl’s, not a frill, feather, or extra ribbon to be seen, and that only set off the elegance of her profile.

“The breeze warns those rabbits of the peril behind them. Most wild creatures who graze will arrange themselves thus, with their backs to the prevailing wind. Their eyes guard them from what’s downwind, their noses from what’s upwind, and their ears from hazards unseen.”

Rather like Hessian in the ballroom. He kept his back to the wall, potted palms on at least one side, and eyes alert for a hostess seeking to pair him with any women save the wallflowers.

He liked the wallflowers, and hoped they liked him as well. 

Miss Ferguson opened her book of fables to a random page. “You notice a great deal, my lord.”

He noticed that Miss Ferguson was in a less approachable mood than when they’d shared an alcove with Apollo.

“I’ve spent many an hour pursuing wild game on my estate. For the most part, I tramp about, making a great racket and taking the air, but I have learned a few things from the beasts of the field. I notice that your ear has healed quite nicely, for example.”

He’d like to nuzzle that ear. Perhaps all that twaddle about fresh spring air and the mating urge had some basis in science.

“My ear?”

“This very ear here.” He touched her earlobe with his thumb and forefinger. “You slipped in the middle of a game of tag and got quite the gash on your ear. Your concern was not for your hearing, not for the consequences of a blow to the head, but for the imperfection your misadventure would leave. For weeks, you wore your hair such that your ear was covered, because there was a scar.”

That ear was perfectly nuzzle-able now, no sign of any childhood mishap.

“Children heal better than adults do, but you should know, my lord, that my propensity for bad spills followed me past my childhood.”

Hessian half-reclined on an elbow, lest he get to caressing her earlobe again—or any other part of her.

“You seem unscathed.” Not quite true. In childhood, Lily Ferguson had borne a sense of entitlement, as if she’d already known she’d become an heiress. The present Lily did not suffer fools, but claimed modesty, humility, and common sense among her possessions.

The childhood Lily, in the opinion of a youthful Hessian, had been a pest.

“I am physically hale,” she said, “but while at finishing school, I suffered a bad fall from an ill-tempered mount and took a blow to the head. I slept for two days and seemed to awaken unharmed, but, in fact, my memory is not whole. I can recall anything that happened after the fall, but not the fall itself and not all of what happened to me prior to it.”

Another fact added itself to her recitation: A blow to the head could change personality, just as an apoplexy could. Winters were long in Cumberland, and Hessian had passed more than one reading through the medical treatises in the Grampion library.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not enjoy much of my youth and childhood, but I’d enjoy less if it hopped off into the hedges of my memory and eluded my recall. One likes to know one’s own history.”

Her gaze passed over him as fleetingly as a breeze. “Even if that history is painful?”

Another lady would have offered a quip, a flirtation, a flattery. Lily offered a difficult question—she’d lost both parents, after all—and Hessian liked her for it.

“I hope my painful memories protect me from future harm. By God, that child has hidden depths of patience. Her mother was persistent when fixed on a goal too.”

Daisy had come within a yard of her quarry.

“Hidden depths of stealth. Girls learn early how to not be noticed. Then they are told that being noticed by the right sort of fellow in the right way defines success for them. It’s confusing.” She passed him the book. “Did life as an earl deal you many painful memories, my lord?”

Her question was an effort to turn the conversation to him—another skill most women learned early and well—and yet, Hessian wanted to answer. Kissing was all quite fine, but this conversation was personal, and that met a need kisses could not fulfill.

“My late wife occasioned some pain, for me and for my brother, and in the end for herself. She was from a local family, and I’d known her for years. I thought my brother had taken an interest in her—Worth got all the charm, you see—but she began to confide in me. She claimed that Worth had treated her callously, toyed with her, even trifled with her, and then scorned her.”

Miss Ferguson loosened the ribbons of her straw hat. “Young men can be scoundrels.”

The insult she’d been dealt in Hessian’s club came to mind. Perhaps Worth could be convinced to ruin Islington.

And all of his lordship’s drunken little friends too. 

“A young man can also be gullible as hell,” Hessian said, “and competitive with his only brother. Increasingly, the young lady found comfort in my embrace—great, strapping bastion of male thick-headedness that I was. She would cry and fret, which required that even a brute such as I stroke her hair, pat her back, and lend her my handkerchief, all the while battling such thoughts as a gallant knight never admits save to his confessor.”

“You are not a brute.”

Which left great, strapping, and thick-headed. “I was a self-important prig. Worth came upon the young lady and me in an embrace that was innocent on my part and entirely calculated on hers. She’d escalated her accusations, claiming that she was with child and Worth had refused to marry her. She was begging me to save her good name, and then Worth stumbled upon us.”

“This qualifies as a painful memory all around.”

“Also as melodrama, though I could not see that at the time. Worth marched off in high dudgeon, convinced I’d dangled my title before the love of his life. Papa said to marry the girl and leave Worth to sort out his temper on his own, and I said… I said, ‘Of course, Papa.’”

“Your brother hadn’t trifled with her?”

“He’d barely stolen a few kisses. Her falsehoods became obvious in due time, and Worth and I have put it behind us, but one has regrets.”

Hessian regretted the tree root digging into his hip, so he sat up and found himself a mere foot from Miss Ferguson.

“What are they doing now?” she asked, shading her eyes. Both children were prone in the grass, the rabbits forgotten a few yards away.

“Probably looking for lucky clovers, or perhaps studying life from a rabbit’s-eye view.” The view from Hessian’s half of the blanket was pretty and thoughtful.

“Your brother apparently came right eventually,” she said. “He’s reported to have done quite well for himself.”

“Worth is arse over teakettle in love with his wife, if that’s what you mean.” Also with his daughter, his niece, his dog… his life.

“I meant…” Miss Ferguson glanced around. “Financially. Worth Kettering is a nabob. All London knows it. The rumor is, he’s even done a good turn for King George, who spends money faster than it can be minted.”

Worth had done several good turns for the sovereign, about which one was enjoined to remain silent. “My brother left Grampion Hall rich in injured pride. He was determined to make his own way, and having a full complement of Kettering determination, he achieved that end spectacularly.”

Hessian was close enough to the lady to get a hint of her fragrance—daffodils, an innocent, happy scent.

“You are proud of your brother.”

“Obnoxiously so.”

She watched the children, who were doubtless exchanging girlish confidences while enjoying the fresh air.

“You should know that my Uncle Walter seeks to do business with your brother. He hopes to curry Worth Kettering’s favor by offering agreeable companionship in the form of myself to the nabob’s older brother.”

Miss Ferguson’s disclosure smacked of intrigue, guile, and deceit, which Hessian would sort out later. If Walter Leggett sought to manipulate either Kettering brother, he was doomed to disappointment.

“What do you seek, Lily Ferguson?”

Now, she faced him. “To spend time in the company of a man whom I esteem, while ensuring an orphaned little girl whom I care about—despite all sense to the contrary—also has a pleasant outing.”

Hessian was growing to loathe the word esteem. Esteem was not liking, desire, passion, friendship… Esteem was a hedge into which shy rabbits dodged when they had no wish to be involved in drama, and yet, Hessian had used the word himself.

Miss Ferguson was on her feet without giving Hessian a chance to assist her. “Those girls will get grass stains all over their pinafores. If you’d hand me the ball, please?”

He retrieved the ball from her reticule and tossed it to her. She caught it with her left hand and marched off toward the children.

“Ladies, it’s time to work on our athletic skills!” She fired the ball across the grass with as much skill and accuracy as Hessian had encountered on the cricket pitches at public school.

The girls were on their feet, shrieking and chasing after the ball, while Hessian puzzled over a detail, probably to spare himself pondering Miss Ferguson’s revelation about Leggett’s scheme.

As a girl, Lily Ferguson had once fired a ball at him, straight at a location highly vulnerable to injury. The memory was as fresh as when she’d first offered the insult, because Hessian had moved at the very last instant and got a handsome bruise to the thigh.

Lily doubtless forgot the incident, but Hessian never would, and thus he was plagued by a question: When had Lily Ferguson become left-handed?

The front door clicked quietly closed, and barely audible footsteps passed Roberta Braithwaite’s parlor. She waited until those footsteps had started up the stairs—the third stair creaked—before speaking.

“You have become positively devoted to your constitutionals, Penelope.”

The truant appeared in the parlor doorway looking appropriately guilty. “Good day, Mrs. Braithwaite.”

“Well, come in,” Roberta said. “I’ve no objection to you enjoying a bit of the air, provided you took Thomas with you.”

“I did, of course. Just for a turn in the park.” Penelope hovered in the doorway, while Roberta made herself a sandwich from the offerings on a tray. “You hadn’t come down for breakfast, ma’am, so I thought luncheon would be set back. I’m sorry if I’ve upset the household schedule.”

Whoever Penelope was meeting in the park, he’d put some color in her otherwise pale cheeks.

“Your outing has left you flushed,” Roberta said. “Have a seat and let’s get some sustenance into you. You must help me plan my next assault on the citadel of Grampion’s stubbornness. What sort of man keeps a grieving child from her only female relation?”

Penelope perched on the edge of an armchair. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, ma’am. His lordship was not exactly approachable, was he?”

“Earls. The only thing worse is a new viscount for being contrary and self-important. Marquesses and dukes tend to be secure enough in their stations that they needn’t put on airs, and barons know their places.”

Roberta took a bite of ham with watercress and mustard. The bread was yesterday’s and would have done better as toast.

“His lordship was quite informal with the children in the park today,” Penelope said. Her sandwich consisted of butter and watercress, not a slice of beef or even a nibble of cheese.

More for me, Roberta thought, finishing her sandwich. “Grampion was frolicking in the park?”

“He was in the company of Miss Lily Ferguson, and they were supervising two small girls. I assume one of the girls was Amy Marguerite.”

Roberta washed down her sandwich with lemonade that could have used more sugar. “How do you know Miss Ferguson?”

“You’ve pointed out her uncle, ma’am. You said Mr. Leggett was the brother of an old friend, and I’ve noticed that he seldom appears socially without his niece. I adore fresh butter.”

As if Roberta would allow the kitchen to send up any other kind. “Lily Ferguson is the closest thing Walter has to a hostess. Miss Ferguson’s mother died years ago, left the poor girl orphaned and positively awash in money.”

Lady Nadine Leggett had been excessively pretty, but also so friendly, Roberta hadn’t been able to resent her. Then Lady Nadine had married a ducal spare and shortly ended up a wealthy, titled widow.

Any woman would have found those turns of fortune deserving of a bit of jealousy. “She had little time to be a merry widow, though, more’s the pity.”

And Lady Nadine had been merry. Exceedingly merry. Roberta had had a letter or two from her confessing as much.

“Would you like more lemonade, ma’am?”

Roberta would have liked a nice, cool glass of hock, but German wines were not cheap. No wine worth drinking was cheap, no cheese worth serving, no dresses worth wearing…

“The lemonade is too tart. I am quite vexed with Lord Grampion. How dare he be gamboling in the park like some schoolboy on holiday when Amy Marguerite has been dealt such a grievous blow?”

Penelope began assembling a second sandwich. “If I may say, Amy Marguerite looked to be having a capital time. She was laughing and racing about, if that was her.” 

“Blond hair, about seven years old—or six, I forget which—on the petite side?”

“That sounds like her. The other girl was either older or of sturdier conformation. They got on famously, from what little I saw.”

“Did Grampion snatch my poor Amy Marguerite away from her friend?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, but I did not want to tarry in the park in case you awoke and had need of me.”

What a parcel of lies. Whatever callow swain Penelope had met had likely spared the poor thing only a moment or two of his time. Men were like that.

“I wonder if Walter Leggett knows what a baggage his sister was.”

Penelope helped herself to a glass of lemonade. “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

Nobody ever said why one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. The living were on hand to take offense and mete out retribution for impolite talk. The dead were too busy strumming their harps.

“Lady Nadine—then Lady Alfred, for she married Lord Alfred Ferguson—got to enjoying her widowhood, and little more than a year after losing her husband, she was off on an extended stay in Rome. You know what that means.”

Penelope peered at Roberta over one of the last two crystal glasses in everyday use. “She needed to work on her Italian?”

Roberta helped herself to a tea cake, though she’d had several already. “Was that an attempt to be humorous? Lady Nadine was an earl’s daughter. Her skill with languages was impeccable, while her common sense was never sufficiently in evidence. She’d got herself in trouble, and while a child appearing directly after a man’s death might be considered his offspring, Nadine’s problem presented itself too long after any claim of legitimacy might have been made.”

Penelope set down her glass. “That must have been very difficult for all concerned.”

“Very embarrassing. As an old and dear friend, Lady Nadine could of course rely on my discretion, though others would not have been so kind. I never learned what became of the girl, and either the Leggett money or a belated dose of discretion kept the situation from becoming common knowledge.”

Roberta rose, because this recitation of ancient history was stirring her imagination, and an active mind could be aided by an active body.

“I suppose,” Penelope said, “these things happen in the best families. My papa always says a title is no guarantee of sense.”

And lack of one no guarantee of brains. “Dorie Humplewit would not have kept Lady Nadine’s confidences as I have.”

“You are a very loyal friend.”

Dorie Humplewit would have turned the whole situation to coin somehow. She would have blackmailed Walter Leggett, compromised him, blackmailed him and compromised him…

“Walter is a cold fish, for all he smiles and nods at the right times.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Walter Leggett. He has pots of money.”

Penelope finished her second sandwich and her lemonade while Roberta paced the parlor.

“I have no wish to become Mrs. Walter Leggett.” She would not mind in the least having his money, though. “I’d have to entertain, put up with Walter’s wastrel son, and share a household with Miss Lily Ferguson.”
“Is Mr. Leggett attempting to court you?” Penelope asked around a mouthful of tea cake.

“He would be if I wanted him to be, but one shudders to contemplate fulfillment of one’s wifely duties. The colonel, God rest his soul, was all the husband I could ever need or want.”

Roberta took another turn around the parlor, mentally assessing relationships, assets, and what information she had.

“Did Grampion appear to favor Miss Ferguson?” For this was key to the plan taking shape in Roberta’s mind.

“I would say that, well, in my opinion, he did. Nothing improper, of course, but they were on a picnic blanket, sitting rather close, and Miss Ferguson didn’t seem to mind.”

“Grampion is a widowed earl on the prowl for a countess. Lily Ferguson would not have minded if he’d ripped off his clothing and sat in her lap.”

Penelope’s pale brows drew down. “Whyever would he—?”

“Fetch your workbasket, before you drive me daft, please.”

Penelope dutifully trotted off, and must have fetched her workbasket by way of King’s Cross, for she was gone long enough that Roberta’s thoughts could organize themselves. Grampion had the girl, Grampion had money. Roberta wanted the girl, because Roberta wanted Grampion’s money.

Not a huge sum, a few hundred pounds a year would do. Maybe a thousand. Amy Marguerite must not want for anything.

Grampion also, apparently, had taken a liking to Miss Lily Ferguson, and she to him. Neither parti had caught the eye of any other marital prospect—the society pages would have mentioned an heiress or an earl paying notable attention to a prospective spouse.

So the plan became quite simple: Miss Lily Ferguson must convince Grampion that Amy Marguerite—and a portion of the earl’s money—belonged with Roberta, or Roberta feared Lady Nadine’s letters might fall into the wrong hands.

Not even Dorie Humplewit on her most bold, ingenious day could have come up with such an elegant, effective solution.