Finding Miss McFarland

by Vivienne Lorret

  Griffin Croft stood an inch taller than her father, with waves of dark hair brushed back from his forehead. In this light, she couldn’t tell if his hair was black or brown, or if his eyes were brown or blue; all she knew was that when their gazes met, she felt a strange crackling sensation beneath her palms. It felt the way she imagined a fire consumed bits of tinder—hot, bright, and skittering over the surface, igniting kindling with dozens of tiny flames.

  And like a flame, her gaze became greedy, consuming every nuance of his face, from his elegantly sloped nose to his wide mouth, and from the deep cleft in his chin to the square jaw and the barest shadow of stubble she saw above a clumsily tied cravat.

  “Miss McFarland.”

  She didn’t hear him at first. There was an odd ringing in her ears. But by looking at his mouth—and a very pleasant one, it was—she could see that he’d spoken.

  Miss McFarland . . . and with those words, his lips pressed together twice. Like a kiss. The idea made her dizzy.

  “Mr. Croft.”

  A wave of heat assailed her. Then, too soon, another terrible grip seized her stomach. Her vision blurred for an instant, and when she looked down, she saw that he held out his gloved hand, as if to steady her.

  Her father’s hand went to her back. “Perhaps it would be best to postpone—”

  He never had a chance to finish.

  And she never had the chance to turn around and take hold of the railing. Instead, her body betrayed her most cruelly and cast up her accounts all over Griffin Croft’s shoes.

  CHAPTER ONE

  One year later

  Peering over the rail and down the stairs, Delaney watched Miss Pursglove disappear through the front door. If nothing else, that horrid woman was punctual about her morning errands.

  The moment Hershwell, their head butler, closed the door with a click, the air seemed to lift instantly. Delaney drew in a satisfying breath, turned on her heel, and headed in the direction of the morning room.

  Buckley was already at his post. Hunched over the gilded writing desk, his pale halo of curls moved in time with the feverish scratching of the quill over the page in the ledger. They’d been meeting in secret each morning for the past few weeks. Of course, it wasn’t common practice to teach one’s servant a trade. For that matter, it most definitely wasn’t common to hire a youth with only one arm to perform the duties of a groom—or tiger, rather. But Buckley wasn’t like anyone else. While he was only eleven years old, he seemed to possess a streak of determination that rivaled hers.

  “Your report, Mr. Simms,” Delaney said as she moved behind him and looked over his figures.

  “I heard Mr. Croft speaking to Lord Everhart. He said that his last horse was a real bone-setter. So I expect he’ll be at Tattersalls this morning.” Impertinent as ever, Buckley didn’t even look up but dipped the quill into the inkpot and continued his accounting lesson. “After that, to Thomas & Bailey’s for a new coat, as he’ll be escorting two of his sisters to the Sumpters’ musicale later this week.”

  Good and good. It should be easy to avoid Mr. Croft this week.

  Buckley was also exceptional for his uncanny ability to blend in with his surroundings—a talent Delaney never possessed. It made him the perfect spy. She’d been employing him to keep her abreast of all of Mr. Croft’s social activities since last Season. After the incident at her debut, she couldn’t risk being seen with that particular gentleman without dredging up the past horror. Not one candidate had been tempted enough by her dowry to overlook it. Nevertheless, she’d come up with a plan.

  The idea had started years ago. After constant reminders that she was little more than a living, breathing pile of money, Delaney wondered why she couldn’t use her fortune to her own advantage. More than anything, she wanted to live a life of her own choosing. Regrettably, her dowry made that impossible without a husband. Her fortune would only be released once she married. Even then, freedom was not guaranteed, unless . . . she could find a gentleman who was willing to sign a contract, discharging half the sum to her.

  The problem was that finding such a gentleman was not at all simple for a societal pariah. The entire matter required discretion. Therefore, in order to find herself a husband this Season, she needed to stay clear of the gossip pages. Which meant she absolutely must avoid Mr. Croft.

  It was imperative, especially now that much more than her own financial freedom was at stake. Her plan had altered the moment she’d first met Buckley.

  Surprisingly enough, she could credit her father for that. If it hadn’t been for his tendency to lose his temper, she never would have discovered Warthall Place. After her father had scared off the last two maids—who’d both had brothers employed as young grooms, or tigers—Delaney had gone to Mrs. Hunter’s agency to look into the servant registry. As it was, Mrs. Hunter had run out of candidates for tigers. And that was when she directed Delaney to Mr. Harrison at Warthall Place.

  The children of Warthall Place were not born with the privileges Delaney had once taken for granted. Most were crippled and poor, abandoned by their parents and society. Mr. Harrison wanted to change their circumstances because he’d been born with a clubfoot, yet had been given the chance to prove himself. He’d spent his life in service until his benefactor died, leaving him the sole proprietor of Warthall Place. Soon after, his purpose had shifted to finding others like him and giving them a sense of purpose. In a way, he’d given Delaney a sense of purpose as well.

  “Watch that you don’t mistake those nines for fours,” Delaney said, pointing to the middle of the page where Buckley had done just that.

  He cursed under his breath but immediately started a fresh column.

  “Language, Mr. Simms,” she said with a tsk. Yet even as her words came out, a shudder coursed through her. Blast it all! She sounded like Miss Pursglove.

  Buckley’s head jerked up. He scanned the room and then looked at her. “You gave me a right proper fright. I thought ol’ Miss Gloom and Doom was here.”

  Delaney fought the urge to smile. “Mr. Harrison would not like to know that one of his charges forgot his manners, would he?”

  His shoulders slumped, the empty sleeve of his livery coat drooping. “No, miss.”

  She reached out and ruffled his curls, directing his attention back to the ledger. Apparently, her heart had a weakness for impertinent towheaded boys. “Since Mr. Croft will be absent from the park this morning, I’m going for a walk. Finish that column and then leave the ledger in my room before Miss Pursglove returns.”

  Griffin Croft carefully avoided the squeaky bottom stair that usually gave him away. Stepping onto the foyer rug, he headed for the door, pausing only to take his top hat.

  “Ah, Griffin. There you are,” his mother said, unexpectedly appearing in the doorway of his father’s study. The woman had ears like a bat. Likely, the whisper of beaver pelt across the glossed rosewood had alerted her to his location. “I sent your sisters to find you, but I see you managed to evade them once again.”

  While their home on upper Brook Street was large by townhouse standards, it still did not offer him the tiniest space for a moment of solitude. Of course, he could easily move to his own home, but the truth of the matter was . . . they needed him.

  Slyly, he tucked his hat behind his back and returned it to the round table. “I must not have heard them.”

  Octavia Croft wasn’t fooled for an instant. Those dark eyes of hers bored directly through his pretense. Beneath the hem of the blue morning dress draped over her plump figure, the toe of her slipper tapped against the floor. “As you know, I’m making the final adjustments to the guest list for the twins’ debut.”

  He swallowed. This was precisely the reason he’d wanted to escape. She wanted to know if there was anyone special that he’d like to invite.

  There wasn’t.

  More than anything, he wanted to give his mother a name, if only to ease her constant worry. Father’s health was failing. After his last heart seizur
e, it had become harder for him to catch his breath. The title, lands, and responsibility that went with becoming the Earl of Marlbrook were closer than Griffin would have liked. The importance of his finding a bride, producing an heir, and securing the futures of his four younger sisters was foremost on everyone’s mind.

  His mother seemed to read the answer in his expression and let out a sigh. Retreating into the study, she smoothed the variegated brown and gray strands of hair toward the heavy bun at her nape.

  “I was thinking that perhaps a walk in the park would inspire me,” he said, following her.

  His father was there in the study, sitting by the fire with a wool blanket over his lap. The leather upholstered wingback chair had always been a focal point of this room, looking much like a throne and his father a king. Yet now, his father—who’d always been larger than life—had grown thin, his cheeks pale and drawn. The silk morning jacket hung over his shoulders, and the collar of his shirt gaped, exposing paper-thin flesh and the blue veins beneath.

  “Good morning, sir,” Griffin said, glad to see him out of the sickbed. Part of Griffin wished he were less pragmatic and dared to hope his father would make a full recovery. Unfortunately, he knew it was only a matter of time.

  His father smiled with affection and lifted his reedy hand for Griffin to take. “I agree. A walk might be just the thing,” his father said, giving him an encouraging pat. “Besides, you’ll want to find a bride who enjoys walking out of doors as much as you do.”

  “What about that charming Miss Culpepper? She’s only two doors down, and I see her walking with her maid in tow quite often,” his mother chimed in, sitting at the desk with paper and quill at the ready.

  His father made a sound. “Sickly gel. Walks with her nurse to improve her constitution. She doesn’t get further than two doors before she has to turn back around. Not likely she’ll produce any sons.”

  Under normal circumstances, this conversation would have made Griffin color. Discussing his need to produce a male heir in the presence of both his father and mother was not common practice. However, in the past eighteen months, it had become such a common occurrence that he actually caught himself nodding in agreement with his father’s logic.

  Griffin shook his head. Clearly, he needed fresh air now more than ever. A trip to Tattersalls to find a decent horse that didn’t rattle his teeth each time he rode was necessary as well.

  Before he could take his leave, his mother spoke again. “What about that Miss Danvers I saw at the end of last season? She was quite healthy-looking and pretty, in an unassuming way.”

  “I believe she’s spoken for, my dear,” his father said.

  “No, you must be thinking of her friend, Miss Wakefield. It’s rumored that she has been engaged for quite some time . . .” His mother scratched Miss Danvers’s name onto the list.

  His father scrubbed a hand over his jaw, his dark blue gaze turning thoughtful. “I’m certain of it. The way that Rathburn fellow hovers around her . . . well, if he hasn’t proposed yet, he will very soon.”

  “There’s always Miss Leeds,” Phoebe, the elder of the twins, said as she walked into the study, as if this conversation were a family affair. Sure enough, Asteria, the match to the set, followed her.

  Perhaps he should ask his great-uncle, the Earl of Marlbrook, to bring up the topic in Parliament. Griffin closed his eyes and blew out a breath. Why not? The man already saw him as a complete failure, so this shouldn’t make the least bit of difference.

  “Gads, no!” Asteria said, plopping down on the tufted hassock at father’s feet. “Have you heard Miss Leeds laugh? I couldn’t bear it, even if I had to endure her only for family dinners.”

  “True.” Phoebe clasped her hands behind her back as she peered over their mother’s shoulder at the list. “And not Miss Danvers. I’m certain she’s spoken for.”

  Their father cleared his throat to hide a chuckle.

  Their mother took offense, pointing the tip of her quill sharply to the paper. “She is not yet engaged.”

  “Yes, but have you seen Lord Rathburn?” Asteria sighed as she fiddled with the looped braids on either side of her head, making sure her chestnut tresses were in place. “Griffin wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  For that, he tweaked one braid. It pulled free of the twisted configuration at her nape. She stuck out her tongue, proving to him that his sisters were far too young to be out in society.

  “Your brother is five times more handsome than Lord Rathburn,” his mother declared, soothing his slightly bruised ego.

  Mischief glinted in Phoebe’s dark eyes. “You only say that because you’re his mother. Besides, he’s . . . Griffin. No wonder he’s having trouble finding a bride.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His mother, father, and the twins exchanged a look.

  “You have to admit that you’re rather particular.” This proclamation came from the doorway as Calliope—the eldest of his sisters—walked in, her gaze lifted up from her book just enough to keep her from stumbling over the fringed edge of the carpet. “After all, Miss Ambry was the toast of the Season last year, yet you said her eyes were too plain and her smile too brittle.”

  Tess, the youngest, skipped in next, her honey colored tresses held in place by a crown made of blooming purple chives and yellow daffodils. “You only danced with her once. Mother told me.”

  Oh, good. Now everyone is here at last. No need for Parliament after all.

  “Then there was Miss Langfeld,” Calliope added as she turned the page and settled into the window seat. A lock of dark golden hair fell unnoticed across her forehead. “I believe you said she was too quiet and prone to blushing.”

  Exasperated, Griffin looked to his father, only to see him grinning from ear to ear, his shoulders vibrating with barely concealed laughter. Et tu, Father?

  George Croft coughed and attempted a stern expression. “A man knows when a man knows. Now, we just need to give Griff some space in order to find the one who suits him best.”

  “Oooh! Phoebe and I have that all figured out,” Asteria announced, jumping up from the hassock.

  When all eyes turned to Phoebe, she grinned in a way that filled Griffin with dread. The twins were too mischievous by half. How could his parents think to unleash them on society? They were only eighteen. Besides that, Calliope was not yet married . . . although she’d decided long before she’d reached three and twenty that she would never marry. Not after what had happened in Bath, at any rate.

  In addition, it didn’t help matters that his mother was bound and determined to plan a wedding by year’s end. Especially now that the daughter of her younger sister would be married soon. At least one of Octavia Croft’s own children was getting married—she’d make sure of it.

  “Since we are about to grace society with our presence,” Phoebe began, grinning like a devil, “we thought it only right to know beforehand how to decide which man we want to have pursuing us.”

  “Or rather, which two men,” Asteria corrected, looking rather impish herself.

  “I believe you have it the other way around, girls,” their father corrected, regal wisdom in his tone. “The man is the one who decides which woman will make the best wife for him.”

  The women in the room exchanged sly smiles. Curious, Griffin sought Calliope’s gaze for confirmation. She tilted her head in something of a shrug, as if refusing to be the one to shatter their father’s illusions, and went back to her book.

  He shook his head, more inclined to his father’s way of thinking than that of the Croft women. After all, it was the man’s responsibility to protect and guide the fairer sex. However, he was a gracious enough brother not to point out their patently flawed notions.

  “And how would you have asked me to dance that first time, if I hadn’t dropped my fan at your feet, hmm?” Octavia asked, lifting her brows at her husband. “Then I had my mother invite you to dinner. It was only later, when I took you on a tour of the galle
ry, that you were finally bold enough to hold my hand.”

  His father blinked. “If I remember correctly, you said your hand was cold.”

  “Did I?” She beamed. “I don’t recall.”

  “Saucy minx,” George murmured with affection.

  Phoebe cleared her throat. “Clearly, a young woman sends a gentleman signals, indicating her interest. Dropping a fan at his feet and adding his name to the invitation list are more obvious examples.”

  “But we could just as easily flatter a gentleman’s appearance,” Asteria added. “Or send a compliment of his character by way of his sister.”

  “Then, perhaps remark on his mother’s fine sense of style in order to gain an invitation to an intimate family dinner.”

  Calliope looked up from her book. “She will also dissuade his pursuit of any other woman, but in a way that does not make her own character appear lacking.”

  “She might even put herself in the path of danger, simply to have you come to her rescue,” Tess added with a dreamy sigh, which earned her a frown from their mother. Thankfully, this one was only thirteen and had plenty of time to lose those fanciful notions.

  “All right, girls,” their father said. “I think your brother has heard enough advice for one morning. I know I have. More and more, I’m beginning to wonder if I know my own mind or if I was just a lamb to the slaughter all these nine and twenty years.”

  Octavia Croft pressed her lips together to hide her smile. “Listen to your father, dears. Now, your brother is going on a walk through the park. I imagine he won’t wait above ten minutes for any of you to join him.”

  When his mother’s gaze met his, he instantly saw where the twins received their penchant for mischief. He exhaled a short sound of impatience through his nostrils but nodded his acquiescence. “Eight minutes,” he announced and watched as all four of his sisters leapt from their places, rushed through the study door, and clambered up the stairs to make ready.