Finding Miss McFarland

by Vivienne Lorret

  She took a step back and straightened her shoulders. “I believe I’ve already stated that my affairs are no concern of yours.”

  “Mr. Harrison,” he said, raising his voice for the older man, even though he kept his gaze on Miss McFarland. “I admire the work you do here. To me, it seems there are more young men who could also thrive beneath your tutelage.”

  “Indeed, sir. Though I am only one man. Miss McFarland has made the suggestion that I should take on more and hire a tutor as well.”

  Griffin waited for him to continue, to explain how funds were needed for such a venture. Then after a moment had passed with no request made, he felt the need to prod Mr. Harrison. “No doubt even the generous stipend left to you by the late Lord Warthall would quickly diminish if that were the case.”

  Miss McFarland fumed at him, her hair in tangles about her face, her hands fisted to her sides, her small bosom rising and falling with each quick breath. “Stop this at once. I won’t have your interference.”

  Another weighted moment passed without a request for aid. Miss McFarland’s irritation faded to a look of embarrassment, telling him far more than she would ever admit.

  Griffin stared at her, dumbfounded. “He hasn’t even asked for your assistance, has he?”

  She looked askance at Mr. Harrison, who politely averted his gaze and walked over to the mantel to adjust the time on the clock. “You don’t understand how greatly he’s improved their circumstances. He’s found them abandoned on the streets, thrown out of orphanages, confined to workhouses.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, her anger falling away. “There are so many others. So many who need one single chance to prove themselves.”

  Suddenly, Griffin realized what this meant to her. He also understood why she’d warned him not to underestimate her young Mr. Simms. Delaney McFarland saw herself as someone who wanted one single chance of her own.

  Something stronger than admiration stirred within him, but he did not name it.

  When she opened her eyes, she speared him with their intensity. “And there are girls, so many girls too. Of course, another school would have to be started . . .” She gestured to the man across the room. “Mr. Harrison knows a former housekeeper who would be perfect.”

  “In a separate house, of course,” Mr. Harrison said quickly as he approached. “Naturally, as I’ve explained to Miss McFarland, this is an enormous undertaking. Not to mention, I cannot guarantee how long I’ll be able to continue to be of service.”

  The man had spent his life in service and likely would do until his dying day. Griffin felt humbled to be in the presence of such devotion and ashamed at what his first assumption had been. “I see why Miss McFarland has taken to carrying your banner, sir.”

  Mr. Harrison’s jowls lifted, and he cast an affectionate glance to the woman in question. “Miss McFarland is a true gem.”

  A day ago, that statement would have made him question the sanity of the speaker. But today, he was inclined to agree. For the first time since their acquaintance, he began to wonder if—

  “Hand it over, Maxwell! I’ll carry the tea tray.” One of the boys whom Mr. Harrison had introduced as Geoffrey pulled hard on the opposite side of a glossy wooden tray, overladen with a large porcelain teapot, several cups and saucers, and a basket of scones.

  “Just because I’m blind”—the other boy pulled back—“doesn’t mean you can stop me from excelling at my duties.”

  “Boys! See here,” Mr. Harrison said, limping forward.

  Griffin stepped into the hall as well, hoping to prevent a catastrophe.

  “Your duties are to fill the cupboards and play the violin,” Geoffrey huffed with another yank. “Not . . . to . . . carry . . . the—”

  Suddenly, the tray flew from Maxwell’s hands as Geoffrey stumbled back. Plates, cups, saucers, scones, and the porcelain teapot lifted in the air and hovered for one infinitesimal moment.

  Mr. Harrison caught the tray. Miss McFarland pulled Maxwell back and covered his head with her hands. And Griffin reached out to save what he could. He managed to take the neat stack of saucers in one hand. With the other, he attempted the teapot, catching the base of it in the palm of his hand. But it slipped from his glove and toppled toward him.

  The lid flew off the top. Tea shot out in an arc of amber liquid flecked with leaves. Somehow, he hooked a thumb into the handle—at the precise moment the scalding liquid drenched the front of his buff breeches. He hissed in pain, biting back an oath.

  “Mr. Croft!” Miss McFarland covered her mouth with a hand, presumably to keep her laugh from bubbling out. However, her indelicate snort gave her away.

  Just then, Buckley reappeared. With a peppermint stick hanging from the corner of his mouth, he took in the carnage of shattered teacups, crumbled scones, and a deluge of tea. “Cor! What a right proper disaster!”

  Ah yes, Griffin thought. He should have known it was bound to happen.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A week before Emma and Rathburn’s wedding, Delaney stood in a jewelry shop, bartering over a silver platter.

  “As you can see, the scrollwork is quite unique,” the bearded shopkeeper said with a flourish of his hand.

  Just as she opened her mouth to tell him that she’d seen three other platters with the same scrollwork, she was interrupted by tap on her shoulder. Turning, she found Miss Pursglove scowling in disapproval.

  “I must object once more, Miss McFarland,” Miss Pursglove said with an uptight sniff. “Surely your father’s man would be a better applicant for this task.”

  Miss Pursglove, Bree, and Elena Mallory were all attending this morning’s errand. Miss Pursglove had professed to needing assurance that the gift was a “proper representation of Mr. McFarland’s station.” Bree had come because Miss Pursglove had told her to do so. And dear cousin Elena had tagged along in order to be the first person who knew what gift the McFarlands were giving Viscount and Viscountess Rathburn.

  Some days, the joys of Delaney’s existence were simply too plentiful.

  Even so, this experience was innumerably better than the one she’d had at Thomas & Bailey’s five days ago. Then again, there was one person in particular whom she wouldn’t mind seeing walk through the door. Not that she’d given Griffin Croft much thought. Or ever caught herself wondering if he would suddenly appear at one of her social engagements these past few days.

  And never once would she admit to feeling disappointment when he hadn’t.

  “Father’s man is a coward. He doesn’t know the first thing about haggling.” Delaney gave her own sniff. “It’s an art form.”

  Miss Pursglove shuddered and looked askance at the shopkeeper. “Haggling is such a vulgar term, Miss McFarland. Perhaps you could simply purchase the platter, and we could be on our way.”

  Delaney turned away from her decorum instructor and met the shopkeeper’s gaze. “Where were we, Mr. Aramant?”

  His cheeks lifted in a grin that seemed to give the ends of his mustachio a slight curl. “Did you know my jewelry is all one of a kind? This particular brooch comes from the farthest reaches of Africa.” From the glass case between them, he withdrew a rather large bird of paradise, faceted with innumerable multicolored gemstones.

  It was, quite possibly, the most hideous piece of jewelry she’d ever seen. It was absolutely perfect for Miss Pursglove . . . as a parting gift. What a lovely thought. “I imagine the cost of the platter would reduce considerably if one purchased such an astounding brooch.”

  Mr. Aramant’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps.”

  “And I also imagine that the engraving would be free,” Delaney said with her own smile when the shopkeeper nodded in agreement. Bartering like this always gave her such a sense of satisfaction.

  In the next few moments, she wrote out the date of Emma’s wedding to have it engraved in the center of the silver platter. When the shopkeeper disappeared into the backroom, she overheard Elena speaking with Bree near the case of cameos.

 
“It’s so fortunate that you’ve received a voucher for Almack’s. I received mine as well,” Elena said, preening as she cast a glance in Delaney’s direction. “It’s matter of pride to be hand-selected by the matrons of society. As you know, not everyone earns a voucher.”

  It was true. Because of the incident, Delaney was practically guaranteed to never receive a voucher. And they all knew it. While she usually didn’t let society’s scorn wound her, with this one thing she’d always felt embarrassed. Just once, she would have liked to attend Almack’s. And perhaps dance with Griffin Croft.

  “Oh, dear me,” Elena offered to Delaney with a false show of concern. “I’d forgotten that you never received yours. Whatever will you do this evening while your sister and I are waltzing? I’ve heard that Viscount Everhart will be in attendance, not to mention a certain Mr. Croft. It is said that he’s closer than ever to becoming the Earl of Marlbrook.”

  Delaney bristled at the comment. She clearly remembered what he’d mentioned at her debut—that his father was much more than a gateway to an earldom. “Would Mr. Croft enjoy knowing that the demise of his beloved father causes you no end of delight?”

  Even Miss Pursglove tsked.

  “That isn’t what I meant,” her cousin claimed, her cheeks blotched with embarrassment. Glaring back, she pressed her lips together until they were rimmed with white. “How odd that you would come to his defense. I was nearly ready to discount a rumor I’d heard. But now that I think on it, perhaps it’s true.”

  Delaney refused to ask. Surprisingly, Bree held her tongue as well.

  Elena wasn’t deterred. She turned toward Bree, her expression a mask of excitement. “I heard that your very own sister was spotted with Mr. Croft outside of Thomas & Bailey’s, a tailor your father is known to frequent.” Her words came out in a stage whisper, as if she wanted to enlighten the whole shop. Thankfully, the four of them were the only ones present.

  Miss Pursglove, however, was none too pleased to learn this tidbit of news. “Can this be correct, Miss McFarland? Were you cavorting without a chaperone in the middle of the street? Imagine what your father will say once he learns of this.”

  “I’d hardly call it cav—” she began but was quickly interrupted.

  Bree stepped forward, drawing Miss Pursglove’s attention. “I’m certain that of all gentlemen, Delaney would avoid Mr. Croft. The rumor is simply unbelievable,” she said with a lilting laugh. When their decorum instructor pursed her lips and gave a slight nod, it appeared as if she accepted Bree’s statement as fact.

  Taken aback at how her sister had come to her aid, Delaney was speechless. Could it be that all the time spent with the Croft sisters had had a positive effect on Bree?

  Bree turned back to Elena. “I have it on very good authority that the only person Mr. Croft has paid any particular attention to has been you, dear cousin.”

  Elena revealed the full spectacle of her smile. “It is true that he escorted me to the theater, little more than ten days ago.”

  “And I’ve heard no mention of anyone else he’s favored,” Bree added in a knowing whisper. Then she looked at Delaney and offered a smile, as if they shared a secret. Whatever it was Bree thought she knew, she was incorrect.

  Nonetheless, Delaney felt an affection for her sister that she never had before. Was it possible they could become friends?

  Inside his uncle’s townhouse, Griffin handed the stoic head butler his hat and gloves. Although the foyer was well lit with early morning rays streaming through the slender windows, the dark hardwood floors and furnishings gave the space an oppressive feel. Every time he came here, he had the sense of being closed in a coffin.

  “Lord Marlbrook is in his rooms, Mr. Croft,” the butler said with a bow.

  Griffin looked up the stairs, dread making his limbs heavy. “Thank you, Beckford.”

  There was no reason to put off the inevitable. He’d been summoned, after all. Years of enduring his uncle’s verbal abuse seemed to strip him of his confidence. Anywhere else, he stood proud, yet coming here always made him feel like a child. He would never reveal that his uncle had this power over him, but he loathed it all the same.

  Upstairs, he stepped through the open archway that led to his uncle’s sitting room. The man himself sat behind a desk, adding his signature and seal to a stack of documents.

  The Earl of Marlbrook looked up and instantly sneered. “There’s my pitiful excuse for an heir. Punctuality is the only credit to your character. Although I would have expected you to call earlier, considering the news you likely heard of my collapse.”

  “Of course,” Griffin said quickly. He could hardly confess to having been avoiding him, could he? “I meant to call sooner but thought you were in need of rest.”

  His uncle scoffed. “You thought? Now there’s a tale if ever there was one. If you had a thought in that pea-sized brain, it would never make past that crippled tongue of yours.”

  Griffin gritted his teeth. He knew that whatever he said would only be criticized, so he kept quiet. The sooner this exchange was over, the better.

  “Eh?” The earl put his hand to his ear and then made a gesture of dismissal. “Bah! Just as I thought. Pitiful.” He went back to signing papers. “Regardless, there’s no getting around it now—you are my heir. I’ve instructed my man to take care of my affairs while I leave for my country estate. However, I don’t intend to pay him a sum to travel back and forth, so I expect you to bring a full report at month’s end. Can you manage that?”

  “Yes, Uncle.” As always, Griffin knew it was better to simply agree.

  “Lord Coburn tells me you’ve yet to inquire about his stables.” Without looking up, he dipped the quill into the inkpot and waggled a scolding finger in the same motion. “Because you didn’t heed my advice, he’s already sold the best of his stock.”

  “By then I’d already begun discussing a purchase with Lord Amberdeen.” The prestigious mention earned Griffin a speculative glance and then a huff of indignation before Marlbrook set a new stack of documents before him.

  “Then there’s the matter of my late son’s estate in Scotland, near Dumfries,” his uncle continued, writing faster, the tip of the quill all but ripping through the parchment. “It will have to be managed, or let out, if you have no intention of living there.”

  “I will see to it, Uncle.”

  “I doubt you’ll need such a residence, since you’re incapable of ensnaring a bride,” the earl snickered. “Even the ugly ones have their standards.”

  Not incapable but selective, Griffin thought, holding his tongue. There were dozens of young women who’d shown an interest. Though in truth, there was only one who kept him at odds with himself. Only one who’d made him alter his plans numerous times during the week. Only one who compelled him to drive down Danbury Lane half a dozen times each day.

  In fact, as soon as he left here, he would do so again.

  Delaney rushed out of number 27 Danbury Lane, clenching a missive between her teeth, while attempting to stuff Tillie’s needlework into her reticule. She was going to be late. Again. With only days before the wedding, this would be the last needlework circle with the four of them until Emma returned as a married woman.

  Married, she thought with a pang of envy. A true marriage. She wondered if Emma would glow the same way Penelope did.

  “Ow!” The needle jabbed her. Her brief bout of mawkishness evaporated as quickly as it had settled over her. The letter fell, unheeded, as she hastily stuck the tip of her finger into her mouth. Blasted occupation. She couldn’t understand why her friends enjoyed it. She’d much rather go on outings or hold their meetings in the park.

  “You seem to be in a hurry this afternoon, Miss McFarland,” Griffin Croft said, startling her with his sudden appearance on the street in front of her.

  Her heart pounded heavily. Somehow, she managed to convince herself that the reaction was from shock alone, even as her gaze roamed over him. It was impossible not to admire the way
that man sat a horse. Or the way that his gray stallion complemented his gleaming black boots, slate coat, and top hat. Fittingly, he wore a horse collar knot in his cravat today.

  As he dismounted, she watched the muscles of his thighs bunch and flex. The day grew suddenly warm. Too warm. Her spencer felt far too thick and constricting. “Is there a point of going anywhere if you are not in a hurry, Mr. Croft?”

  He drew in an unmistakable hiss through his teeth in that instant, as if he’d landed wrong on his foot. It took him a moment before he turned to face her. But when he did, his eyes were that simmering lake water again. “There are some who prefer . . .”—his gaze dipped to her mouth—“a slower journey.”

  Yes, it was far too warm for a jacket today, she decided.

  Delaney thought it best not to reply and focused on locating her fallen letter. While there’d been no return address when she saw it on the salver a moment earlier, she’d recognized the black seal as Montwood’s. At last, after two weeks, he’d returned to town. Perhaps now they could settle matters before she changed her mind.

  Changed her mind? Now, where had that thought come from, she wondered.

  Unfortunately, her mental hesitation caused her not to notice that Griffin Croft had bent to retrieve her letter. She couldn’t have him noticing the seal. It would only give him a reason to offer another unwanted opinion. The last thing she wanted was a lecture.

  She reached out to snatch the letter. At the same time, the dratted needlework unfolded itself and slipped free, falling toward the gutter. “Blast! If I’ve ruined another pillow front then Tillie will . . .” Her words trailed off when she realized what she was saying. Or admitting, rather.

  Mr. Croft came to her rescue, seizing the bundle before it touched the filth. He made a move to hand over both the letter and the fabric but at the last moment pulled them back. “Who’s Tillie?”

  “My maid,” she huffed. “Now, kindly stop holding my needlework for ransom.”