Finding Miss McFarland (3 page)

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 gallery, 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.

So much for his idea of clearing his head during a pleasant, quiet walk. Tattersalls would have to wait as well. At least at this hour, his sisters were the only terrors he was likely to encounter.

T
he instant Delaney saw Griffin Croft turn onto the path ahead of her, she stopped cold.

Buckley,
she scolded silently,
you assured me he would be at Tattersalls!

She wasn’t prepared to see Mr. Croft so soon. This was her first glimpse of him in months, since last Season. Not that she gave him much thought.

“Why have you stopped?” Bree asked with an exasperated huff. Even frowning did not detract from her ever-annoying beauty. “If you’ll recall, this walk was your idea, not mine.”

“I think we’ve gone far enough for today.”

Fortunately, Bree had turned just enough not to notice the gentleman approaching, along with those who were most likely his sisters. Equally as fortunate, the man himself had his head turned in conversation and therefore had not seen Delaney. At least, not yet.

She hadn’t a moment to lose.

Bree huffed again, as if it took every ounce of strength simply to stand upright. “I’d much rather return home and perhaps drop by the sweet shop for a peppermint stick.”

“You’d waste your pin money on sweets?” Delaney always looked for a way to turn her money into something of value. Of purpose. When it came to store credit, however, she had no trouble spending her father’s money. Because, when she spent enough of it, he would call her into his study, demanding to know what items she’d bought. This was the only time he listened to her. The only time she had the chance to discuss the importance of a proper wardrobe. And if the argument didn’t escalate to window-shattering proportions, she might even have the opportunity to talk to him about the children of Warthall Place and Mr. Harrison’s mission. She hoped her tenacity would wear him down eventually. After all, she
had
convinced him to hire Buckley.

“Not
my
money,” Bree answered with a smirk. “I was hoping you’d waste yours, since your allowance is far greater.”

“Fine,” she agreed, but only because they
must
hurry. Delaney most definitely could
not
be seen with Mr. Croft.

Prepared to head back the way they’d come, they turned on the path. Yet in the same instant, a sudden gust of wind whipped around the tree line. Delaney’s bonnet went flying. With a startled exclamation, she reached for it but was too late. Caught by another gust, it rolled away. Ribbons flailing, it continued down the path like a spinning top on a slanted table.

“Your hat!” Bree began to turn, but Delaney grabbed her arm.

“No. Leave it. I . . . I’ll get a new one. We’ll stop by the milliner’s on the way. And I saw a lovely shade of cerise ribbon at Haversham’s the other day. Perhaps . . .” Her maniacal ramblings were to no avail.

Bree turned on the path anyway. “Oh, look it’s Mr. . . .” Awareness dawned on a gasp. “
Oh, dear
.”

“Precisely,” Delaney whispered. Now, it was no use. They’d been spotted. First, her bonnet had betrayed her, and then her sister. She expected it of the latter, but not so much the former. It was a heavy blow.

“Miss Pursglove is forever warning you about tying your ribbons,” Bree admonished.

Delaney gritted her teeth. “Which is precisely why I never do.”

Appalled, she watched her bonnet finally stop directly—
of all places
—at Mr. Croft’s feet. She looked up to the heavens and prayed for a sudden deluge or something that would make fleeing the scene a necessity. Unfortunately, the sky was uncommonly clear and bright.
More’s the pity
.

At least when he stood erect, she was rewarded with
his
look of utter dread upon seeing the owner of the bonnet, now in his grasp.

Oh, yes. Hullo. You might not remember me, but I’m the young woman who cast up her accounts
and
her dignity all over your shoes on the night we met
.

And just like that night, all she could do was stand there and gape in horror.

“It’s like the story of Mother’s fan,” she heard one of the girls say as they approached.

Whatever it meant, the alarm in Mr. Croft’s expression took on a new dimension. His steps slowed as if he were approaching the gallows. She, on the other hand, would rather hurry him along.
Best to get this over with sooner rather than later
.