"Is this a habit of yours?" she asked, voice low. "Inserting yourself into perfectly dull conversations and leaving chaos behind?"

  "Not habit," he said. "Calling."

  "In that case, Lord Redford, this Season is in dire need of your services."

  "And you, Lady Esme? What is your calling?"

  They turned, parted, met again in the pattern of the dance.

  "I should like to retire from the marriage market," she said, "and take up the study of being left alone."

  "In Mayfair?" he said. "Ambitious."

  "I could be very dedicated," she assured him.

  He believed it. He also believed peace and quiet would never suit her as well as mischief.

  "That would be a tragic loss," he said. "If you retreat, we shall be left with nothing but Lord Watford's penmanship to sustain us."

  "You are unkind to Lord Watford," she said, though her lips curved.

  "Not unkind. Accurately descriptive."

  She looked up at him then, as if taking his measure. He let the humor soften into something more honest.

  "You are not at all what I expected," she murmured.

  "Ah," he said lightly. "I do my best work when no one is expecting it."

  The set ended amid polite applause. James bowed over her hand, lingering a moment longer than necessary. "Come," he said. "If I am to be executed by your brother, I should like a glass of lemonade first."

  She allowed him to escort her toward the refreshments. As they walked, her posture altered. Some of the tightness eased from her shoulders, as if stepping out of her assigned orbit had shifted the balance.

  "Do you always wager on other people's evenings?" she asked, half-teasing. Her smile thinned a fraction, and her fingers tightened around her glass.

  "Only when they are in danger," he said. "You, Lady Esme, were moments away from a discourse on ink viscosity."

  "Lord Watford is very proud of his ink," she said gravely.

  "I am sure he is. Some men have estates. Some have titles. Some have... handwriting."

  "You are terrible," she said, failing to entirely smother a smile.

  "I am efficient."

  "Efficient?"

  "One cannot save everyone," he said. "But one can, on occasion, rescue the most interesting person in the room from an evening of ledgers."

  Before she could answer, a whirlwind of pale blue muslin descended upon them.

  "There you are," Miss Genevieve Moreland exclaimed, finding them at last. "I have been searching everywhere, only to discover you in the most obvious place possible, monopolizing the only man guaranteed to irritate your brother."

  "Genny," Esme sighed. "Please do not start."

  "I've clearly arrived in the middle," Miss Moreland said, eyes bright as she took in the sight of Esme on his arm. "Lord Redford. I compliment your timing. You swooped in like a particularly well-tailored hawk."

  "I strive for usefulness," James said, bowing. "And entertainment."

  "You have saved us all," Miss Moreland said solemnly, accepting a glass of lemonade. "If I had to watch Esme endure one more remark about the moral superiority of columns, I should have hurled myself into the orchestra."

  Esme's fingers tightened around her own glass. "Apparently," she said, "my brother has appointed you to moderate me."

  James raised a brow. "Moderate?"

  "Yes," Miss Moreland said. "A most unfortunate word. He asked me to ensure you made no 'unfortunate impressions.'"

  Esme's jaw clenched. "I am one-and-twenty, not a porcelain shepherdess to be dusted and put back on a shelf."

  "No," James said quietly. "You are not a ledger, either."

  Her gaze snapped to his. For a moment the hum of the ballroom faded, leaving only the pulse at her throat and the bright, angry intelligence in her eyes.

  "No," she agreed. "I am not."

  "There," Miss Moreland said, satisfied. "Entirely immoderate. I approve."

  Esme smoothed her expression as a passing couple glanced their way. "In any case," she said lightly, "Woodmere prefers his world orderly. Sisters neatly settled, columns neatly aligned, risks neatly avoided."

  "And you," James said, "are not neat."

  "I have no interest in being neat."

  Miss Moreland took a thoughtful sip. "If the Season insists on treating you like a parcel, we must, at the very least, insist upon a scandalous bow."

  James laughed. "Miss Moreland, will you come lecture at my club?"

  "Only if they serve cake," she said. "I do nothing revolutionary on an empty stomach."

  Esme's shoulders loosened. "I do not need a revolution," she said, half to herself. "Only a little room to breathe."

  Something unfamiliar twisted in Redford's chest.

  "If it is air you want," he said slowly, "perhaps what you require is not moderation but mischief."

  Miss Moreland brightened at once. "Oh, I like that."

  Esme narrowed her eyes. "What sort of mischief?"

  "The harmless kind," he said. "No ruined reputations, no true cruelty, merely a series of small adjustments in your favor. Mischief like diverting an over-eager suitor here, rearranging a place card there. Enough to keep the dullest outcomes from catching you."

  "You propose," Esme said, "a conspiracy."

  "A society," Miss Moreland breathed. "The Mutual Mischief Society."

  Esme gave her a quelling look, but a restless shine was back in her eyes. "A society sounds as though we ought to have rules," she said.

  "By all means." James inclined his head. "Name them."

  “In addition to no harm to reputations, and no true cruelty.,” she said. “If any of this results in my being forced to marry a man who lectures about columns before breakfast, I shall hold you personally responsible."

  "Reasonable," he said. "I accept."

  Miss Moreland bounced on her toes. "Then it is settled. Our first act… Ensuring Lord Watford spends the remainder of the evening discussing ink with someone who truly appreciates it."

  James's gaze drifted to where Lady Honoria Worthington held court.

  "I believe," he said, "we may have found our volunteer."

  Esme's mouth curved into a delighted smile. "Lord Redford, that is appallingly wicked."

  "Efficient," he corrected.

  Within minutes, Watford was being gently nudged in Lady Honoria's direction with a few well-placed comments about her admiration for order. Miss Moreland took the flank and James handled the front. Esme, posted innocently by a column, did an admirable impression of a lady who had nothing whatsoever to do with any of it.

  James didn't stay close enough to hear every word, but he saw enough. Watford bowed. Lady Honoria's eyes glittered, her fan snapped open.

  A few minutes later, Watford retreated looking thoughtful. Lady Honoria, on the other hand, appeared invigorated, already whispering to her companions with relish.

  Watching, Esme paused her fan as Miss Moreland caught her eye and nodded. Esme's lips curved, not into a society smile, but something smaller.

  She shifted, as if to join her friend, then stilled when she noticed James observing her. Across the room, their gazes met.

  Acknowledgment. Gratitude. Complicity.

  James's chest went warm.

  He ought to have left. The ballroom pulsed with heat, noise, and expectation. He had fulfilled his obligations, founded a society, and meddled in one evening. Any sensible man would retreat.

  Instead, he walked toward the terrace doors.

  * * *

  The night air was cooler, scented with jasmine and London smoke. Lanterns hung along the stone balustrade, casting light over the garden. In the distance, a couple of dowagers discussed rheumatism.

  Esme stood alone at the far end, gazing out over the clipped hedges.

  "If you are plotting escape," James said quietly, "I should hate to miss the opportunity."

  She glanced back, lantern-light catching her cheek.

  "I am merely taking advantage of no one noticing I am gone. I would thank you not to ruin it."

  "I excel at concealing inconvenient truths," he said, resting his forearms lightly on the stone ledge beside her. "Ask anyone."

  She studied him for a moment.

  "You founded a society in my name, rearranged the course of my evening, and perhaps ruined Lord Watford's hopes, all before midnight. I have seen your skill first hand.”

  "Do not forget rescuing you from ink," he said. "History should be accurate."

  Her lips twitched. "I am not entirely ungrateful, you know."

  "Dangerously close to praise. Your brother will be appalled."

  Her expression cooled a little. "My brother has had a word with you, I suppose."

  "A very measured one," he said. "You will be relieved to hear that your welfare has been thoroughly itemized. You are to be handled like an expensive vase."

  "I would make a terrible vase," she said. "I would develop opinions about the flowers and be hurled into the street."

  "I cannot imagine anyone casting you out," he said before he could stop his protective impulse.

  Odd that.

  She blinked, the sharpness in her eyes thinning.

  "You might be surprised," she said softly.

  Silence stretched between them, filled with distant music and the murmur of voices.

  "At any rate," she said briskly, "I am perfectly capable of distinguishing between assistance and interference."

  "And which have I offered tonight?" he asked. "Assistance, interference, or something more alarming?"

  "For now," she said, "you are entertainment."

  "Only entertainment?" He pressed a hand to his heart. "Cruel."

  "Accomplice would require criminal intent."

  "Oh, I have that," he said. "I simply prefer my crimes small and well-dressed."

  Her mouth curved. "You make very poor metaphors when rattled, Lord Redford."

  "I am not rattled," he said, entirely rattled.

  They stood side by side, looking out at the neat garden.

  "I meant what I said," he added quietly. "No wagers that treat your life as a stake. Only wagers made with you."

  She turned her head, studying him.

  "You recall my rules," she said.

  "I am not entirely frivolous," he said. "Occasionally, I listen."

  She considered. "Very well. For the moment, we may be... allies."

  "Allies," he echoed, "until such time as you decide you have had enough of mischief and wish to become perfectly sensible."

  "Do not hold your breath."

  "Never."

  Inside, the orchestra slid into another lively piece. Laugh rang out. The Season waited.

  Between the lanterns and the dark, Lady Esme lifted her chin.

  James realized, with a faint sense of dread and delight, that in founding his little society he might just have stumbled into the most interesting complication of his life.

  Or perhaps the first worthwhile one.

  Two

  Lady Esme Jones had never seen a teapot look quite so judgmental, its painted roses arranged in a distinct frown. She averted her gaze to the morning room window.

  "We must note you danced with Watford twice last night," Mother, the Viscountess of Woodmere said, stirring her tea. "That will do very well. He was attentive. You were properly modest. No one can say you showed partiality."

  "Except," Harrison added, folding the morning paper, "when you vanished to the terrace with Redford." Harrison's eyes remained flat on hers, his jaw set as if the memory required restraint.

  Esme buttered her toast. "It was hardly vanishing. There were lanterns. And dowagers. The Bishop nearly tripped over us."

  Her mother's spoon paused. "You were alone with him, Esme."

  "Not for long," Esme said. "And we spoke of nothing more scandalous than fresh air and ink."

  Mother sighed. “Lord Redford is not the sort of man one is alone with, regardless of topic. We have only just begun to repair the impressions the ton formed when you refused Lord Nevan last year."

  Harrison flattened the paper, scanning the columns.

  “Lord Redford made a spectacle of you," he said. "Dancing in front of half the ton, laughing and drawing attention as he fawned over you. You may find it amusing, but not everyone shares your appetite for disruption."

  Esme set her knife down.

  "He rescued me from a lecture on penmanship I assure you would have sent me into an early grave. If that is spectacle, I shall bear it."

  Her brother's jaw tightened. "Watford is a serious, respectable man."

  "So is the undertaker," she murmured. "Yet Mama has never suggested I marry him."

  Mother's lips twitched. "Esme."

  "I am only saying that if one must listen to a man discuss ledgers, one ought at least to have a decent view while he does it. Lord Watford's shoulders do not compensate."

  Harrison snapped the paper closed. "You treat this as a jest. It is not. You are one-and-twenty. You cannot afford to be peculiar."

  "Is that what I am?" she asked, too quickly. "Peculiar?"

  "Esme," her mother warned.

  Harrison exhaled. "You know what I mean. You cannot behave as if the rules do not apply to you. You cannot encourage men like Redford simply because they amuse you."

  She thought of Redford's easy bow, the terrace, lantern light soft on stone, when he had said you are not a ledger and she had believed him.

  "I did not encourage him," she said. "If anything, he encouraged me."

  "That is precisely my concern," Harrison said.

  There was no arguing with that tone.

  Before Esme could decide whether to apologize or set the teapot on fire, a footman entered with the morning post.

  "Notes for Lady Esme, my lady," he said, presenting a small silver tray.

  Two envelopes lay on the tray. One, she recognized at once. It bore Genny's exuberant scrawl. The other was a precise, elegant hand.

  She picked up Genny's first. It was safer.

  "From Miss Moreland," the footman supplied.

  "Of course," Harrison muttered.

  Esme broke the seal.

  Dearest Terror,

  * * *

  If you are not dead of boredom, meet me in Hyde Park this afternoon. Aunt Agnes insists upon an airing at four. I insist upon entertainment.

  * * *

  Also, Redford is too pleased with himself. This must be remedied.

  * * *

  Yours in mischief,

  G.

  * * *

  Esme bit back a smile.

  Hyde Park. Air. A possibility of breathing.

  She folded the note and turned to the second envelope.

  The seal was plain. The paper, good.

  "From whom?" Mother asked.

  Esme hesitated. “It is not marked, Mama."

  Harrison's gaze sharpened. "Esme⁠—"

  She broke the seal.

  Lady Esme,

  It occurs to me that founding a society and then allowing its membership to languish would be wasteful. I am therefore resolved to prevent such a tragedy.

  Woodmere House is expected to drive in the Park today, is it not? You may rely upon my presence.

  Yours in efficient wickedness.

  P.S. Miss Moreland has already accepted a position as Minister of Chaos. I fear we must find you an equally impressive title.

  Heat rose in Esme's cheeks. She could almost hear Redford’s voice.

  She folded the note quickly and slipped it beneath her plate before Harrison could demand to see it. The maneuver did her no good.

  "Who is it from?" he asked.

  "No one," she said.

  His brows rose.

  "An invitation to enjoy the weather."

  "From whom?" he repeated.

  She met his gaze. "Does it matter? We are going to Hyde Park regardless."

  Her mother nodded. "We are. It will be crowded. People must see you. They must remember you are available."

  "Like a house for let," Esme murmured.

  Woodmere chose not to hear. "Wear the blue muslin. It makes you look very sweet."

  Sweet was the opposite of what Esme wished to be seen as.

  She reached for her tea and thought of Redford’s, and of the way her heart had betrayed her at the sight of his hand on the paper.

  It changed nothing, she told herself.

  Except it did. Because for the first time in a long while, the prospect of an afternoon in Hyde Park did not feel like another chore.

  It felt like a possibility.

  James had never been more insulted by a slice of toast.

  "It looks smug," he told Magnus, Earl of Langley, flicking the crust. "Positively self-satisfied. It knows I have done something reckless and intends to judge me for it."

  Magnus looked up from his egg. "It is bread, James. Bread cannot judge you."

  "Primrose disagrees," Alexandra, Countess Langley, put in, stealing the toast. "Bread absolutely judges. Especially the morning after a ball. It sees everything."

  They were breakfasting in the private parlor at Langley House, an arrangement James increasingly suspected had been contrived to allow Alexandra, Countess of Langley, daily access to his worst decisions.

  She bit into the toast. "Besides, you deserve judgement. You looked almost sincere last night."

  Redford poured coffee. "Impossible. I have spent years building a reputation for frivolity. One evening cannot undo such effort."

  Magnus took a calm sip. "You danced with Lady Esme Jones."

  "Many men did. Her mother saw to it. I merely had the misfortune of being interesting."

  "You founded a society with her. Genny told me."

  Redford winced. “Miss Moreland talks too much."

  "Genny observes. She says you looked like you've seen a cliff and can't wait to dive." She paused. "Just to see how loud the splash will be."

  Magnus glanced at Redford. "Accurate."

  "Traitors," Redford muttered. "Both of you."

  "What are your intentions with Lady Esme?" Alexandra asked.

  He almost choked on his coffee. "Good God, Alexandra, you sound like her brother."