"Do not fret, Lady Woodmere," Genny said, patting her hand. “Lady Honoria also declared that Esme is 'too vivid for ledgers.' Practically a compliment."

  Esme blinked. "She said that?"

  "Verbatim. I wrote it down for posterity."

  Harrison's expression darkened. "So the entire Park now believes my sister is... too vivid?"

  "Oh, no. Only the ones with ears."

  Esme's mouth twitched.

  Mother sighed. "This is precisely the sort of thing we must avoid."

  "Whispers, speculation, the impression that Esme is... difficult," Harrison said.

  Esme's fingers tightened around her teacup. "Perhaps I am. Perhaps it is not a disease."

  Her mother's gaze sharpened. "Difficult daughters do not marry well."

  "Perhaps," Esme said, her voice even, "they marry better than they otherwise would."

  Silence fell.

  It broke under Genny's bright tone. "On that note, I have an invitation."

  "From whom?" Woodmere asked, wary.

  "Lady Langley. She and Lord Langley are hosting a musicale this evening. Intimate. A little music, a little supper."

  Esme's heart skipped. "Alexandra is hosting?"

  "Which means," Genny went on, "most of the ton will assume it is dangerous and attend at once. She is insufferably popular, and she has promised me there will be at least one song that makes the Bishop go faintly purple."

  Mother hesitated. "We were not certain of our plans for tonight..."

  "You are now. Langley House is expecting you, and Lord Langley will take it as a personal affront if you stay away, given that he has commissioned a special arrangement of something with far too many trumpets."

  Harrison looked to his mother. "It is Langley. It would be... noted if we declined."

  Mother exhaled. "Very well. We shall go. Esme, wear⁠—"

  "The green. The new one. It will frighten half the bachelors and cheer the rest of us immensely," Genny cut in.

  Woodmere shot her a look but did not object. "You may wear the green if you promise to behave."

  Esme folded her napkin with care.

  "I shall," she said. "Within reason."

  Genny's eyes gleamed. "Then we shall see what reason will bear."

  James had begun to suspect that the universe was conspiring to make him earnest.

  He stood in the Langley music room that evening, glass in hand, back to a marble column, watching Alexandra rearrange the seating chart.

  "You cannot simply rearrange the cards," Magnus murmured, following her as she moved between chairs. "My mother will have apoplexy."

  "She is not here," Alexandra said. "And if she were, she would applaud the efficiency. Do you want Watford seated beside the girl who collects ceramic lambs, or someone who might enjoy hearing about ledgers?"

  Magnus sighed. "Is this about Watford?"

  "This is about Esme," Alexandra said, "and our James."

  Within earshot, James nearly choked on his wine. "Our James?"

  "We have all taken an interest in your improvement."

  "I do not recall consenting," he said.

  "You rarely do," Magnus replied. "And yet here we are."

  Langley House glowed—candles, polished wood, gilt. The music room, opened into an adjoining salon, held rows of chairs, a grand pianoforte, small tables bearing refreshments. Servants moved like shadows as guests arrived.

  Alexandra, in pale blue silk, was in her element.

  "Here," she said, swapping two place cards. "Esme between Genny and Lady Oakford. Lady Oakford will be an ally. She loathes tidy marriages. Genny will be a menace. Watford..." She pursed her lips. "Watford can sit three seats away, near the door. If he grows faint, he will have a clear route of escape."

  "And me?" James asked.

  She handed him a card. "Precisely here."

  He glanced down. "Beside Esme."

  "Within whispering distance," she agreed, "but not possessively so. We must not alarm Lady Woodmere."

  Magnus folded his arms. "And if Lady Woodmere objects?"

  "Then she may take it up with me," Alexandra said. "I shall remind her that her daughter is a guest, not a parcel to be stored in the nearest closet."

  James's mouth twitched. "You are enjoying this."

  "Of course," she said. "Do not pretend you are not."

  He could not.

  Beneath the banter of Magnus's caution, and Alexandra's meddling, a thread of anticipation bloomed. Lady Esme would be here and he would sit beside her.

  It felt perilous.

  "Remember," Magnus said quietly, as Alexandra greeted a new arrival, "no wagers on her life. Only with her."

  James nodded. "I made the rules."

  The room filled. Lady Honoria's gown outshone the chandeliers. Lord Watford looked as though he'd found all his remarks wanting. Mr. Dane glanced anxiously toward the door, surrounded by eager mothers and bored husbands.

  Then the Woodmere party arrived.

  Esme entered with her mother and brother, Genny trailing. The green gown fit her to perfection. Her hazel eyes swept the room with curiosity and resignation.

  James felt something settle inside him.

  He didn't approach her immediately, watching as greetings were exchanged. Lady Woodmere’s calculations began, and Watford edged closer.

  Genny caught James's eye and waggled her fingers.

  The Mutual Mischief Society was in session.

  From the moment she entered the music room, Esme felt the seating arrangements closing in. A long evening of listening, applause, and whispers from unsuitable men awaited her.

  She remembered the last musicale Mother had insisted upon, where the singer's vibrato nearly rattled the windows and Watford critiqued the program notes.

  Tonight, however, the air felt lighter for this was Alexandra’s affair.

  "Lady Esme," Alexandra said, hugging her. "You look dangerous."

  Esme smiled. "That was not my intention."

  "I know," Alexandra said. "That's what makes it effective. Come, let me show you your seat."

  She led them down the aisle. Esme felt Harrison tense as he scanned for suitors.

  "Here we are," Alexandra said, tapping a card on the second row. "Lady Esme, Miss Moreland, Lady Oakford."

  Lady Oakford gave Esme a warm smile. "We shall do our best to behave."

  "And Lord Watford?" Harrison asked.

  "Ah," Alexandra said, her expression innocent. "There."

  She indicated a seat several places away.

  "And who is between?" Mother inquired.

  "Mr. Dane, for one," Alexandra said, "and Lady Honoria."

  Esme's gaze drifted to the empty seat beside hers.

  The card read: Viscount Redford.

  Her pulse jumped.

  Mother followed her gaze and stiffened. "Lady Langley..."

  "Oh, do not worry," Alexandra said smoothly. "I am far too fond of your daughter to place her in danger. You see?" She gestured at the surrounding seats. "Genny, Lady Oakford, half a dozen witnesses. Redford cannot cause trouble with so many people listening. He will be as tamed as a lapdog."

  Genny snorted softly. "You have clearly never met a lapdog."

  Mother hesitated. The room hummed around them and people were watching. To object now would be to admit fear.

  "At least," she said tightly, "everyone will see that nothing untoward occurs."

  "Exactly," Alexandra said. "What safer chaperone than the entire ton?"

  Harrison said nothing, but Esme could feel his disapproval.

  She sat.

  Genny sat beside her at once, fanning herself with the program. "Excellent," she whispered. "We can whisper rude remarks during the recitatives."

  Esme's lips curved. "We must not."

  "We absolutely must." Genny peered at the card on Esme's other side. "Lady Oakford will assist. She has given up on propriety entirely."

  Lady Oakford smiled serenely. "My dears, I do not whisper. I provide commentary."

  Esme laughed under her breath.

  Then Redford took his seat.

  He slid into the place beside Esme with ease, the faintest hint of sandalwood clinging to his coat. He bowed his head, first to Mother in the row behind, then to Esme.

  "Lady Esme. Minister of Chaos," he murmured, nodding to Genny.

  "Lord Redford," Esme said. "I begin to suspect you enjoy sitting near me."

  "I enjoy survival," he said. "Seating charts that keep me out of range of Lady Honoria's elbows are rare treasures."

  Genny sniffed. "You are not out of range. She can strike across three chairs if provoked."

  "Then we must avoid provocation," he said. "At least for the first aria."

  The musicians took their places. Conversation quieted as fans stilled. Alexandra offered a few welcoming words and a warning about encores. The first singer, a respectable baritone, stepped forward.

  Music swelled.

  For a time, Esme relaxed.

  She enjoyed music, when allowed to. The baritone had a pleasant voice, and the piece—some Italian thing about unrequited love—was at least more interesting than ink.

  Still, her attention wandered.

  "And this?" Redford murmured as the music swelled. "Does it meet with your approval?"

  "The music?" she whispered back. "Or the spectacle?"

  "Both."

  She considered. "The music is very fine. The spectacle lacks mischief."

  He bit back a laugh. "You are becoming exacting in your entertainments."

  "When one is watched as if one might start dancing on tables," she said, "one must be precise."

  His gaze flicked to Harrison, then back. "You are being watched now."

  "I know," she said, without turning.

  He paused. "Then let us give them nothing worth whispering about," he said lightly, "at least, nothing they can prove."

  Genny leaned around Esme. "Are we plotting already?"

  "Always," Esme whispered.

  As the baritone gave way to a soprano with unfortunate ambitions, their Society came quietly to life.

  Nothing dramatic. Just... alterations.

  A slight delay in passing the program to a young gentleman aiming for Esme's attention, forcing him to speak to Lady Honoria instead. A deliberate misreading of the song list that sent a pompous colonel to the wrong seat, depositing him beside a bluestocking who promptly engaged him in a lecture on Roman law. A well-timed cough from Genny that masked Esme's snort when the soprano rhymed "heart" with "art" for the third time.

  Small, harmless things. Breathing room.

  During the interval, guests rose to stretch their legs and replenish their glasses.

  Mother swooped down upon Esme almost at once. "Well? You are comporting yourself?" she demanded in an undertone.

  "Yes, Mama," Esme said. "I have not eloped with the violinist."

  Mother did not appreciate the humor. "Lord Redford, I trust you have been sufficiently... entertained by the music?"

  "Entirely, Lady Woodmere," he said, bowing. "And by the company. Your daughter is a model of decorum. I have hardly had to restrain her from any outrageous acts at all."

  Mother eyed him. "See that you do not encourage any."

  "I am far too cowardly," he said.

  She moved away to confer with another matron, apparently satisfied for the moment.

  "Far too cowardly," Esme repeated. "That may be the first untruth I have heard from you."

  "You wound me," he said lightly. "I tremble before your mother."

  Genny, balancing a glass of lemonade, spoke without looking up. "You tremble before the possibility of boredom, not Lady Woodmere."

  "Both can be fatal," he said.

  Esme watched the crowd disperse, reform. Watford hovered near a window, looking miserable. Lady Honoria had cornered him again, gesturing with her fan as she spoke. Mr. Dane stood with Lady Burner's eldest daughter, red to the roots of his hair but smiling.

  "You did that," she said quietly, nodding toward Mr. Dane.

  Redford followed her gaze. "He did most of it himself. We merely nudged."

  "We," she repeated.

  "You object?" he asked.

  "No," she said slowly. "I think... I approve."

  Something flickered in his expression. A glint of satisfaction, certainly, and something warmer beneath it.

  "Careful," he murmured. "Too much approval and I shall become intolerable."

  "You already are," she said.

  They drifted toward a side table. A footman offered wine, but Esme accepted lemonade instead. The room felt close, and her stays seemed to tighten.

  Redford's shoulder brushed hers, just for an instant—a steadying, accidental touch.

  "I have been thinking," he said.

  "A dangerous occupation," she replied.

  "Nevertheless, our Society has rules, and now a motto, but no clear purpose beyond the prevention of sensible arrangements. We may require... an experiment."

  Her brows rose. "What sort of experiment?"

  "Observe. Tonight, the seating has been adjusted. You are between allies. Watford is out of direct range. Your brother cannot object without accusing Langley of folly. Result?"

  She looked around, considering.

  She could breathe. She could laugh quietly with Genny and Lady Oakford, and she could listen to music without fending off unwanted suitors. Perhaps most enjoyable of all, she could stand here with Redford and talk nonsense without anyone dragging her bodily away. Though she would never admit that to anyone.

  "Result," she said, "I am not currently being lectured about duty."

  "Precisely. A small change. No harm done. No reputations damaged."

  "Except yours,” she said.

  "My reputation thrives on suspicion. This hardly moves the needle."

  A string of notes sounded from the pianoforte. Alexandra’s signal that the second half would begin shortly.

  Redford glanced toward the chairs, then back at Esme.

  "Walk with me," he said suddenly. "Just once around the room."

  She hesitated. "My brother will⁠—"

  "See you in company. In a crowded room, under your mother's eye, within reach of Lady Oakford. Hardly the stuff of scandal."

  He offered his arm.

  She regarded it. He did not look coaxing, merely patient.

  Choice, she thought. A small one. Not a cliff, only a step.

  She slid her hand onto his sleeve.

  They moved along the edge of the room, a polite promenade. People nodded, whispered, pretended not to stare. Redford commented on the paintings in a low, irreverent voice. She added small, wicked observations of her own. Genny, catching her eye across the room, waggled her brows and then promptly distracted Harrison by dropping her fan and launching into an argument about the relative merits of Handel and Haydn.

  Halfway round, Redford slowed near a tall window. The curtains had been drawn back to let in a sliver of night. Beyond, the square lay quiet, lamps glowing.

  "Do you know," he said, "in all my years of mischief, I have rarely had an accomplice who counts 'breathing room' as a victory."

  "What do others count?" she asked.

  "Kissing in the wrong conservatory. Winning foolish sums at cards. Avoiding marriage altogether."

  She looked out into the dark. "I would settle for choosing who sits beside me."

  He was silent. A long moment.

  "That," he said softly, "we can attempt."

  She glanced at him. "You make it sound so simple."

  "It is not," he said. "I am not foolish enough to pretend. But if the path insists upon being narrow, we may at least knock down the occasional hedge."

  She smiled despite herself.

  "Lord Redford, I believe you may be incorrigible."

  "You believe correctly," he said. "And yet here you are, on my arm."

  "Temporarily," she reminded him.

  "Of course."

  And yet, as they returned to their seats, as the music rose and the evening unfurled, Esme could not shake the sensation that something had shifted.

  Not dramatically, but subtly.

  A small change, barely noticeable, until one day she suspected the entire image might look different.

  * * *

  By the time the final notes faded and the guests began to depart, the experiment had yielded modest success.

  Watford had not spoken to Esme once. Mr. Dane had secured a promise of a waltz from Lady Berner's daughter at the next assembly. Lady Honoria, deprived of worthy prey, had been forced to content herself with reciting pointed couplets to the Bishop.

  Esme had spent an entire evening in public without once feeling like a parcel being passed from hand to hand.

  At the door, as cloaks were fetched and carriages called, Redford bowed over her hand.

  "Thank you."

  "For what?"

  "For not dying of boredom. It would have been very inconvenient for our Society."

  Laughter rose in her. "Thank you for... the experiment."

  His eyes warmed. "Anytime, Lady Esme."

  Harrison appeared at her elbow. "The carriage is ready."

  Esme withdrew her hand, but the echo of his fingers lingered on her skin.

  As she stepped out into the cool night, she realized her heart was beating faster than the music had.

  The Mutual Mischief Society had begun as a joke, a shield against tedium, but somewhere between the chandeliers of Langley House and the dark streets of Grosvenor Square, it had become something else.

  Not a revolution. Not yet.

  But a modicum of control. And perhaps, someday, a path that would not end precisely where everyone expected.

  Four

  James had long held that nights were meant to be survived, and mornings be avoided. Nonetheless, here he was, awake at an hour that ought to have been outlawed, sitting in the bow of a rowing boat on the Serpentine with the odd sensation that he might actually be pleased about it.

  "Rowing is excellent for the constitution," Magnus had said an hour ago.

  "Disastrous for my reputation," James had replied, but he had come anyway.

  Now, sunlight scattered across the water. Hyde Park hummed with life. The air smelled of damp earth, spring flowers, and gossip.