He set the glass down.

  "No," he said.

  Magnus nodded. "Then you have decisions to make."

  "I despise decisions," James said.

  "Then they will be made for you," Magnus replied. "By the dowager Viscountess. By Woodmere. By the Season. By someone who cares more for neat columns than for your heart."

  James did not look away. "Esme," he said slowly, "deserves better than to be a column."

  "Then act like you believe that," Magnus said. "And do not let 'the ducks did it' be your only defense."

  James laughed. "You ruin all my best lines."

  Magnus moved to the door, then paused. "Alexandra says there will be a small gathering at Foxmere's in a fortnight. Gardens, battledore, lemonade. Lady Woodmere and Esme will receive invitations."

  "Of course," James muttered.

  “I have it on good authority you will also be invited.” Magnus moved to the sideboard.

  James looked out at the April sky.

  "I expect," he said, "that the Mutual Mischief Society will require a quorum."

  Magnus shook his head. "At some point you will have to stop calling it mischief and admit what it is."

  James took a slow drink.

  "One catastrophe at a time, my dear Langley," he said. "Today, ducks. Tomorrow, wife-stealing lemonade. We shall see what the Foxmere gardens bring."

  When he was alone again, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  Somewhere in Grosvenor Square, Lady Esme was likely standing in front of a fire, wrapped in blankets, listening to her mother lament ruined gowns and lost prospects.

  He hoped she would remember the feel of cold water, the absurdity of ducks, and the fact that she had laughed. And most of all, that a thoroughly disreputable man had held on and not let go.

  The Mutual Mischief Society, he thought, had never seemed less harmless.

  Or more worth the trouble.

  Five

  Esme had learned that a reputation for falling into lakes spread with appalling speed.

  By the time their carriage turned in at the gates of Foxmere House, she had been subjected to lectures from her mother, Harrison, and Lady Woodmere's companion.

  "I do not intend to fling myself into Lord Foxmere's ornamental ponds, Mama," Esme said as the carriage rolled up a gravel drive bordered by flowerbeds. "One aquatic catastrophe per Season is quite sufficient."

  Her mother sniffed, gaze fixed on Foxmere House. "I should hope so. Still, one cannot be too careful. Lord and Lady Foxmere are... unconventional."

  "Fun," Genny supplied brightly. "Sunshine, laughter, possibly card games, probably wagers, and certainly lemonade that could wake the dead."

  "Miss Moreland," Lady Woodmere said faintly.

  Esme bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. The carriage drew to a halt. Outside, Foxmere House glowed in the afternoon light. The yard was a crush of fashionable lords and ladies, interspersed with footman carrying trays.

  "Remember," Lady Woodmere said as the footman let down the steps, "you are here to be seen as composed and respectable. No running, no shouting, and no... plunging."

  Esme descended. "Yes, Mama," she said, then promptly broke every rule in spirit by taking a long breath of air.

  Genny hopped down after her. "Look," she said and nodded toward the south lawn. "There's Alexandra, and—oh, Lord Foxmere. He looks like he's regretting every sensible choice he ever made, but Louisa seems quite pleased."

  Esme followed her gaze. Under a white canvas awning near the lawn games, Niall, Lord Foxmere lounged. Beside him stood Alexandra, Countess of Langley, in a gown the color of a disobedient sky, her hat at a reckless angle. Louisa, the Countess of Foxmere, held a crochet mallet and grinned at her husband.

  Louisa glanced over, her gaze taking in Esme, Genny, and Lady Woodmere. A slow smile curved her mouth.

  "Perfect," Genny murmured. "We have been seen by the countess of Foxmere herself. Shall we join her?"

  "Do not even think of encouraging anything," Harrison said, joining them. "Remember why we are here."

  "To enjoy ourselves?" Genny suggested. "Lady Foxmere and Lady Langley are perfectly respectable, and you cannot find fault with Lord Foxmere."

  "To maintain your standing," Harrison corrected sharply. "You are still being discussed, Esme. The Serpentine incident may be framed as a harmless mishap, but you cannot afford further spectacle. Stay near Mama. No private corners. And if Redford should appear—you will not allow him to draw you into his nonsense."

  Esme lifted her chin. "His nonsense saved me from drowning."

  "That is not the point."

  "It is to me," she said, more sharply than she intended.

  Harrison's jaw tightened. "We will speak later. For now, remember yourself."

  "Come, my love," Lady Woodmere said briskly, tucking Esme's arm through her own. "We must greet our hosts."

  Genny fell into step at Esme's other side. As they approached the central lawn, she leaned close. "On a scale from one to drowning, how delighted are you to see Lord Redford again?"

  "I am not delighted at all," Esme said primly. as she watched Redford approach Foxmere.

  Genny's grin widened. "Excellent. That means 'inconveniently much.'"

  Esme refused to reply, mostly because it was true.

  James had never felt quite so aware of his own feet.

  "Try not to gape," Niall murmured, following his line of sight. "It's a garden party, not an execution."

  "That remains to be seen," James said.

  Esme crossed the lawn, a soft green gown swirling around her. Sunlight caught in the loose tendrils at her temples, and the curve of her mouth suggested she was trying very hard to be good.

  “Woodmere looks murderous," Alexandra observed, trading her mallet for a glass of lemonade. "That is always a promising sign."

  "Be kind," Louisa said, though her eyes glinted. "After all, he allowed Esme to attend, a remarkable lack of judgment on his part."

  "Speaking of lack of judgment," Niall added, lightly elbowing James, "are you planning to stand here staring, or will you actually go greet the lady you've been thinking about every time we pass a pond?"

  James did not dignify the question with an answer.

  He had, in fact, been thinking about Esme rather too often. The memory of her in the Serpentine—shock-struck, then laughing—had lodged itself behind his ribs, as had the feel of her wrist in his hand, the slight tremor he'd felt before she found her footing. Her words afterward, Thank you. For holding on, visited him at inconvenient hours.

  "Go," Louisa said, amusement warming her voice. "Before my battledore tournament starts and you are recruited against your will."

  Alexandra's eyes danced. "Oh, I have plans for him and battledore. But I suppose you may have him for a few minutes, Esme permitting."

  James crossed the lawn joining their group. "Lady Woodmere. Viscount. Lady Esme. Miss Moreland. Foxmere's gardener deserves a title. I have seldom seen roses so determined to show off."

  "Lord Redford, how kind of you to admire the landscaping," Lady Woodmere said.

  "Every successful party depends on it." he winked. "Without adequate foliage, where would one flirt?"

  "Lord Redford," Woodmere said, civility laced with warning.

  Esme's lips twitched. "My lord." She inclined her head. "I see you have recovered from your encounter with the Serpentine."

  "Almost." His gaze lit with mischief. "I still wake hearing the slap of outraged duck feet."

  Genny choked on a laugh. "It was a very menacing duck."

  "Truly vicious," James agreed. "If anyone asks, I shall say I flung myself into the water to defend your honor."

  "From poultry?" Esme asked, lifting her brows.

  "One must start somewhere," he said.

  Her eyes danced.

  "Lord Redford," Lady Woodmere said, "I trust you will remember that this is a society party and conduct yourself appropriately. No boating, if you please."

  He stepped closer to Esme. "I prefer my misadventures on dry land."

  Woodmere’s gaze hardened. "Let us hope there are none at all."

  "Of course," James said. "You have my word, Woodmere. No mischief that would reflect poorly on your sister. I am reformed. Temporarily."

  Esme tilted her head. "Reformed, Lord Redford? How distressingly dull."

  He smiled slowly, roguishly. "Only on the surface, Lady Esme. Underneath, I am as wicked as ever."

  Genny fanned herself. "Oh, good. I feared you had taken up knitting."

  "Do not underestimate knitting," Esme murmured. "Yarn is simply mischief in coiled form."

  He chuckled.

  Louisa swept up beside them. "Lady Woodmere, Viscount, welcome. We are so pleased you could join us. Esme, Genny, do come and see the lawn games. We have convinced the Bishop of Rochester to referee the battledore matches. He's taking the role with alarming seriousness."

  "The Bishop is here?" Lady Woodmere asked. "How reassuring."

  "You may find his definition of wholesome has expanded," Louisa said mildly. "But we shall do our best to restrain him."

  She slid an arm through Esme's. "Come. I must show you the prize. It is hideous. You will adore it."

  Esme glanced at her mother, received a nod, and allowed herself to be led away. Genny flitted after them.

  James caught Esme's eye, then fell into step on the other side of Louisa, feeling Woodmere’s disapproval.

  "It's a frog," Genny whispered. "A smug frog wearing a laurel wreath. Louisa, I love him."

  "He's ghastly," Esme said. "Where did you find it?"

  "In a shop in Brighton," Louisa said. "The proprietor assured me it was tasteful. That was when I knew I must have it."

  Esme smoothed her glove. "I have never played battledore," she admitted. “Woodmere prefers activities with fewer... flying objects."

  "Battledore is perfectly respectable," Louisa said. "Provided one does not keep score in blood. It is also an excellent way to send shuttlecocks, and messages, where they ought to go."

  Esme's brows lifted. "Messages?"

  Louisa's mouth curved. "You are part of the Mutual Mischief Society, are you not? It seems only fair Foxmere contribute through our hosting privileges."

  Esme's heart skipped a beat. "You know about⁠—"

  "Genny writes very chatty notes," Louisa said. "Also, Redford is not half so subtle as he thinks. Do not worry. I approve, provided your mischief is kind."

  Esme smiled. "We do have rules."

  "Good." Louisa looked pleased. "Because I have a proposition."

  Esme followed her gaze toward the line of guests waiting to be assigned to teams.

  "Miss Eaton," Louisa murmured, "is painfully in love with Mr. Carstairs. Mr. Carstairs is equally in love and utterly convinced he is unworthy. They require a nudge."

  "And Lady Honoria?" Esme guessed.

  "Requires to be distracted by someone she can torment without doing permanent damage," Louisa said serenely. "I was thinking Lord Watford."

  Esme's lips parted and her pulse quickened. "What would you like us to do?"

  Louisa's eyes gleamed. "Lord Redford will distract Lady Honoria long enough for Genny to push Miss Eaton and Mr. Carstairs onto the same team. You, my dear, must then ensure they have cause to speak, perhaps by aiming a shuttlecock at Mr. Carstairs's dignity."

  "I thought we were not keeping score in blood," Esme said dryly.

  "A light graze," Louisa amended, "just enough to make him laugh. It will do him good for he has been terribly grave since his uncle's scandal."

  Esme considered this. Across the lawn, James stood talking to Magnus and Alexandra, though his attention was too obviously elsewhere. Every so often, his gaze wandered toward the tent where she stood.

  "All right," she said. "Let the Mutual Mischief Society come to order."

  Genny clapped her hands. "Oh, excellent! I feared this would be an afternoon of merely wholesome recreation."

  "Never," Louisa said. "Not at Foxmere."

  "It will be chaos," Magnus predicted, watching Lady Honoria tap a parasol against her palm as she evaluated potential players. "Alexandra with a whistle and Lady Honoria with opinions? You may as well hand out helmets."

  "I am not missing the opportunity to see you hit in the head with a shuttlecock."

  Alexandra blew the whistle, startling birds from the nearby trees. "Ladies and gentlemen! The inaugural Foxmere Battledore Tournament is now commencing. Remember our one rule."

  "No fatalities!" the crowd chorused.

  "And no aiming for bishops!" she added. "They bruise."

  "It's like watching Esme once she is wed," Magnus said quietly.

  "An alarming image," James said.

  Before Magnus could reply, Genny materialized at James's elbow, eyes bright. "Lord Redford, we require your assistance."

  "Am I to be used as target practice?"

  "Not unless you insist. Louisa would like Lady Honoria occupied while we... rearrange some team pairings."

  He glanced at Louisa, who stood near the other end of the lawn, apparently engrossed in a discussion of shuttlecocks with Esme. Their heads were bent close, the picture of innocuous feminine interest. He did not trust it for a moment.

  "What is the goal?" he asked.

  "To put Miss Eaton and Mr. Carstairs on the same team, without Lady Honoria insisting on inserting herself between them like a particularly determined chaperone."

  "Lady Honoria believes it is her sacred duty to stand between people and happiness," Magnus murmured.

  "Exactly. Hence our need for distraction. You are very distracting, Lord Redford."

  "How kind of you to say so. And what sort of distraction do you have in mind?" He arched a brow.

  Genny grinned. "Flattery, gossip, perhaps a vague hint that someone here has written a poem about her."

  James winced. "Cruel."

  "Kind for Lady Honoria lives on attention. We are merely feeding her."

  Alexandra's whistle shrieked again. "Form your teams! Four per side! If you cannot count to four, find someone who can!"

  "Go," Genny urged, giving James a little shove. "We'll handle the rest."

  Honoria was, as expected, at the center of the forming chaos. "No, Lord Bertram, you cannot be on three teams. You are barely competent to occupy one body. Lady Agnes, do stop hiding behind the shrubbery."

  James slid into her orbit. "Lady Honoria."

  "Redford," she said, her fan pausing. "How nice to see you."

  "Duty calls," he said. "I could not leave you without proper admiration."

  "Mmm." Her gaze swept over him. "What do you want?"

  "To be on whichever team you deem most likely to win," he said. "I seek reflected glory."

  Lady Honoria's sharp profile softened. "An honest answer. How inconvenient. Very well. You may join my team."

  He bowed. "I am honored."

  As she turned, he caught sight of Louisa shepherding Miss Eaton and Mr. Carstairs toward a far pitch. Esme, racket in hand, drifted that way as well, her expression neutral. Genny darted behind Lady Honoria, seizing the moment to nudge place cards on the small chalkboard that listed teams.

  Order of Battle: Eaton-Carstairs-Esme-Genny versus a hapless collection of young gentlemen.

  Perfect.

  James allowed himself a small smile. The Mutual Mischief Society was in excellent form.

  "Stop smirking," Lady Honoria said, elbowing him. "You look as though you've stolen someone's favorite toy."

  "I would never," he said. "I prefer to leave them where everyone can see me playing."

  Lady Honoria's laugh rang out across the lawn. Somewhere behind them, Woodmere groaned.

  James did not look back.

  Esme discovered that she liked battledore.

  It was not that she was particularly skilled, but that the game made it nearly impossible to be careful. Shuttlecocks did not respect decorum. They flew where they wished, spun unexpectedly, dropped ignominiously. One could either be mortified or amused.

  She chose amused.

  "Ready?" Genny called, bouncing on her toes at Esme's side.

  Miss Eaton, pale but determined, nodded. Mr. Carstairs, a thoughtful-looking man with dimples, swallowed hard.

  "I cannot believe Lady Honoria didn't insert herself," he murmured.

  "She is busy terrifying Lord Redford," Esme said. "We must make the most of it."

  Alexandra's whistle shrilled. "Begin!"

  Miss Eaton missed her opening volley entirely. Genny hit hers with such enthusiasm that it went straight past the opposing team and nearly decapitated a shrub. Mr. Carstairs apologized every time his racket so much as grazed the shuttlecock.

  Esme, whose competitive instincts had been honed by a childhood of fencing with Harrison for the last slice of cake, found this approach intolerable.

  "Mr. Carstairs," she called after he let yet another shot go unchallenged, "we are not playing croquet. The shuttlecock has no feelings. Hit it."

  He blinked behind his spectacles. "I wouldn't want to... overstep."

  "You are meant to overstep," she said. "That is the point. If you do not, Genny will, and someone will be injured."

  "Someone will be injured anyway," Genny said, lunging for a lob.

  Miss Eaton laughed. Esme caught Redford's eye and he lifted a brow.

  The next serve came high and slow toward Miss Eaton. She swung—and missed.

  Esme caught the shuttlecock. "Again. You were too polite. Think of something that makes you furious."

  Miss Eaton bit her lip. "The way Lady Honoria calls me 'dear girl' as if I were six."

  "Excellent. Hit her with that."

  Miss Eaton's brows lowered, and the next time the shuttlecock came her way, she struck it with such decisiveness that it landed squarely in Lord Bertram's hat.

  The crowd roared.

  Mr. Carstairs stared. "That was remarkable."

  Miss Eaton flushed, but lifted her chin. "Thank you."

  "There, you see? Like ledger columns, only airborne."

  Carstairs laughed. "I do enjoy a straight column."