He had spent so long trying not to become his father that he had never considered becoming something else entirely.

  "You fool," he told his reflection. "You absolute idiot."

  Slowly, he returned to the desk and took up a fresh sheet of paper.

  Dear Lady Esme⁠—

  He stared at the words until they blurred, then crumpled the paper and tossed it aside.

  "Very well," he said. "Haverleigh it is."

  He rang for his valet.

  "Carstairs," he said when the man appeared, "fetch my black coat."

  "Yes, my lord. Shall I also send a note to your tailor? The Haverleigh musicale will require a fresh waistcoat."

  "Do so. Something respectable.

  And send to my solicitor as well. I require a full account of my father's remaining debts, if any, and the exact state of the estate."

  Carstairs's brows lifted slightly. "Of course, my lord."

  "If I am going to make an idiot of myself," he muttered, "I may as well do it properly."

  Carstairs withdrew.

  Haverleigh, in three nights.

  Three days to decide whether he would remain a coward, or become the man he had to be in order to stand before Lady Esme and say, I want you.

  He was not sure which prospect frightened him more.

  For the first time in years, the fear felt worth facing.

  The night before the Haverleigh musicale, Esme discovered that ink was more dangerous than she had previously believed.

  She sat at her small writing desk beneath the bedroom window, a single candle guttering. Outside, London hummed.

  Her hand hovered.

  Dear Lord Redford⁠—

  She grimaced, crossed out "Lord," and wrote James above it.

  Stared. Blotted. Swore softly and began again.

  James—

  Worse.

  Setting down the pen, she flexed her fingers, noting the smudge of ink. Watford would have been appalled.

  She smiled faintly and promptly wanted to cry.

  "Say what you mean," she muttered. "Surely you can manage one man."

  She dipped the pen again, and set it back to the parchment.

  My lord,

  I wish to inform you that I have given the matter careful thought and have determined that our acquaintance cannot continue as it has done. It is not proper, and I⁠—

  She stopped, scratched the paragraph out.

  Another sheet.

  James,

  You are a menace.

  I have fallen into a body of water twice since meeting you. I have nearly concussed a viscount, infuriated my brother, and admitted I prefer laughter to obedience. This is entirely your fault.

  Also, I think I may be in love with you, which is very inconvenient.

  She sat back, staring.

  Ink was honest when one stopped trying to control it.

  Her heartbeat thudded. She could not send this. She could not not send it. She considered setting fire to the entire desk.

  A soft knock made her jump.

  "Esme?" came Genny's muffled voice. "Plotting alone? Let me in."

  Esme hastily folded the letter, blotting any wetness, and shoved it beneath a stack of old fashion plates.

  "Come in," she called, hoping her voice sounded normal.

  Genny slipped in, wrapped in a robe, hair tumbling loose. She eyed the desk.

  "Letters at this hour?" she asked. "To whom? Watford? Eloping to a stationery shop?"

  Esme's laugh wobbled. "Nothing so dramatic. Merely...practicing my penmanship."

  Genny's brows rose. "Now I know you are lying. Your penmanship is already legible." She perched on the bed. "Nerves about tomorrow?"

  "A little," Esme admitted.

  Genny swung her feet idly. "Haverleigh always puts on an excellent show. Pippa will ensure there is more gossip than music, Christopher will ensure there is more wine than sense, and if Redford doesn't appear, I shall personally drag him from his club by the cravat."

  Esme swallowed. "Do you think he will come?"

  "I know he will," Genny said. "I wrote to him."

  Esme stared. "Genny!"

  "What?" Genny said defensively. "Someone had to. You were busy pretending to be fine. He was busy pretending to be a chaise lounge. It was intolerable."

  "You had no right⁠—"

  "I have every right," Genny said calmly. "I am your friend—his too, unfortunately. If you both insist on being cowards, I shall simply have to be brave enough for three."

  Esme pressed her hands to her face. "What did you say?"

  "That you were being stupid," Genny said. "That he was being stupider. That if he does not attend Haverleigh and speak honestly, I will teach Lady Honoria a limerick about him."

  Despite herself, Esme laughed. "You are a menace."

  "Yes," Genny said cheerfully. "That is what Redford will say as well, I expect. But he will come." Her expression softened. "What happens after that is up to you."

  Up to her.

  Esme thought of all the times in the past weeks when she had let others decide her course, when she had chosen silence because it seemed less troublesome than truth.

  "I do not know what I shall say," she admitted.

  "Start with what you want," Genny suggested. "You are very good at telling the world what it ought to be. Try telling one man what you want from it."

  Esme's throat tightened. "I want..."

  To be seen. To be chosen not because she was sensible, but because she was her. To laugh without looking over her shoulder. To stand beside someone and know that if she fell, they would simply hold on.

  "I want him to stop hiding from himself," she said at last. "And I want... I want the chance to choose him—not to have him handed to me like a punishment or barred from me like a sin."

  Genny's eyes shone. "There," she said softly. "That is a beginning."

  Esme nodded, feeling oddly calmer.

  She returned to the desk.

  The letter waited, its folded edges accusing.

  Slowly, she drew it out and read it again.

  You are a menace... I think I may be in love with you.

  Ink and truth.

  She could not send it. Too much could go wrong between her chamber and his hands—too many eyes, too many misunderstandings. Words on paper could be burned or waved in a mother's face.

  But spoken words?

  Those, at least, would be hers.

  Deliberately, she tore the letter into small pieces, watching them fall like black-and-white snow into the wastebasket.

  "Tomorrow," she whispered to the empty room, "if you come, James, I will not be sensible."

  It was a terrifying promise.

  It felt, for the first time in weeks, like her own.

  She snuffed the candle and lay awake in the dark, listening to the city breathe.

  The Mutual Mischief Society had begun with a rescue from boredom.

  At Haverleigh, it would either end—or become something entirely different.

  Esme did not know which frightened her more.

  But as sleep finally crept in, she found that fear was no longer the heaviest thing in her chest.

  Hope had crept in beside it.

  Seven

  James approached the musicale as if it were an execution. Haverleigh House blazed with candlelight, music drifting out through the open windows. He handed his hat and gloves to the footman and flexed his fingers, smothering a groan.

  "Lord Redford."

  The butler's announcement carried him into Haverleigh's grand salon, chandeliers gleaming over a sea of silk and black coats. Pippa, Lady Haverleigh, hovered near the musicians, conferring with a violinist. Her fair head turned at his name and her face lit.

  "Redford! I'm so glad you came. Christopher said you would sulk at your club."

  "I am very nearly offended," James said. "I save my sulking for more intimate occasions."

  The Duke of Haverleigh followed, dark brows lifting. "We assumed you would only appear if you smelled mischief."

  "That, or Mrs. Trentham's lemon tarts," James said. "I hear you have both."

  Pippa's eyes narrowed. "You also heard that Lady Esme would be here."

  He schooled his expression.

  Pippa gave him a disbelieving look.

  "Behave," Haverleigh murmured to her, his gaze flicking to James with sympathy. "Try not to push anyone into the Serpentine tonight."

  "I make no promises," Pippa said. "Esme has been too quiet these past weeks. It makes me nervous."

  James's chest tightened. "Quiet?"

  "Mm. Smiling in all the right places. Agreeing to every sensible thing. It's unnatural."

  "Sounds like Woodmere’s dream come true," James said lightly.

  Pippa wrinkled her nose. "Then his dreams are very dull."

  Before he could reply, the musicians launched into an overture. Guests shifted, turning toward the makeshift dais. James followed, scanning the crowd.

  Lady Woodmere first, in silver silk. Beside her, Woodmere stood straight-backed. And between them⁠—

  Esme.

  His heart leaped.

  She wore soft blue tonight, a shade that caught the gray-green of her eyes. Dark hair twisted into coils at the back of her head, with one curl at her temple. She held herself with her usual poise, but there was a new stillness about her.

  Cedric Hargrove, Viscount Watford, stood at her elbow, discoursing with earnest intensity.

  Of course.

  James's jaw clenched, forcing his hand to relax around his gloves.

  "Go," Pippa said under her breath. "You are making a face. It's upsetting the flowers."

  "I am not here to disrupt your musicale," he replied.

  "You are terrible at lying," she said. "You never disrupt the music. Only the boring bits in between."

  Haverleigh's mouth twitched. "For once, I am inclined to agree with my wife. If you intend to do something foolish, Redford, get on with it before Lady Woodmere arranges three engagements and a christening."

  James gave them a faint bow. "Far be it from me to disappoint my audience."

  He stepped into the room, keeping Esme in his vision as he navigated a gauntlet of acquaintances.

  He slowed as he drew close enough to hear Watford's voice.

  "...of course, proper ink is a question of consistency," Watford was saying. "Too thin, the lines waver. Too thick, they blot. One must find the happy medium."

  "Indeed," Esme murmured. "Happy mediums are very fashionable at present."

  James almost smiled.

  "And yet," Watford said, clearing his throat, "it may be that I have been mistaken in certain...assumptions about what suits."

  Esme's fingers tightened on her fan. "My lord?"

  James saw her profile, noting the tension in her voice.

  "Forgive me," Watford blurted, visibly flushing. "Perhaps...ah...I might beg a few moments in the conservatory to discuss a...delicate matter."

  Esme's gaze flicked toward her mother, then toward Woodmere, who narrowed his eyes.

  James's muscles coiled. Esme would be trapped. Do something, every instinct urged.

  He did not. This was her choice. He had vowed to give her that much.

  Esme lifted her chin. "Very well, Lord Watford," she said. "I should be glad of some air."

  Woodmere stepped forward. Pippa appeared, capturing his sleeve.

  "Lord Woodmere," she said brightly, "please tell me you have not cheated at battledore since Foxmere."

  He blinked. "I do not cheat," he said, affronted. "I strategize."

  Pippa gasped in mock horror. "So you admit it! Come, you must defend yourself to His Grace. Christopher, darling⁠—"

  She towed Woodmere away. James made a mental note to send her a very expensive gift.

  Esme, seizing the gap, placed her hand lightly on Watford's arm.

  "Shall we?"

  They disappeared into the conservatory.

  Heart pounding, hands at his sides, James stood where he was.

  He did not follow.

  The conservatory at Haverleigh had been designed to impress. Glass arched overhead. Potted orange trees perfumed the air, and ferns clustered in shadows. Lanterns glowed along the paths, casting pools of light.

  Esme found the air easier to breathe the moment she crossed the threshold.

  Watford stopped a few paces inside and turned to face her.

  "Lady Esme," he began, then faltered. "Forgive me. I am not practiced at this."

  "Neither am I," she said gently. "We may bumble through together."

  He offered a strained smile. "You are very kind. That is...precisely the difficulty."

  She folded her fan. "I see."

  He took a breath, squared his shoulders. "Your family and mine have encouraged our acquaintance. Your conduct has always been beyond reproach, excepting certain aquatic incidents, which were hardly your fault."

  Her lips twitched. "The Serpentine bears a portion of the blame."

  "Quite," he said.

  Silence stretched.

  "Lord Watford," she said quietly, "are you wishing to offer for me?"

  He went scarlet. "I had considered—that is, your brother—no, I am not expressing myself well at all."

  "Then allow me," she said. "Do you want to?"

  He blinked. "Want to?"

  "Yes," she said. "Not 'ought,' not 'makes sense on paper.' Do you, Cedric Hargrove, want to marry me?"

  He stared at her.

  "I—" He swallowed. "I admire you very much. You are clever and brave, and not afraid of ink, which I find comforting."

  "But?" she prompted.

  His shoulders sagged. "But you are also vivid," he said. "You say things. You do things. You fall into lakes."

  She fought back a laugh. "I do not do that as a hobby."

  "No, but..." He ran a hand over his hair. "I have realized that what I had taken for suitability was mere expectation. Your brother speaks well of you. Your parents are anxious. My mother is enthusiastic. On paper, everything aligns."

  "And off paper?"

  He met her gaze. "Off paper, I think you would be miserable with me. I would always be trying to keep you tidy, and you would always be trying not to offend my sense of order. I do not wish to spend the rest of my life apologizing for asking my wife not to climb trees."

  "I rarely climb trees," she said, wounded, "not in evening dress."

  He laughed. "You see? I cannot keep up."

  Pity pricked her. "And you? What would make you content?"

  He considered, then confessed, "I should like a wife who is pleased when I speak of ledgers, who finds it soothing. Someone who is happy for our lives to be predictable."

  "You deserve that," she said.

  His shoulders dropped, relief loosening his jaw. "Then you do not...?"

  "Want to marry you?" she finished. "No."

  His flinch was brief. "You might have lied."

  "I respect you too much," she said simply. "And I respect myself too much to promise what I cannot give. You are an excellent man, Lord Watford. Our difficulties stem entirely from the fact that you wish to live in straight lines, and I am ink that runs."

  His eyes widened. "Lady Honoria said something very similar once."

  "I am both gratified and alarmed to have anything in common with Lady Honoria," Esme said dryly.

  He smiled, small but genuine. "Your brother will be disappointed."

  "He will survive," she said. "If he gives you any trouble, tell him I sent you."

  Watford hesitated, then offered his hand. "May we at least be friends?"

  She took it, shaking solemnly. "We are friends. And if I encounter any lady who lights up at the prospect of hearing about drainage, I shall send her directly to you."

  His expression brightened, absurdly hopeful. "Do you think such a lady exists?"

  "Somewhere, there is a woman rearranging her inkpots for pleasure," Esme said. "You must have faith."

  He bowed over her hand. "Thank you, Lady Esme. For your honesty, and for not letting me blunder into a marriage that would have left us both smudged."

  She watched him retreat toward the ballroom, then released a breath she felt as though she had been holding for months.

  One expectation gently laid down.

  Now came the difficult part.

  James had successfully refused three games of cards, two introductions, and one earnest invitation from the Bishop to join a philanthropic committee when Watford reappeared in the conservatory doorway.

  The viscount paused, scanning the room. His gaze landed briefly on James, then flicked away—a promising sign, as he did not march over or challenge him to a duel.

  Instead, Watford made a beeline for Lady Honoria, who raised her brows in surprise as he bowed low before her. Within moments, the two were deep in conversation, Lady Honoria's fan fluttering.

  James blinked.

  "What on earth did I miss?" he muttered.

  "Hopefully," Magnus said at his shoulder, "the imminent union of ink and gossip."

  James started.

  Magnus followed James's gaze. "Ah. Watford looks...lighter."

  James's attention slid, inevitably, to the conservatory doors.

  Esme had not yet reappeared.

  His hand tightened around his glass. "Do you suppose," he asked lightly, "that I have time to flee to Scotland?"

  "None whatsoever," Magnus replied. "Niall has barred the exit."

  Sure enough, Foxmere lounged near the main doors, engaged in conversation with Genny. The two of them looked up in unison, eyes narrowing on James.

  "Traitors," James muttered.

  Magnus clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll thank us later. Or you won't. Either way, it will be entertaining."

  James drained his wine, set the empty glass on a passing tray, and turned toward the conservatory.

  He slipped through the French doors.

  Lantern light painted the leaves in shades of gold and shadow. Esme stood near an orange tree, fingers resting lightly on its trunk.

  She turned.

  For a beat, they looked at one another.

  "Lord Redford," she said. "I see Haverleigh's invitations extend even to the most notorious of the ton."