Finding Miss McFarland Read online

  Automatically, her gaze sought Mr. Croft, but only in an effort to avoid him, she told herself. Wearing a tailcoat in dark blue and a waistcoat in bronze silk, he stood at the far end of the room. He wore the mail coach knot again, with a diamond pin in the fold that seemed to wink with devilish delight. Above the line of his pristine cravat, he grinned at her.

  Delaney squeezed Merribeth’s arm as if she were about to drift to sea and her friend was a mooring line. “As long as he sits on his end of the table and I on mine, no one will even notice,” Delaney said, her breath airy. Her lungs constricted in that peculiar way she now associated with the apparent dread she felt whenever Mr. Croft was near. Yet when she noticed the way his hand rested on the curved back of the empty seat beside his, a heated shiver rushed over her. “Surely Lady Bingham is too kind to seat us together.”

  “I’m certain,” Merribeth added just before a footman stepped forward to escort her to her place. At a table that seated one hundred guests, not including the lord and lady at either end, ushers were essential.

  One by one, the guests were seated. By the time one of the footmen stepped up to escort Delaney, however, she already knew exactly where her place card sat. With each step closer to Mr. Croft’s end of the table, she was able to draw less air into her lungs. The crackling that had started at first glance was now a family of tiny flames licking up her arms, making her skin too warm for satin gloves.

  “Miss McFarland,” he greeted her, inclining his head as she approached. He waved the footman away and held out her chair for her. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  She kept a smile firmly in place and took her seat. “I suspect this is less than pleasant for one of us and not quite a surprise for the other, Mr. Croft.”

  He drew in a quick breath, the sound close enough to her ear that she turned her head. In the depths of his gaze, she saw the same churning heat she’d witnessed at the Dorset ball.

  Then, in the next instant, he took his own seat and unfolded his napkin with a snap before laying it across his lap. “It just so happens that Lord Bingham is a particular friend of my father’s, so my attendance didn’t cause much of a stir. After all, I believe your friends, Miss Danvers and Lord Rathburn, were unable to attend and left a void at the table.”

  She blinked, caught off guard by the seeming ordinariness of his discourse. Yet she knew better. As with all their other exchanges up until now, this felt far too intense for two people who barely knew one another.

  “Miss Danvers is ill, though it is not serious.” Delaney, Penelope, and Merribeth had called on her earlier to see if she needed comfort. Emma had professed to feeling fine, other than a headache. Delaney imagined the ailment was caused by Emma and Rathburn’s fast-approaching wedding.

  “If it wouldn’t be too awkward for you, please offer my wishes for her swift return to health when next you see her.”

  “Thank you,” she said, staring at him quizzically.

  “Here. Allow me.” He breeched the too slight distance between them to take her napkin. Much as he had with his own, he snapped it open. Then, before she had the presence of mind to object, he laid it across her lap. When she opened her mouth to tell him his gesture was far too forward, she found the words lodged in her throat.

  His fingertips skimmed the top of her thigh, just above her knee. The touch was light and gone instantly. Still, she felt her bones turn liquid and a shock of heat radiate from that spot. Then he brushed those same fingertips across his lips. Impossible as it seemed, she felt that too.

  The heat within her traveled upward, intensifying by degree.

  “Naturally,” he continued conversationally, “Lord and Lady Bingham would look to fill a void. I understand Miss Danvers’s place was quickly filled by Miss Beatrice Snodgrass of Cheshire. Then, of course, there was the maneuvering of place cards, seating people of similar interests beside one another . . .”

  He rambled on and on, as if he didn’t know he’d set fire to her. Oh, but he knew. He had to know. She felt as if the conflagration were on display for the entire room.

  “And yet she put us together,” she said, her voice clipped with embarrassment.

  He grinned, and that diamond pin winked at her again. “I assured her that our interests are quite similar, Miss McFarland.”

  She had the urge to press her hand against her stomach to somehow extinguish the errant flames. Instead, she smoothed the napkin over her lap. “I have no idea what you could mean, Mr. Croft.”

  He turned away to take a sip of water, just enough to wet his tongue. She found herself pressing her lips together at the sight before she took a sip from her own goblet.

  “I’m certain you have some idea.” He looked askance at her, his voice low and—if she didn’t know better—hungry. “Take gingerbread, for example.”

  She set her glass down and made sure no curious gazes were aimed their way. As she hoped, the other guests were chatting with their table partners. Lady Bingham’s reputation for adept management of a seating arrangement appeared every bit deserved. At least . . . other than seating Delaney beside Griffin, when they were complete opposites. “I hardly consider a preference for spiced cake a common interest.”

  “Of course it is,” he remarked, as if disagreeing with her was as important to him as breathing, “especially if we were to share such a cake in a . . . conservatory, for example.” He took another sip from his goblet, but as he did, his gaze dipped to her mouth. This time it lingered until he swallowed. “That would certainly be a common interest.”

  The heat within her turned liquid, igniting in a rush, like a flame to lamp oil. “I believe you are mistaken, sir.”

  “Oh?” He looked as if he doubted it. “The Binghams have a conservatory. Perhaps further exploration of this topic is in order.”

  Did he want to kiss her again? No. It couldn’t be true. This was only a calculated attempt to unsettle her. Yet as much as she hated to admit it, his attempts were quite effective.

  Regardless, she couldn’t help but recall how he hadn’t wanted to kiss her the first time. That had been another calculated lesson as well. “I cannot imagine what game you are playing.”

  “I’m merely participating in this game of hide-and-seek we are playing, of course,” he answered when she returned her attention to him. Briefly, a footman stepped in to pour the wine. After he moved on down the table, Mr. Croft lifted his glass. “For nearly a year, you have sought to avoid me at all cost, while I have recently discovered how much I enjoy it when you fail in your attempts.”

  Delaney reached for her wine, needing a moment to regain her equilibrium.

  But before she could take a drink, he clinked his glass with hers. “I believe the next move is yours, Miss McFarland.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The following morning, Delaney found Buckley in the kitchen, charming a bun away from the cook.

  “I’ve grown four inches since I first came here a year ago, Mrs. Gawain,” he said with a proud smile as he lifted onto his toes. “It’s your fair cooking, it is. Imagine how much taller I should grow if I had a mite more. Not even the whole bun but just a bite.” When the cook tried to hide her grin, he went on in a rush. “And I didn’t want to mention it to you, but I might have seen this one right here knocked to the floor.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Gawain set her hands on her hips. “And who’d be knocking it down?”

  “No one here,” he assured her, and with such innocence that anyone would expect a halo to glint in the sunlight. “But there was a mighty wind that blew through the door when I carried out the ash buckets this morning. That could have done it.”

  Now it was Delaney’s turn to hold back a grin. From the doorway, she cleared her throat. “Mrs. Gawain, if you’ve no need of Buckley at this very moment, I have a task for him.”

  Buckley, who didn’t possess an ounce of shame, looked from her to the cook. “I imagine I’ll need my strength.”

  At that, Mrs. Gawain looked to Delaney and shrugged, as i
f she couldn’t help herself, and then handed Buckley the bun. “Go on with ye now, wee scamp.”

  The boy followed Delaney out of the kitchen’s back door, up the recessed servants’ entrance, and to the outer edge of their small walled garden.

  Thankfully, there hadn’t been any mention in the Post that morning, regarding the fact that both she and Mr. Croft had attended the same dinner. Not one mention of her sitting next to him or any reminder of the incident. No mention of how inappropriate it had been for him to lay a napkin across her lap. No mention of how frequently he’d bent to whisper to her. And absolutely no mention of Miss M—combusting in her chair.

  She credited her fortune to Miss Beatrice Snodgrass of Cheshire, who had shyly announced her engagement to Reginald Hargrove during dessert. Now, the ton’s focus was on the widower and the quiet country miss.

  At the memory of last night, Delaney still bristled. Especially, when Mr. Croft had withdrawn her chair at the end of dinner but leaned in just enough to incite her temper with one last remark. “Such a pity. I seem to recall Hargrove was quite dissolute. He would have been perfect for your plot.” He’d tsked, his breath curling like steam against her cheek. “It seems yours is not the only attractive dowry this Season.”

  “Yes, miss?” Buckley said, drawing her back to the matter at hand. Seemingly unconcerned at her reason for seeking him out, he licked the remains of the pastry from his fingertips before wiping them on his breeches.

  Delaney tried to be cross with him—she did. In fact, she even placed her hands on her hips and gave him a scowl of disapproval. But truth be told, she was far too fond of the little man standing before her.

  Dropping her hands to her sides, she shook her head and let out an exhale. “How certain were you about Mr. Croft’s plans for last evening?”

  He straightened his shoulders as if offended. “As certain as I could be. I heard it from the man himself.”

  “Directly from Mr. Croft?” This puzzled her. Buckley’s skill at eavesdropping had never failed her before. “Perhaps you misunderstood. To whom was he conversing?”

  “Why, not a soul, miss. He said the words to me.”

  She gave a start but did her best to hide it. “You spoke with him?”

  “Don’t worry, miss. He doesn’t suspect a thing. He thought I was there to watch him box Lord Everhart. It was a sight to behold,” he said, giving a whistle. “Never seen such a hard fight, except from Tom Spring. Cor! They didn’t hold back neither.”

  Delaney swallowed. She’d heard that the gentlemen removed their coats, waistcoats, and sometimes even their shirts during these lessons. An image of Griffin Croft—sweating, breathing heavy, and wearing nothing more than a pair of snug breeches—filled her mind and caused a swift tide of heat to flood her. She fought the urge to fan herself with her fingertips.

  “And so, after the match, you spoke with him.”

  “Aye. And I helped him on with his coat. It barely fit after the fight.” The boy grinned as if he were suffering from a small case of hero worship. Turning, he jabbed his fist in the air as if fighting an unseen opponent. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he busted a sleeve loose before he got home.”

  “Really,” she mused. If that were the case, he’d need to see his tailor this morning. And it just so happened she knew the one on Bond Street he frequented. However, first things first. “What exactly did Mr. Croft say about his plans for last evening?”

  Buckley lowered his arm and focused on the toe of his shoe burrowing into bits of crushed clay on the path. “He said that he didn’t think the Montcrieffs could fit the entire ton in their ballroom and wondered if there was another event.”

  She closed her eyes. He knew. Somehow Griffin Croft had discovered her spy was Buckley all along. After her confession at the Dorset ball, he’d probably kept close watch on those around him, wondering whom she employed as her spy. Blast! She never should have let it slip. After all, the only reason Griffin Croft would ask a boy about society events would be to answer his own suspicions.

  “Don’t worry,” Buckley said quickly. “I assured him that he wouldn’t want to go to a boring dinner.”

  Not unless he had something to prove. And after his throwing down the gauntlet last night, she had something to prove as well.

  She stepped forward and ruffled Buckley’s hair. “You were quite right. It was a rather boring dinner. Do you know, I’ve a mind to fix that sleeve of yours,” she said, giving the empty sleeve a tug and earning a smile in return. “What would you say to a trip to Bond Street to see a certain tailor and have a jacket that doesn’t get snagged or caught between doors?”

  Griffin strolled into Thomas & Bailey’s on Bond Street and stopped short. He’d know that particular shade of auburn hair anywhere. Not to mention the haphazard way the untamable mess was tied with a blue ribbon at the base of her neck.

  He felt a peculiar smile tug at his lips. After the challenge he’d issued last night, he wondered when he would see her next.

  With the carriage out front, he’d assumed her father was here, so it was a surprise to see Miss McFarland instead. Women frequenting this shop were usually accompanied by their husbands. This morning, Delaney McFarland was the only woman present, which could account for the look of disapproval from the hawk-nosed clerk. In fact, she was the only customer at the moment, although it was rather early. Most of the ton were only waking at this hour.

  She turned. Her expression didn’t show an ounce of surprise at discovering that he was the one who entered the shop. In fact, the deep violet of her eyes was bright as amethysts. During their previous encounters, he’d determined that her eyes turned this shade when she was angry.

  “Mr. Croft, you are here at last,” she said with a hint of exasperation, as if he’d kept her waiting for some time. “I simply must have your assistance on this matter.”

  He removed his hat and bowed, indulging her. “I am ever at your service, Miss McFarland.”

  It was only then that he noticed the towheaded boy step out from behind her. The lad managed to grin and offer a guilty shrug at the same time. The ruse was up. Apparently, Miss McFarland no longer felt the need to hide her spy.

  She held a small jacket aloft. Since it had one sleeve cuff pinned to the shoulder, he knew it belonged to the boy beside her. “Mr. Simms is in need of a tailored jacket, one that would allow him more freedom of movement. However, I cannot seem to appeal to this gentleman’s”—she shook the jacket at the clerk—“sense of rightness or his pocketbook.”

  “Thomas & Bailey’s is a reputable establishment, sir,” the clerk said. “We simply do not tailor clothes for the servant class.” He sniffed and adjusted his cravat, casting a spurious look down at the boy and Miss McFarland. “Dignity cannot be purchased.”

  Under normal circumstances, Griffin would have agreed. In this particular instance, the clerk’s snobbery rubbed him the wrong way.

  “Surely, your sense of dignity would allow you to make an exception this once.” Or not, he guessed by the stony look he received.

  Griffin glanced at Miss McFarland and the boy. The latter looked up at him as if he’d just left Mount Olympus and could smite the clerk on the spot. Beside him, Miss McFarland’s nostrils flared as she glared across the counter. Now, if looks could smite . . .

  “Perhaps Miss McFarland’s maid wouldn’t think it beneath her,” the clerk added. “Or someone from below stairs.”

  Worse and worse. Griffin could feel waves of heat rise from Miss McFarland. With the light coming in through the shop’s window behind her, he could almost see a puff of smoke rise from the top of her hat.

  She aimed that fire toward the clerk. “Or perhaps you have a tailor,” she suggested. “Or does your tailor have a tailor of his own to see to the more menial tasks? Perhaps he should open a shop.”

  Beside her, the towheaded boy squared his shoulders and took a step between Miss McFarland and the counter, as if daring the clerk to say anything else that would offend his mis
tress.

  The clerk looked from Miss McFarland and down to the boy, adjusting his cravat once again. “Furthermore, only our patrons or gentleman’s valets are permitted to step foot into Thomas & Bailey’s. Kindly remove your cripple—”

  Miss McFarland gasped. Still clutching the jacket, her hands automatically covered the boy’s ears as if to protect him. “How dare you!”

  Griffin’s temper ignited in a flash. Faster than he could draw a breath, he shot forward. Leaning across the counter, he stood nose to nose with the clerk. “You’ve overstepped. Perhaps you believe your behavior upholds the highest of standards, but you are lower than vermin’s offal. You will apologize to the lady and the lad.”

  Griffin could never tolerate blatant cruelty. The words and that disdainful tone were far too similar to those used when his great-uncle had railed at him, time and time again, when he was a lad. “Have you no sense, boy? Speak, boy! Speak. Stop tripping over your tongue like a cripple.”

  Red-faced and wide-eyed, the clerked stammered out an apology.

  Griffin stepped back. “Kindly send my final bill to my address, as I’ll be settling my account here.”

  Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked to the door. Miss McFarland was already there, waiting for him, his hat in her grasp. With the light behind her, he couldn’t read her expression. And for some nameless reason, he needed to know what she was thinking right at this very moment.

  Young Mr. Simms held the door open. Taking his hat, Griffin also claimed Miss McFarland’s hand and escorted her to the sidewalk and her waiting carriage. This time, when he looked at her, the brim of her bonnet shielded her eyes as she bent her head to look down to where he still had possession of her hand. Her small fingers felt so natural, curled into his palm, that he’d hardly noticed. Or perhaps that was the opposite of the truth.

  He released her at once. Yet with this fierce energy boiling in his veins and seeking an outlet, he wished he had some other employment for his hands. Perhaps he should look into carrying a cane, something he could grip so he wouldn’t think about how her slender shoulders had also fit perfectly into his palms when he’d kissed her in the Dorsets’ conservatory.