Finding Miss McFarland (11 page)

“Couldn’t have that, sir. You said yourself that you have plans. Couldn’t have you late for the . . . Moncrieff ball?” The boy hopped off the stool. A sly grin slid in place as if the little spy thought to hoodwink Griffin.

“Of course,” Griffin confirmed. “It’s the only noteworthy function I can think of, unless you can name another.”

The boy blinked. “Another, sir?”

“Yes. I’m certain not every member of the
ton
will be crushed together in the Moncrieffs’ ballroom.”

The boy swallowed, his face going as pale as his curls. “Someone of your ilk wouldn’t attend a boring dinner when there’s a fancy ball to be had.”

Griffin scoffed as if the answer were obvious. “Of course not.”
A dinner? Hmm . . .
He just happened to know that a certain Lord and Lady Bingham were hosting one of their elaborate dinners this very evening. Not only that, but Lord Bingham was a particular friend of Griffin’s father’s. He wondered, should he happen to stop by on his way home, if he might discover that a certain auburn-haired
miss
was on the guest list.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

“I
do believe that Lord and Lady Bingham have the most handsome portraits in the hall,” Delaney said, eyeing a particular ancestor whose sunken face appeared to have been trampled by a horse hoof shortly before the painter arrived.

Merribeth nodded in agreement as they continued to study Lord Bingham’s great-grandfather. “Perhaps if we take a step back.”

They did and then exchanged a look.

“We might end up in the next room before it improves,” Delaney whispered, not wanting the other guests to overhear.

Merribeth giggled, covering the sound with her gloved hand. “I think it also depends on the artist. I would rather have one whose view of the world was more romantic, I think.”

The thought made Delaney laugh too. “With a crown of flowers in your hair and bluebirds flitting about? I believe I know of another person who would want a portrait just like that.”

“And who would that be?”

“Mr. Croft’s youngest sister,” she said, without thinking of the implications. To mention his name, let alone to suggest an acquaintance with his family, would certainly raise questions. The moment she saw the speculative arch of Merribeth’s brow, she quickly went on. “Bree and I happened upon the sisters in the park one day, and the youngest was wearing a crown of flowers.”

“What are you two tittering about,” Penelope asked as she walked up to them on the arm of her husband.

Delaney looked to Merribeth to see if her ploy had worked. Apparently it had, because her friend’s attention was diverted by their companions.

“Our own portraits,” Merribeth said, amusement brightening her eyes. “I would dress in a flowing gown amidst meadow flowers—though I’m certain it would look out of place beside Mr. Clairmore’s. He’ll undoubtedly want his portrait to be severe and stately.”

“We haven’t discussed portraits yet,” Penelope said, gazing thoughtfully at Ethan, “although he requested a miniature for his birthday earlier this year.”

Mr. Weatherstone exchanged a look with his wife that made Penelope blush. “I keep it in a very important place.”

Delaney felt her heart pinch at the sight of her friend, their love for each other so clear it might have been written in lines of poetry across their faces. If it could be said that Penelope fairly glowed on Mr. Weatherstone’s arm, then it could also be said that he emitted his own light.

Penelope automatically settled a hand over her stomach. “Even though family portraits are uncommon, I prefer them. We’ll be in Surrey by the time the baby arrives. The manor has a splendid array of arched windows that would make a perfect background.”

“Aunt Sophie and I are already planning to be there for the event. I’m certain Mr. Clairmore would want to join us by then as well,” Merribeth added, beaming in expectation of a proposal any day now. “But what of your portrait, Delaney?”

She thought for a moment, hiding a sudden twinge of sadness at the knowledge that there would be no family portraits in her future. No doubt, hers would hang somewhere beside Montwood’s. “Perhaps I’ll stand for hours, posed outside Haversham’s.”

They all laughed, but Delaney knew only hers was forced. Truth be told, she’d been plagued by a bout of melancholy for the past week. Not even shopping had improved her mood.

After careful consideration, she’d realized the problem was that her plan wasn’t going as smoothly as she’d hoped. Even though a bargain with Montwood was the perfect solution, she was beginning to doubt herself. Now, a week and a half after their initial conversation, she hoped that he would return to town and pay a call on her in the next few days. Perhaps then she’d feel more like herself.

Just then, the dinner gong in the Binghams’ hall rang. Those who’d ventured into the gallery merged with those who’d remained in the parlor. It was at that precise moment that Delaney saw Mr. Croft. And what was worse, he saw her too.

“What is
he
doing here?” Merribeth leaned in to whisper. “I thought his sisters would be attending the Moncrieff ball this evening.”

“So did I . . .” she murmured.

From the dining room doorway, he inclined his head in her direction. She narrowed her eyes. He was here on purpose—the purpose being to unsettle her—she had no doubt. As if reading her thoughts, he flashed a triumphant smirk before disappearing through the door.

“But I don’t see his sisters nearby.”

Delaney gritted her teeth. Just this afternoon, Buckley had given her confirmation that Mr. Croft was attending the Moncrieff ball. So this must simply be a terrible coincidence. Either that, or he’d deliberately attempted trickery in order to mislead her spy. “Most likely, they are at Moncrieff House with their mother.”

The crackling sensation began again, stinging the center of her palms and working up her arms. She tried to calm herself. It would be impossible to avoid him all evening. Then again, the dinner party was rather large. Perhaps her place card was situated far enough from his that it would be as if they were attending separate functions.

Besides, seeing him at the theater last week had caused only the slightest stir. Coupled with the rumor surrounding the picnic at Hawthorne Manor, their interaction had gone unnoticed.

Feeling marginally better, she linked arms with Merribeth. Together, they crossed the threshold and stepped into the Binghams’ lavish dining room.

A half dozen chandeliers on golden chains hung over a table that spanned the length of the room. Crystal water glasses and wine goblets refracted the light in pastel prisms that danced over white linen and porcelain chargers rimmed in gold.

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.”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

T
he 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.”