Griffin was here. Coincidence? Ten days ago—before the Dorset ball—he would have thought so. Now, prickles of suspicion skittered through him.
Without trying to be obvious, he paid closer attention. The boy wore livery, as if employed by a great household—familiar livery at that. Griffin could have sworn he’d seen that particular combination of green and blue before.
Suddenly, it dawned on him.
It was that of the McFarlands. He nearly laughed aloud. Could this be the illusive spy employed by Miss McFarland?
There was only way to find out. “You there, boy. Fetch me that coat,” he said with an absent gesture toward the peg on the wall. When the boy in question stood frozen in place, he snapped his fingers. “Make it quick. I’ve plans for the evening.”
Pale curls sprang into motion as the boy darted over to the wall. “This one, sir?”
Griffin nodded, and the boy hurried over. Griffin gave the impression of disinterest, even turning his back on the lad as he attempted to shrug on his coat. Unfortunately, all his recent exercise had increased the girth of his arms and shoulders, turning it into a struggle. “I’ve seen you here before. Like boxing, do you?”
“Yes, sir. Allow me, sir.” The boy brought a stool over and hopped up on it with the agility of an acrobat. He was so nimble with his movements that one would never know he possessed only one arm unless he saw it for himself.
When the coat was in place, Griffin tossed a coin in the air, not surprised that the boy caught it soundly.
“My thanks. I might have been here all night if not for your assistance,” Griffin said as he rolled his shoulders. The fit was snug. No doubt he’d rupture another seam before he reached home. He was forever tearing out the stitches in his sleeves. Assuredly, he’d make his tailor a wealthy man by the end of the Season.
“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
Without trying to be obvious, he paid closer attention. The boy wore livery, as if employed by a great household—familiar livery at that. Griffin could have sworn he’d seen that particular combination of green and blue before.
Suddenly, it dawned on him.
It was that of the McFarlands. He nearly laughed aloud. Could this be the illusive spy employed by Miss McFarland?
There was only way to find out. “You there, boy. Fetch me that coat,” he said with an absent gesture toward the peg on the wall. When the boy in question stood frozen in place, he snapped his fingers. “Make it quick. I’ve plans for the evening.”
Pale curls sprang into motion as the boy darted over to the wall. “This one, sir?”
Griffin nodded, and the boy hurried over. Griffin gave the impression of disinterest, even turning his back on the lad as he attempted to shrug on his coat. Unfortunately, all his recent exercise had increased the girth of his arms and shoulders, turning it into a struggle. “I’ve seen you here before. Like boxing, do you?”
“Yes, sir. Allow me, sir.” The boy brought a stool over and hopped up on it with the agility of an acrobat. He was so nimble with his movements that one would never know he possessed only one arm unless he saw it for himself.
When the coat was in place, Griffin tossed a coin in the air, not surprised that the boy caught it soundly.
“My thanks. I might have been here all night if not for your assistance,” Griffin said as he rolled his shoulders. The fit was snug. No doubt he’d rupture another seam before he reached home. He was forever tearing out the stitches in his sleeves. Assuredly, he’d make his tailor a wealthy man by the end of the Season.
“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
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