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“I am most impressed with your run shot. You must have quite a bit of steel running through you to bowl so fast and hard.”

Jane smiled, satisfaction blooming in her chest. Mr. Dunsford had seen her as capable and strong—and still wanted her company. Woolgathering over Barclay Thompson be dashed. This budding connection showed promise. Perhaps she might be betrothed to a suitable young man who genuinely admired her before summer's end.

Behind them, the terrace door swung open with a soft creak. “Jane!”

Mr. Dunsford flinched, nearly spilling his tea. Jane turned just in time to see Tatiana’s bright face, brimming with joy, before the little girl flew across the stone floor and threw her arms about Jane’s neck. Jane laughed warmly, raising her hands to embrace the child, though she noted with some amusement how Mr. Dunsford leapt aside as if she had unleashed a wild hare. His expression was one of pure consternation.

“Jane, have you been playing bowls with Papa? I cannot find him anywhere.”

“I am afraid not. I have not seen your papa today, Tatiana.”

“Oh.” Tatiana’s little face fell, her silver-blonde curls bobbing as she dropped her gaze. A pang of sympathy tugged at Jane’s heart. Gently, she reached up and tucked a stray curl behind the girl’s ear.

Mr. Ridley cleared his throat politely. “Some guests are playing ninepins beyond the rose garden. Perhaps Mr. Thompson is there?”

Tatiana’s eyes brightened with hope. “Where is that?”

“I can take you, if you wish. I was going to join a friend.” His expression was kind, and Jane noted the ease with which he offered assistance.

“Yes, do that,” Mr. Dunsford interjected quickly, his relief poorly disguised.

Tatiana clapped her hands, turning to Mr. Ridley. “Yes, please, Mr. Riddee.”

The gentleman chuckled at the mispronunciation of his name, his brandy eyes twinkling with good humor. He extended his bronzed hand, and Tatiana slipped her tiny one into it trustingly. Together, they walked off, as she peppered him with questions about ninepins.

Jane watched them go, a strange wistfulness stirring in her chest. Despite her newfound appreciation for Mr. Dunsford’s attentions, there was an undeniable ache in watching the little girl wander off in search of her father.

* * *

Barclay had been sorely disappointed when Mrs. Gordon elected to play ninepins. He had hoped they might engage in a game of bowls—a sport of precision and skill—but she had declared that the game made her head hurt to think so hard.

Given that he was making a sincere effort to determine whether the woman would be a suitable wife and mother, not to mention that the only gentlemanly response was to agree, he had found himself rolling heavy balls at wooden pins instead.

The gathering was composed predominantly of ladies in lavish bonnets, their pastel skirts flaring as they chattered and laughed over the so-called sport. Barclay noted with no small amount of irony that there were precious few gentlemen present. His mother stood among the group, her hands clasped before her as she observed the scene with amusement. When she caught sight of him, she pressed her lips together in a poor attempt to stifle her laughter at his evident discomfort.

Bowls might make Mrs. Gordon’s head hurt from the excess of challenge, but ninepins made his head ache from the sheer lack of it. As a man accustomed to mathematical formulas, angles, and precise measurements, bowls was a game he could appreciate. A gentleman’s game—one that required strategy and finesse.

I would wager coin that the brilliant Miss Davis is partaking in bowls right at this very moment, he mused, but he swiftly banished the thought. That way lay distraction, and he had resolved to give Mrs. Gordon his full attention, no matter how tedious he found the exercise.

When the widow eventually lamented the strength of the sun, fanning herself with a gloved hand and complaining of the heat, Barclay seized the opportunity. He suggested that they retire to the shade of a nearby oak tree, assuring her with barely disguised relief that he would not mind in the least. She accepted gratefully, and they made their way to a curved bench nestled around the base of the majestic tree, its thick canopy casting cool shadows over the lawn.

Barclay smoothed his hands over his buckskins as he sat, acutely aware of the monochromatic nature of his attire. With his recent decision to come out of mourning, he had realized only that very morning that he could not continue to wear the black coats that had become something of a uniform. How had he not noticed before?

Change is coming, he thought with a twinge of melancholy. If he were at a work site, he might have loosened his cravat to breathe easier, but here among the houseguests, such an action would be considered a breach of etiquette. And so, he suffered through the rigid dress standards—stiff collars and tightly knotted cravats—throughout the long hours of tedious games and trivial pleasantries.

Nevertheless, he reminded himself, I must try to find a new mother for Tatiana. Inhaling deeply, he resolved to persist.

For the next half hour, Barclay made small talk with Mrs. Gordon, his tone polite and his attention fixed, if not entirely sincere. He fetched lemonade and biscuits from a refreshment table the earl’s staff had set up under the canopy of another oak. The beverages were chilled, the biscuits crisp, and the company tolerable. Mrs. Gordon prattled on about London’s latest fashions, her bonnet bobbing as she spoke, while Barclay nodded in the appropriate places, his thoughts occasionally drifting despite his best intentions.

Eventually, Mrs. Gordon sighed, her gloved hands smoothing the skirts of her lavender muslin gown. “Would you mind terribly if we no longer partook in small talk? Perhaps we could share more entertaining tales if we relax the proprieties a little?”

Barclay straightened, his interest piqued. He needed to learn more about the attractive woman at his side, and polite chitchat revealed precious little of a person’s true character. “Indeed. It can become dreadfully dull. Did you have a subject in mind?”

Mrs. Gordon tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Tell me, Mr. Thompson, do you ever have difficulty with a client? Does anyone refuse their plans or whatnot?”

Barclay chuckled, the sound low and rich. “It is the constant dread of an architect when an important client changes their mind midway through a project. Just recently, I planned a Neo-classical folly for a client up north. I traveled to visit the building site, where he met with me. The foundations were already dug and construction had begun, which we inspected together.”

Mrs. Gordon leaned forward, the feathers of her bonnet trembling with her eagerness. “What did he do?”