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“Curnow hired him,” said Neal, eyes still closed. “What’s more, he’s in the suasion business. He’ll talk to Druce if that’s what you want. I’ve barely met the man.”

“He might stay in Kyncastle.” Tomas hung on to the doorframe, seemingly undecided as to whether he’d rather continue on in the antechamber or dash into the dance to pry apart the couple in question. “He had some trouble in London. You must have heard about it. You were still in town. Architect caught fleecing a duke. That was Druce’s firm.”

Neal opened his eyes. Lavinia’s hands were clenched into fists at her sides. She prayed that he wouldn’t look at her.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said, and she could have kissed him.

“The plight of dukes, even the fleeced ones, has yet to keep me up at night,” he added dryly.

“Aren’t you the very daps of your mother when you make that face,” said Tomas, letting go of the doorframe and committing to the antechamber. “The architect, Yardley—he wasn’t playing Robin Hood. He starved the duke’s tenants and was selling jobs on the side, abusing his public office.”

Lavinia’s cheeks were burning. hungry babies in hampshire. Her father had raised the rents in the villages on Anthony’s estates without reporting the increase and pocketed the difference. The heart-wrenching accounts of the affected tenants had run in all the papers.

“Remind me how an architect starves a duke’s tenants?” Neal sat up on the barrel. “I thought a duke starved a duke’s tenants.”

Would they not stop? She wanted the floor to open, wanted to drop down a black chute.

Tomas put a boot on a crate and leaned forward, bending his knee. “This Yardley was a friend of the late duke and acted as his trustee. The son and heir brought the charges. He’d been engaged to Yardley’s daughter, so at first the attack savored of sour grapes. Then the evidence came to light.”

“The whole thing has a bad savor.” Neal’s heel had yet to miss a beat. “But Druce isn’t to blame.”

“No.” Tomas sank lower, then straightened his bent leg. “And he talked about it frankly at the church ale. We’d all had a bit to drink. Said the news had shocked him. Yardley was kindness itself, generous to a fault, he said.”

Lavinia’s eyes pricked. Her papa always had a smile and a good word. Everyone who knew him liked him. George, Anthony, Effie—they’d preferred him to their own father. Anthony and Effie—especially Effie—had suffered for it.

“Easy to be generous with someone else’s money,” observed Neal, with a hint of a sneer.

Tomas pushed off the crate. “He lavished it on his daughter, according to Druce.”

She couldn’t listen to another word of this. But she was penned in the room. Her skin crawled and she felt light-headed. Her papa stole food from babies so she could eat French chocolates. Was that how Druce imagined it? Was that how it had been?

“He’s a good fellow, I think. Druce,” mused Tomas, and went again to the doorway.

“They’re still dancing,” he reported. “But my wife is not. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to ask if she’ll honor me with her hand for the next waltz.”

Lavinia heard Neal’s feet hit the flagstones. She looked over as he approached.

“Will you honor me with your hand for the next waltz?” His grin faded. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. Were the tears still standing in her eyes? She had to blink carefully. “Nothing. The ginger biscuits are all gone.”

He laced his gloved fingers together, searching her face. Concerned.

He was in her power. He’d said so, jokingly, and he showed his respect, his attraction, his esteem, his consideration, in so many small ways.

But he hadn’t fallen in love with her. Fallen so deeply in love that it wouldn’t matter if she were named Muriel, or Lavinia, if she were someone’s widow or someone’s wife, if she wanted him to follow her to Paris or the north pole.

“Cowslips are edible.” He plucked a stem from the bouquet, a thin green stem from which many yellow trumpet-like flowers depended. He held it out to her. Her blinking became less careful, more quizzical, as she put out her palm. She hadn’t realized the bouquet was part of the refreshment.

“The orchids look more delicious,” she said.

“They do, but they’re not.” He laughed. “You can take my word for it.”

She wouldn’t wonder how many plants he’d sampled, and about the resultant hives, boils, and blisters.

She separated one yellow trumpet and put it between her lips, drew it into her mouth.

“It tastes bright.” She let her eyelids drift down. For a moment, she was back in the glasshouse with the beautiful duchess, the first she’d ever known, George’s mother, and that large, vibrant woman was pulling a tiny sun down from the dark green leaves, holding it out to her, so she could sniff the cool rind, sharply sweet and clean. The cowslip tasted like citrus and morning light. When she opened her eyes, she saw that Neal was staring.