Lord and Lady Farcliffe's masquerade was a yearly event nobody could miss. And "could" was the term: no amount of effort would allow you to dodge the invitations, invitation reminders, and Lady Farcliffe's constant mentions of it whenever she talked to someone. Hence, avoiding the masquerade was near impossible, because nobody wanted to offend a little old lady with an overly sensitive heart. She was a lovely woman, quite grandmotherly, and there was no way to refuse her without overwhelming feelings of guilt (maybe that last part was just Oliver).

He had come to the masquerade. Hopefully, nobody would be interested in conversation with the fidgety young man dressed as a grey cat. His mask was sufficiently large to obscure most of his features, his hair was concealed under a wig adorned with cat ears, and he had thrown in a thick scarf to bury his chin in. Nothing could have possibly betrayed his identity. Except his mother, of course. It proved difficult to remain anonymous when accompanied by a duchess.

"Where are they?" Evalyn asked him, fanning herself as she scanned the crowd for the Lane ladies. The duchess had come as a peacock, in a dress of blue silk glittering with real sapphires and emeralds. Her iridescent, heavily embroidered cape acted as the peacock's train. Of course she had a fan.

"Mother, you needn't be so curious," Oliver sighed. "I am not courting the Lane girls. They would not understand your sudden interest."

"You might not be, but your cousin is after miss Margaret. It makes spying on her family entirely worthwhile."

"James would beg to disagree."

Evalyn clicked her tongue. "I heard it from your aunt, who heard it from her housekeeper, who heard it from their retired butler, who heard it from his wife. That's a lot more reliable than an embarrassed young man's word."

"Then take my word for it. He is friendly with everyone, and it leads people to jump to conclusions, but he is not interested in her."

From the look on his mother's face, Oliver had stabbed her in the back. She glowered at him from behind her feathered mask.

"You make it difficult to be a gossipy old coot! At my age, I should get to enjoy the romantic adventures of the younger generations."

Oliver cleared his throat. He wasn't providing much of that. Maybe letting her focus on James was the smart thing to do. He weighed the pros and cons, then threw James to the wolves. "He might not have noticed his own feelings," he suggested. "He did seem to find both misses intriguing, and Miss Margaret is approachable enough that they could converse. He does plan to visit them, which might lead to new developments."

"Does he, now?"

Oliver acquiesced and sidestepped, having spotted the slow arrival of Lady Farcliffe. The octogenarian did not move fast, but she did it with purpose. The duchess and her son dutifully waited for her to cross the ten feet that separated them.

"Your Grace!" Lady Farcliffe exclaimed. "Lord Bridgecombe. What a pleasure to see you both! I was really hoping you would come. It has been so long since our masquerade was graced with your splendid costumes, Madam."

Evalyn laughed warmly. "Lady Farcliffe. I missed your events so much. Why, I remember complaining to my husband about being stuck in bed when I could have been attending your last masquerade. I heard I missed the Viscountess of Casterford's Demeter costume, and that it was spectacular."

"That it was," Lady Farcliffe acquiesced. "With genuine ivy and wheat, and lots of gold. It's a shame you missed it, but I've seen…"

Oliver took another step back and let the conversation unfold. He would wait a little, excuse himself for "refreshments", and not come back. He knew the Farcliffe's house well: it had plenty of secluded spots where one could vanish. His favourite one was an alcove under the spiral staircase of the west wing's main hallway, which had a little stone bench built in. Since the architect had the accidental genius to having it face a wall, nobody ever noticed it. The Farcliffe had elected to place a pedestal with a dog statue in the corner that led to the alcove, and to call it a day.

A few minutes passed. He cleared his throat at a lull in the conversation. "Lady F—"

"Oh, I've been meaning to ask!" his mother exclaimed. "Did you invite Viscount Russelby and his family?"

Lady Farcliffe's wrinkled face wrinkled up some more as he tried to remember. "Well, I invite a great many people, my dear Evalyn, you know how it is. Yes, I assume I would have. I don't know the young man well but it's only proper."

Oliver shook his head at his mother and mouthed an emphasised "no".

"What about the dowager viscountess Russelby and her daughters? I heard the youngest one is quite pretty!" his mother continued, tilting her head his way to express who, exactly, might be interested in pretty young misses.

Lady Farkliffe frowned. "No. Not to speak ill of people," she said, lowering her voice so she could speak ill of people, "but I would avoid the Lane misses, if I were you. They cause trouble wherever they go. It's a shame, too, for their mother is such a respectable woman. I suppose the lack of a father did the girls no good. What a waste."

Evalyn, who had skipped several years of high society drama, looked baffled. Oliver had not gone into detail on the avalanche of rumours he had started years before, nor had he mentioned overhearing young ladies calling Miss Margaret a "harlot". That didn't seem like a topic to be discussed at the dining table, over his father's potatoes, and it had not come up since the "network of spies" discussion.

"Did I miss something?" his mother asked. "I am afraid I only just returned to London. Gossip hasn't quite reached me yet."

Their hostess inched closer so she could whisper (namely: "shout less loudly", what with the music and general brouhaha). "The eldest is a drunkard, see. She's been known to snatch whole bottles of wine at parties, and to go drink them in a corner. As for the youngest…"

Lady Farcliffe's pause was not a sudden bout of discretion, but theatrics. She waited for Evalyn to invite her to continue. Oliver tugged on his mother's cape so she would change topics instead. It did not work.

"The youngest?" Evalyn pressed.

"I heard she is, um." Lady Farcliffe looked this way and that to check for eavesdroppers. "That she is p-r-o-m-i-s-c—"

Oliver wasn't quite sure what happened next. Mostly, he saw red, took a leave of his senses, and found himself facing a gawking Lady Farcliffe and his appalled mother. Summoning his faint recollection of the past thirty seconds informed him that he had hissed to their hostess to "shut the hell up". He blanched.

"Bridgecombe. Apologise."

"I. I-I. I. I a-am s-sorry," he stuttered. "I-I d-don't…" His throat closed. His legs turned to jelly. He looked at his mother in distress. He could not possibly utter another word.

Her gaze remained steely. "I think it is time for us to retire. Go call for our carriage. Fresh air will do you good."

"Y-yes, Mother." He bowed as much as his wobbly legs allowed. "M-my deepest a-apologies, Lady Farcliffe. I d-don't know wha-what came over me."

He turned away before looking up, then hurried away. As he fled, he heard his mother profess her shame and consternation to their hostess. He hastened his pace. His walk to their carriage, which he found at the very end of the road leading out of the estate, was a blur. He had ignored the costumed guests, the servants, the footman asking him whether he wanted the carriage called to the house's driveway. He would have walked past the carriage itself, had the coachman not spotted him.

"Earl Bridgecombe?" the man called. "Is something wrong?"

All of the Duke of Willingshire's staff was aware problems abounded in the vicinity of Oliver. Hurried escapes were a common occurrence.

Oliver stared through him and belatedly realised he had to answer. "We have to go collect my mother," he said. "Sorry."

"Yes, my lord," the coachman replied, climbing back to his seat. He waited. "My lord? Aren't you getting in?"

"Oh. Oh, of course," Ollie blurted out, fumbling into the carriage. He sat, checked his shoes were not on the seats, then ran his hands over his face. Then, he hurriedly closed the door.

What a disaster.

He would have to apologise to Lady Farcliffe and her husband — really apologise, in person, with gifts and everything — and do whatever damage control necessary if he had been heard. Hopefully, the orchestra had been playing loud enough to drown his outburst, but people always listened in. He kicked his shoes off to curl up without ruining the brocade of his seat. Since when did he yell at people? When had he ever managed to raise his voice in a conversation? And now, he was insulting gentle old ladies.

The carriage stopped. He drew the curtains and huddled in the corner, not to be seen from outside. Even at this distance of the ballroom, he could hear muted music and voices. The party was going on, at least. Why would it have stopped, Oliver? You're not the centre of the world. He listened a little, and recognized the melody. It was barely the fourth song.

Eventually, the coachman opened the door and let his mother in. The cape and dress took some manoeuvring, which she went through with a beaming smile. She waved to guests, exchanged a few last words, then sat down. The coachman closed the door.

"What was that?" Evalyn asked, facade dropping. "Oliver, what got into you?" She returned to a cheery behaviour when the coachman returned to light the hanging lantern above her seat, and said nothing else until they had driven out of the Farcliffe estate. "This is not like you," she commented in a somewhat softer tone. "Now. You know I am well placed to understand one might carry burdens they cannot shoulder, and that one's moods cannot always be controlled. But, Oliver… This cannot happen."

"I know, Mother. I do not even understand where that outburst came from. I will visit Lady Farcliffe tomorrow and apologise properly."

"Is it about the young miss? Margaret?"

He sighed, eyes firmly locked to his muddy shoes on the carriage floor. "No. It's my involvement in the two misses becoming the ton's scapegoats, I think," he murmured. "Those accusations are pure slander and it makes me so blisteringly angry."

Evalyn huffed. She pulled off her shimmering blue gloves and threw them on her seat, along with her mask. "I am still not sure why exactly you would blame yourself for their predicament — and I should remind you, darling, that blaming yourself needlessly is a bad habit of yours — but if guilt is torturing you to this degree, then you must work on resolving the issue."

Oliver swallowed, looking out the window through a slit between the curtains.

"With our help!" Evalyn added. "You must talk to us. Have we been pressing you too hard? I know going out with your cousin must be stressful. If you are feeling unbalanced, maybe we can space those outings, give you some time to breathe."

"N-no, it's…" He hunched over, covering his face. He let out an exhausted sigh. "Going with him is the least I can do to fulfil my obligations. It's not that," he ended, gesturing wildly. "I'm just…" He could go on for hours explaining, again, that he was a failure, but there was little point to it. "How did Lady Farcliffe react?"

"Well, she's at that age where there's not much difference between a twenty year old and a toddler, so she was mostly puzzled, thankfully. She made some remark about the young being 'so emotional', then she sent me to check on you. I expect you to put a lot of effort into your apology. She is a gem of a woman, truly, and did not deserve to be sworn at."

"I know, Mother, I know. I like Lady Farcliffe."

"Then make sure to let her know that. Now! How about you explain why you believe you ruined the honourable misses Lane's lives?"

---

Margaret and Tisiphone had been up all night. They had not trusted themselves to wake up again if they had gone to sleep before their mother's bedtime, since that tended to be around three in the morning. Instead, they had hidden in Meg's room to read, doodle, and be bored out of their minds. Animated conversations were not recommended when pretending to be asleep.

Once certain that Emmeline was deep in slumber and dead to the world, they had gotten to work. It had taken them until sunrise, but they were done and quite proud of themselves.

Farrah, who had not contributed to their efforts, was more puzzled than proud. "So that's why you've been up and down the stairs all night!" she commented as she took in the new appearance of the drawing room. "How your mother didn't notice, we will never know."

"Mother would sleep through an earthquake," Meg pointed out, stretching on her cushion. "You know that!"

"I do, but still… How did the two of you get that table down the stairs?"

Tisiphone looked at the mahogany table they had placed by the window, surrounded by mismatched chairs. Hauling it from Meg's bedroom to the first floor had been quite the challenge. "In pieces," she explained. "You can take the legs off." One of said legs had nearly taken her foot off, but she was not about to admit it.

Farrah sighed, but mellowed out. "The room does look quite comfy. Unorthodox for sure, but it's nice."

Margaret beamed. They had done the best they could with the furniture they could harvest from their bedrooms and the attic. It wasn't much, but there was a table with a vase of flowers on it, a sideboard, a secretary, and all of the potted plants the drawing room had previously contained. A lack of pilferable armchairs had, alas, forced them to make-do with pillows, bolsters and cushions. Margaret's sewing skills had come in handy there: pillows were indistinguishable from genuine cushions when encased in fancy fabric.

The "redecorated" drawing room could hardly be used to receive guests, but one could now lounge against cushions by the fireplace to read, or seat themselves at the table for an afternoon tea.

"We just hope it will cheer Mama up," Meg said. "She's putting on a brave face, but she's not doing well."

Much to their surprise, Farrah, usually quite stoic and level-headed, had to hold back tears. She rubbed her eyes. "You two are good girls."

The sisters exchanged an awkward glance. Neither of them knew how to react to such effusions from Farrah of all people.

"It's nothing much," Tisiphone protested. "Anyone would have done the same."

"What Tisi said!" Meg exclaimed. "There's no need to praise us at all."

"Oh, you two. Of course I should praise you."

As heartfelt and touching as the whole scene was, it was quickly going nowhere useful, and they had four hour tops before Emmeline woke up. They needed to make the best of that time. Tisiphone cleared her throat.

"Actually, we need your help for the rest of the plan," she explained. "I know it's a lot to ask, but can we trouble you to prepare cookies and cheesecake today? I'll handle breakfast and lunch, but pastries are too advanced for me."

Sweets were a foolproof way to raise Emmeline's spirits. Cheesecake was her favourite dessert, and Farrah's cookies always hit the spot. Meanwhile, Tisiphone was sure she could come up with something delicious for lunch, provided they had more than two vegetables in store. Their budget for groceries had been slashed, so meat and spices would be scarce, but eggs and pepper had never failed anyone.

"You're not handling anything," Farrah declared. "The two of you head back to bed, or rather 'straight to bed', since I don't suppose you slept last night. Those movers aren't set to return until Monday, so you might as well enjoy the quiet." When the two sisters failed to get moving, Farrah bodily shoved them into the hallway. "Hop, hop, hop, upstairs you go. I'll come wake you once breakfast is ready."

"But if Mama wakes!" Meg frantically whispered.

Tisiphone and Farrah looked at each other, exchanging a meaningful nod. They both turned to Margaret. "She won't wake," they said in unison. Laudanum would see to that. With the recent events and the anxiety they had caused, Emmeline would not have caught a wink of sleep without some heavy help. Knowing she was headed towards a third sleepless night, her eldest daughter had provided said help in vial form. Meg had no idea.

"But if she does!" she insisted.

"I will wake the two of you before she comes down," Farrah promised. "She always rings the bell to let me know she's up. Now, go. To. Bed."

---

Lady Farcliffe's lawn was a sad casualty of the masquerade.

An army of footmen were picking up the garbage left behind by the party-goers — colourful feathers, ribbons, glass beads, the odd bottle of wine — but the muddy patches left by careless trampling wouldn't be fixed that easily. It was the same every year, but the Farcliffe saw it as an acceptable loss. Their masquerade was a long-standing tradition.

Contemplating the state of the lawn was not getting Oliver anywhere closer to delivering his apology. He tore himself away from his excuse to procrastinate, and headed for the house.

A good ten minutes later, he raised his hand to ring the bell. The door opened before he could do so.

"Earl Bridgecombe," Lady Farcliffe greeted him, with one hand on the doorknob and the other on not one, but two walking canes. "Do you want to come in? You've been standing in the driveway for half an hour, we were starting to wonder what was going on." She waved a wrinkly, shaky hand at her equally wrinkly butler. The somewhat less ancient butler in training offered to take Oliver's coat, hat, and flower bouquet.

"I-I. Um," Ollie panicked, nearly dropping the chocolate box he had brought in his haste to hand over the bouquet. "Good morning, Lady Farcliffe. Um. He-here," he told the servant, giving him the flowers. "Um, I. I hope I am not inconveniencing you?"

"What lovely roses!" Lady Farcliffe exclaimed. "And are those lilies?"

"Ah, um, y-yes. Um." He flailed some more. He held out the chocolate box. "I also brought this. I-if you are not fond of ch-chocolates, I will gladly replace them with something m-more suitable." He had made sure not to get caramels, nor anything chewy: only soft fruit jellies and pure chocolate, which could melt on the tongue and would not give trouble to the elderly.

"I love chocolates!" she exclaimed. "My lord, what brings you?"

He lowered his head in shame. "I, I came to offer my apologies for my ghastly behaviour y-yesterday evening. I am d-deeply sorry and cannot express how much…"

Lady Farcliffe raised both her walking canes to interrupt him. "Let us move somewhere more comfortable," she suggested, "I am not letting you off without an explanation." She taped the floor with the tip of both canes, before carefully putting her weight on them. "Tricky things, those sticks. You don't plan on ever having to use them when you get all of your hallways tiled with marble. Normally, we have rugs everywhere, but you don't want to leave those out during a party. Their absence makes the place a slippery death trap," she concluded, walking away.

Oliver gaped at her for three excruciatingly slow steps, then came back to his senses. "May I help you?" he blurted out, joining her in a single half-step. He offered his arm. She took more than a split second to answer, giving him ample time to convince himself he had offended her. What if she did not like people implying she could not walk on her own?

"Why, gladly, thank you," she replied, taking his extended arm. "Let's go!"

A protracted walk through the house brought them to a lovely salon all in pastel tones and birch tree wood, with framed watercolour paintings of small birds hanging on the walls, and ivory statuettes of little children surrounded by wildlife. An abundance of pillows and blankets indicated the room was a favourite of the lady of the house. The sofas had the distinct patina of a lifetime of use.

"Ah, that's better," Lady Farcliffe grumbled after lowering herself into her seat. She took a deep breath, carefully leaning back, then blinked at Oliver. "Do sit, my lord. But open that chocolate box first, if you would be so kind."

He did just that. "Ah, um," he muttered, fidgeting in his armchair. "As I was saying… There are no words to describe how ashamed I am of my behaviour. I can only promise that it will never happen again, and beg of you to forgive me."

She nodded, but turned to the butlers rather than answer him. "Summers, have some tea brought up for our guest. Warm milk with vanilla, too. For the chocolate."

Both men acquiesced and left, leaving Ollie to wonder what the youngest one's name was. Clearly, Lady Farcliffe saw him as a fixture of her original butler, who had been in her employ for a solid fifty years.

"So!" she went on. "You must tell me: do you have an interest in Miss Margaret Lane? If I insulted the lady you fancy, then I ought to apologise, myself."

"No! No! I mean…" He shook his head and collected himself. "I-I have no such personal connection to the young miss. Nor to her sister," he added as an afterthought. "However, I know for a fact those accusations of promiscuity are pure slander, and I could not stand hearing them repeated. I know you merely wanted to warn my mother against harmful associations, but whoever reported those rumours to you was misled."

"You do know the girls well, then?"

He shook his head again. "No well, but I will vouch for them. I had ample opportunity to interact with them at Earl Whitecove's gala, and their behaviour was the opposite of the stories being told. As a—" He froze when Summers and his human fixture appeared at the door with the refreshments. They waited politely for him to finish speaking. Since that was not going to happen, he lowered his head and cleared his throat to indicate they could come in.

Once the drinks were served, the butlers gone, and the supply of chocolates well dented, Lady Farcliffe revived the conversation. "Tell me more about the gala, my lord. If I have been slandering innocents, I must correct course posthaste."

Oliver let out the breath he had unwittingly been holding. "With pleasure. It just so happened that I was nearby when the misses noticed that Lady Cecilia was in low spirits. And upon noticing that…"

He launched into a detailed retelling of the night's events, and how miss Tisiphone and her sister had willingly left the ballroom to ensure Lady Cecilia would receive the attention she deserved.

---

Margaret and Tisiphone's surprise had been well received. There had been a lot of crying and a lot of hugging (and just as much yawning), but Emmeline had eventually managed to contain her overflowing emotions enough to settle down at the table to embroider. Proudly. While declaring at random intervals that it was "such a nice spot", that it had "the best light", and that she "ought to have noticed before".

The cookies had arrived at around eleven and vanished by noon.

Tisiphone wished she could have helped Farrah in the kitchen after that (by force if needed be) but, to try out their new "cushion lounge", she had put her head down on a pillow for "just five minutes". The doorbell woke her at half past three, according to the table clock they had relocated to the fireplace. A blanket had been lovingly wrapped around her while she slept.

She fumbled to her feet and hurried to the front door. Farrah was stomping up the stairs from the basement, but Tisiphone got to the door first. She opened it on the now familiar movers, and near slammed it in their face.

"You were not supposed to come today," she informed them. "There is no way you can empty the dining room before twilight."

Farrah hurried to her side, all but elbowing her out of the way. She crossed her arms, standing between the movers and Tisiphone. "Miss Tisiphone has the right of it. Unless you forgot some tools yesterday? I would be happy to fetch them, if that's the case."

The burliest man, who was called Albert and had a son named Charlie who worked in a factory, stepped forward, rubbing the back of his neck. "The boss decided we might as well grab the chairs today, since it'll save a trip tomorrow. We don't mean to bother, we'll be done quick."

The second man (Walt, who had not shared anything about his family in conversations Tisiphone could overhear), acquiesced. "Thirty minutes, maybe. There's twelve chairs, right?"

"Ten. And you will have to deal with them tomorrow," Farrah stated. "The house is not fit for visitors, seeing how you yourself confirmed we were not to expect you."

Albert peeked at Tisiphone. She could overrule the housekeeper, and had before. If he meant to point that out, he thought better of it. Instead, he turned back to Farrah. "Fifteen minutes," he pleaded. "The Viscount has been complaining, we must finish as as quick as possible. We'll be as quiet as can be." His words were accompanied by a myriad of facial expressions that all hinted at his employment being at risk.

Tisiphone took a deep breath. "Fine. But disturb my mother and I swear to God I will bodily haul you out of this house."

Farrah stepped out of the way, letting Albert and Walt come in. "Are you sure about this?" she asked once they had vanished into the dining room.

"They'll empty the room whether we want it or not, why delay the inevitable? Where is everyone, by the way?"

"Your sister is asleep and your mother is out in the garden. I will inform her. Not that I want to, but…"

They both went silent as Albert walked past them with two chairs. "Fifteen minutes" sounded like an overestimate for just ten of those: they were likely to grab more furniture "while they were there". Farrah shook her head and headed to the garden. Tisiphone groaned. She groaned again when she spotted James Robinson gawking at the worker's carriage from the sidewalk.

He watched Albert return to the house just as Walt came out with more chairs.

His eyes travelled back to the carriage, then Walt again, then Tisiphone. "Miss Lane!" he greeted her, bowing slightly. "I hope I don't… Scratch that. I obviously came at the wrong time." He joined her at the door. "Is your family moving out?"

Time for a performance.

She laughed. "Nothing that drastic. The interior needs some refurbishing, we are merely making way for the new furniture." She squinted as Albert carried a roll of cloth out of the wagon. Why would chairs require wrapping?

"Isn't it inconvenient to have that done while you're residing there?" Robinson asked.

Tisiphone gave him a vapid smile. "It won't take overly long, and the three of us can do without a ten people dining room. It would have been more of a struggle to relocate. What brings to this side of Mayfair, mister Robinson?"

"You do, actually. Well, your tea does. Your mother promised some, and I hoped your family would have a few minutes to spare today."

Receiving him with no downstairs furniture was out of the question. As cosy as the revisited drawing room was, nobody could see it. "Oh. I'm afraid this afternoon is—" She whirled to Walt and Albert, who were carrying a wrapped painting out of the house. "You put that right back," she snapped. "This belongs to my mother, it's not going any… Anywhere," she finished, blanching. Admitting that their furniture was being confiscated had not been the plan. Well. In for a penny, in for a pound. "The dining room's paintings all belong to my mother," she informed the movers. "My grandfather painted them. We will move them to a different room. Now, could you two sirs kindly finish up with the chairs, please? I am afraid we are entertaining a guest, and with your visit unplanned as it is…"

Whether that had been vague enough to dispel Robinson of the notion the furniture was being repossessed, only heaven knew. He did not comment.

Albert cleared his throat. "Apologies, Miss Lane. We figured we'd have room to spare in the wagon, that's all. We'll hurry and be back tomorrow for the table and such."

"You do that," she sighed. "Thank you. Mister Robinson? Considering the ruckus, how would you feel about having refreshments in the garden?"

"I would be delighted!" the young man exclaimed. He peeked at the two workers, who were retreating. "If it's not a bother, obviously. I could come back another day."

On one hand, she would have loved to get rid of him. On the other, she wanted Albert and Walt out of the house before they could grab more of the family's belongings. Decisions, decisions. "No, no, of course not! You came all this way. Please come in!"

She led him inside, making sure the doors to the various empty rooms were closed before walking past them. Luckily, the hallway led straight to the garden door. He looked around, perplexed. No doubt he was contemplating where the butler could be. Or the rest of the staff.

"Have you been well?" he asked. "No more unwelcome encounters with a certain lord of our acquaintance?"

This reminded Tisiphone of Marnborne's existence. "Ugh. No. No, thankfully. Maybe you scared him off."

"I wish I were that frightening," Robinson laughed. "In any case: good!"

She paused at the garden door, a hand on the handle. "Do you often rescue suffering damsels from unsuitable suitors?"

"Surely, such spurious seduction should suffer shaming," he instantly replied. "And I'm all out of sibilants. But I expect any gentleman would."

Tisiphone opened the door. Maybe Robinson was worth befriending, after all. He did not seem like a bad sort, despite his questionable relatives. Should he decide to court Margaret, maybe he would prove a good match. It all depended on Margaret, really.

"Mother?" she called, giving Emmeline fair warning. "Farrah? Mister Robinson is here!"

She waited for the sounds of panic to subside: chairs scraping against the patio's stone tiles, cups clinking, middle-aged women whispering obsolete swears. It took a little while. This, of course, happened in plain sight, seeing how the patio was a mere ten feet from the door. Tisiphone was not large enough to block Robinson's view, but he had the courtesy to focus on a spot on the hallway wall. Eventually, Farrah hurried inside while Emmeline cleared her throat.

"Mister Robinson," the housekeeper greeted, bowing her head. "Welcome! Please come in… I mean, please follow me, Lady Russelby will receive you."

She escorted him for the whole ten steps it took to reach the patio table, offered him a seat, and questioned him at length on which beverages, snacks, condiments and sweetener he desired. She only stopped when Tisiphone's mother regained a semblance of colour in her cheeks. Since Emmeline still looked distraught, Tisiphone took over the role of the distraction. She instructed Farrah to check on the workers and fetch Margaret, then sat as close to their guest as decency allowed.

"Mister Robinson! How about you tell us about your art?"

---

"He left a Corsair's name to other times," Oliver read, finding it quite easier to voice the words on a page than to formulate his own thoughts. "Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes."

He closed the book and carefully put it down on the coffee table.

"That's it?" Lady Farcliffe asked from her spot on the sofa. He had not been sure she was awake. She had near vanished under her blankets, where she had remained unmoving for the best part of The Corsair's third canto. Oliver had kept reading all the same, figuring a sudden silence would startle her awake.

Chocolates were a weak apology, especially when the woman you had wronged was too kind and forgiving. Lady Farcliffe's comments on the Lane misses had not stemmed from cruelty, but from sincere conviction. She had trusted the word of close friends, that was it: once presented with the truth, she had gladly changed her mind on Miss Lane and Miss Margaret. Since her good will deserved much more than a paltry offering of sweets and flowers, Oliver had stayed to keep her company a little longer. Their (mostly one-sided) conversation had drifted to literature, then poor eyesight, at which point he had volunteered his services. He was not good for much, but reading, he could manage.

"Yes," he replied. "For this book, at least. Do you want me to begin another one?"

"No, my lord, you indulged me long enough, thank you. Let me set you free. I'll show you to the door." She extricated herself from her mountain of blankets. "That Byron fellow is dreadfully overrated."

"Ah, um. I am afraid I am not well versed in poetry. I couldn't possibly judge."

"Fair. Well, I do know poetry, and I found this work sorely lacking. But one must keep up with the times, I suppose."

"I'll admit this is the first of Lord Byron's works I read," Oliver confessed as he helped her to her feet. "I favour novels over everything."

"Ah, I never got into those, I don't like living inside my head. Rather, I love the musicality inherent to poetry. It has its rhythm, its tone…"

"I see what you mean," Oliver said, offering his arm. "I find good novels have the same quality."

They headed back to the manor's great hall, with Summers and his companion opening the doors for them. As it turned out, Oliver was not the only guest: in the middle of the hall, Lord Farcliffe, sitting in his rolling chaise, was saying his goodbyes to Viscount Russelby. The door was already open, and Russelby was putting his hat on.

"As long as the old arrangements remain in place," Lord Farcliffe was saying, "I do not see why business would slow. Your father knew what he was doing, so there's no need to worry about the finer details of running your estate right now. The right people in the right place handling the right things, that's the secret!"

Russelby seemed none too pleased to receive that advice, but he faked enthusiasm. "All the same, I would prefer to understand the estate's workings fully. Several of those 'right people' retired after my father's passing. It was inevitable, I expect. They were quite attached to him. But it leaves me in the position of having to fill vacancies pertaining to obscure areas of business, and I would not get it wrong."

"An admirable outlook, but it won't serve to be a nervous wreck over it," Lord Farcliffe replied. "In any case, should you need advice, I'll gladly provide some. Not that I don't think you capable of managing on your own."

"That's appreciated, thank you, my lord."

Lady Farcliffe stepped forward, tapping the floor with her walking sticks. Her thick Persian rugs had returned to the great hall, so she felt confident in her step. "Lord Russelby! Am I to believe I entirely missed your arrival?"

"Lady Farcliffe! What a pleasure to see you!" The viscount bowed, lowering his hat. "This was a business call, and I did not want to disturb you while you entertained guests. I was planning to come back tomorrow for a proper visit." He turned to Oliver. "Lord Bridgecombe, a pleasure."

Oliver's impassive facade snapped on. "Likewise, Lord Russelby."

Having received no encouragement to converse, the viscount could only turn back to his hosts. "Would you be available for a social call tomorrow afternoon? I am afraid I still have to meet my solicitor and accountants, so I must be on my way."

"Oh, we are always home," Lord Farcliffe announced. "Not much else to do at our age, and it's such a bother to drive to the city." He smacked the armrest of his rolling chaise. "I can make-do for a while without the thing, but day trips require pulling it behind the carriage and hoping for the best."

Russelby cleared his throat. "Yes, that cannot be practical. Well! I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Oliver stepped back while pleasantries were exchanged, and watched the viscount leave. Accompanying him out and talking to him would have been a great way to fish for information, but Ollie did not talk to strangers. He would have to rely on the "network of spies" (namely, the letters his father had sent his solicitors, asking them to assess whether Russelby would make a good trade partner).

Lady Farcliffe joined her husband, using the back of his chaise to support herself. She leaned over his shoulder. "It must be the first time the young lord visits us spontaneously. What business did he want to discuss?"

"The price of grain and flour, mostly," Lord Farcliffe sighed. "He is bracing for the harvest, since his land produces mainly wheat. His father never trusted him to manage the estate, so he is wholly unprepared."

Oliver softly cleared his throat. When that failed to get the attention of his elderly hosts, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other until they noticed him. "Lord Farcliffe," he greeted once the old man turned his way "Good afternoon."

"Lord Bridgecombe! Did you come contrite and abashed to apologise to my wife? I hear you behaved horribly yesterday evening!"

The ground opened under Oliver, who lost the ability to breathe. He stared at him in abject horror. "I-I…"

Lady Farcliffe tapped her husband's shoulder. "Do not tease the boy. He came with flowers and chocolate, and just spent an hour reading to me. Water under the bridge, my dear."

"Well, what point is there to being old and crotchety if you cannot needle the young a bit?" Farcliffe protested. "And he deserves to squirm a little. Terrible, terrible behaviour!"

"I am deeply sorry," Oliver squeaked. "It will never happen again."

"Leave him alone!" Lady Farcliffe chided her chuckling husband. "I swear you're getting more childish as you age. How old are you?"

He laughed, quite proud of himself. "I'm sorry, Bridgecombe. You didn't need to turn that pale, I was only jesting."

Oliver acquiesced, taking a concealed deep breath. He had been unaware of the man's sense of humour: while he had met him often while accompanying his parents, they had never really conversed. Years of nodding politely instead of listening to people talk had left Oliver unfamiliar with everyone he knew. Even so, he did not remember him as the playful kind. Lady Farcliffe always kept the guests entertained while he watched from the side.

The old man turned to his wife. "He's the shy type, isn't he? I always thought he was disdainful, but that's not it."

"I told you he was shy. It's the downturned eyebrows, they give the wrong impression. He's an absolute sweetheart."

Oliver cleared his throat again, which was as useless as the first time. They did not hear him. He watched them bicker, fidgeting in his spot, until they remembered his existence.

"Say," Farcliffe asked, "are you all full of tea and chocolate already? I'd be happy if you stayed a little longer. There won't be any more ribbing." He turned to his wife, whispering. "I had a trying half an hour."

Now, that's interesting.

"I-I am free," Oliver said. "And I'd be delighted to stay. Ah, while I think about it… Is Viscount Russelby getting used to his new duties? My father would be curious to hear more about him, seeing how we've been thinking of expanding our trade avenues. I don't mean to pry, of course, I would welcome your opinion on this."

"Tea first, boy, and I do hope there is some chocolate left."

---

A new day rose over Mayfair, bringing with it clouds, cold wind, and the now familiar wagon of "Brownbear Removals". This time, Albert and Walt had come with two coworkers, who were sitting in the wagon itself. They all climbed down, at which point Tisiphone left her spot at the window, hurried to the hallway, and opened the front door before they could ring.

Farrah had too much work on her plate to double as a doorman, Emmeline needed peace, and Margaret was sick: after being sent to bed by Farrah the previous day, she had not emerged again. Robinson's visit had been cut short by the news that she was running a fever. Tisiphone had not believed had first — it did sound like a convenient excuse — but Meg had remained curled up in bed the rest of the day, refusing all food. She needed to rest.

"Miss Lane," Albert greeted, still awkward around her. "Good day. We're in for the heavy stuff today, so I hope you don't mind that there's more of us?"

She stepped to the side, gesturing at the hallway. "Come on in." She waited for them to be inside, then closed the door. "I will need the complete list of the items you are supposed to retrieve."

They turned to her, baffled. Albert, once again, spoke for their team. "There's no such list, miss. We've only got a list of rooms to empty."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, yes, Viscount Russelby wanted all of his stuff, I mean 'furniture', out."

"Are you telling me that absolute buffoon sent you to grab 'everything' in a house he hasn't visited in ten years, without taking any sort of inventory first to ascertain what he actually owns?"

The men exchanged a look. The two newcomers were more sullen than anything, but Walt and Albert had more time to start pitying the ladies of the house.

"Um, as far as we know…" Walt trailed off.

"And your company let him?" Tisiphone snapped. "What kind of a circus are your employers running? How—" She took a deep breath, and willed herself into a state of emotional death. "Just get to work and try not to make too much noise, please. My sister is ill and should not be woken."

They went.

Tisiphone made sure to stick around to supervise. She could not believe it had taken her days to pick up on the issue. The workers had asked her family to remove their belongings, and they had. The men had not questioned the ownership of what they had taken, and all of the furniture, of course, had belonged to Viscount Russelby (from Tisiphone's father to her great-uncle to her cousin). Had she not noticed the movers carrying out her grandfather's painting, heaven only knew what else would have ended up in their wagon.

Well. None of her family's few possessions would go missing on her watch.

She went to fetch a chair from the drawing room, reconsidered, and took a cushion instead. It didn't seem wise to inform the movers they still had chairs. She dropped it by the dining room's fireplace and settled there to watch the men dismantle the table. They gawked.

Albert cleared his throat. "Miss, wouldn't you be comfortable in another room?"

Walt winced at his words.

"Still no armchairs," she reminded Albert. "Don't mind me."

The two newcomers, who were not yet familiar with her behaviour, mouthed a few words to each other. The word "insane" was featured. Maybe she was. She sure did not feel sane. Was there any way to tell for sure?

She sighed and waited for the four men to be done with the table, a behemoth of oak and iron that was not going down without a fight. A "why the hell did they nail this shit down?" escaped John, the third handyman. Realising he had sworn in the presence of a lady, he peeked at Tisiphone in horror and swore (again) under his breath.

"I didn't hear that," she whispered to prevent a feedback loop.

He hastily looked away, relief washing over him. Meanwhile, Walt had become one of the table's casualties, his hand getting crushed between two iron bits. He barely even flinched. Farrah's sudden arrival, however, seemed to cause him great physical pain. He ducked his head so she would not see him. Albert looked like he longed to do the same, but he was holding the table still.

"Miss Lane," the housekeeper exclaimed, ignoring the four men. "You do not need to stay here and make those good sirs squirm," she said. She marked a pause. "I can handle that."

"Thank you, Farrah. Can you bring some water up for the poor men first? And snacks and tea, maybe. Beer, if we have some. The dining table is proving most uncooperative."

It was an awful situation for everyone involved. There was no point punishing the workers for their employer's mismanagement and the viscount's pettiness. Causing them mild emotional discomfort did not count. Feeding them would be an olive branch after they had been yelled at and thrown to the wolves.

Farrah did not only return with food: she brought the mail, which she handed to Tisiphone once she was done distributing beers and sandwiches. "Most of it is for Miss Margaret," she announced. "Some anonymous letters, too."

Tisiphone inspected them, perplexed. Thankfully, all of the mail came through the Penny-Post, as the household could not spare much for postage on letters from the country. Seven letters total: two for Emmeline, one bill, and the rest had been sent to Margaret.

None had a return address. They were short, light missives with flat seals and, as far as Tisiphone could tell by holding them up in the light, little to no writing. They had all been sent the previous evening, and at the same time, at that.

Weird.

More worrying than weird was the lack of invitations: the family had received none of those since the gala at Lord Whitecove's (even for the Farcliffe masquerade, which was notorious for including the entire ton). Emmeline asserted that some mail might have gotten lost, and that there hadn't been too many events lately, but Tisiphone was not falling for it.

God, I hope we did not offend Lady Cecilia. A word from her and we'll be shunned the whole season.

They had no money (nor furniture) to receive, so reconnecting with people would be a nightmare. There was only so much socialising one could do by walking up and down Hyde Park. And with Margaret sick, too! Tisiphone acted as a people-repellent: were she to go to the park alone with Emmeline, nobody would approach them.

Maybe more mail would arrive later in the day. Most people were only waking up, after all. Tisiphone was not holding her breath.

"I'll bring it upstairs," she said. "Thanks, Farrah."

---

A new day rose over the duke of Willingshire's manor, and the duke's son, Oliver Murray-Parker, future duke, and earl of Bridgecombe, buried his face in his pillow and figured the day could go to hell. All of it. He was drained, had interacted with too many people in the last week, and needed to recover.

He woke up in a more amenable mood around noon. He remained unwilling to go down for breakfast (or rather lunch), but he at least got out of bed, grabbed a book, and rang for food. Then he headed back to bed. There was no way he was emerging from the room unless dragged out.

Servants came and went, bringing tea and a full breakfast, which he did not even get the opportunity to enjoy: Romuald peeked in before he could take his first bite.

"Ah, good, you're up. Your cousin is here, he has been waiting for you for two hours, it must be important."

Oliver, in his night clothes, tousled and famished, stared at him. "Are you pranking me? Just to make sure."

"I am not," his father replied. "I can send him up, if you don't feel like making yourself presentable. Oh, and good afternoon."

Oliver cursed under his breath and frantically raced to his closet to assemble some kind of decent outfit. Romuald was entirely able to send guests in for the fun of it. "God, I reek," he whispered, sniffing his collar. He rang for his valet and dashed to the washroom.

All the while, Romuald was chuckling. "I'll leave you to it. Good luck."

Minutes later, a dishevelled but clean Oliver burst into salon number two, the closest to the manor's entrance. He found James absorbed in sketching.

"You didn't have to rush on my account," he told Ollie, not looking up. "I can always do with more drawing practice."

Oliver groaned. "Hello, James. Have you actually been waiting for two hours, or was my father messing with me?"

James checked his watch. "Two and a half, actually, but I had a nice chat with your mother. She told me to wish you a good day, she's out to visit friends."

"You should have sent for me," Oliver sighed. "It's well past noon."

His cousin shrugged. "I did not see the point." He slammed his sketchbook shut. "Sit down, though. There's something we need to discuss." He waited until he was settled, then leaned forward. "I visited the Lane residence yesterday, and something reeeeally fishy is going on."

"Fishy?"

"So. When you refurbish your house, you move elsewhere while it's being emptied, right? A short holiday to the countryside, a visit to friends, something of the sort? Not to have to deal with the disturbance."

Oliver waved his arm at the room and, by extension, to the gigantic manor with more rooms than he could count. If he needed to avoid an area, he could simply head to another wing.

"Point taken," James conceded. "But admitting you weren't outrageously rich and you only had the one dining room or such?"

"I assume I would indeed leave. What are you getting at? Are the Lane ladies refurbishing their house?" He frowned. That did not sound right.

"No, I think the house is being refurbished. Which is not quite the same."

That was what was bothering Oliver. He connected the dots with what he had learned from Farcliffe the previous day: "I was just reminded that Viscount Russelby was relocating to London with his wife and younger children," he said, reordering his thoughts. He started, realisation dawning. "He's going to kick his cousins out. Soon."

He knew Russelby had given the women an ultimatum to leave, and wanted to marry off young Margaret, but clearing the house so quickly meant he had either taken the first offer for her hand, or that the ultimatum had a nearing deadline.

James nodded gravely. "That's what I figured. Movers were removing furniture when I arrived, and I got the distinct impression they were taking everything that was not nailed down, with or without the ladies' consent."

"It wasn't repossession, was it?" Ollie asked, although he did not think it likely.

"I only saw old chairs, so I doubt it. And if it is repossession, the furniture is part of the estate, I expect. It would not be seized for the dowager viscountess' debts."

Oliver clenched his teeth. "He is throwing their things out to move his in."

"Lady Russelby and Miss Tisiphone would not admit it, obviously. They are pretending to be overjoyed to 'dust up the old place'. But they received me in the garden, and I don't believe it was because the weather was clement."

The season had just begun! What was a family with two marriageable young women meant to do if they could not entertain guests? What about suitors? What about returning friends' invitations? Margaret and Tisiphone were both lovely, but they would never make good matches if every relationship they formed appeared one-sided. They could not visit friends if those friends had to be kept out of their house; they would soon be seen as leeches. And that was if, and only if, they were allowed to remain in London. Russelby himself was renting lodgings. If moved into the women's house, where would they go?

What if he had picked a match for Margaret, and would not let her finish the season before shipping her off with her mother and sister?

Oliver realised he was up and pacing. He stopped, turning to James. "This is not good."

"No, it isn't. I figured you would want to know. Have you managed to dig up dirt about Russelby?"

"Not unless Father received word from his solicitors today. Being vile and uncharitable does not make one a criminal, apparently. Even with his cousins… He owns the house, he is well within his rights to move in. That can't be used against him." He frowned, reviewing the situation. Some people would judge Russelby for wronging the three women, but many among the ton would agree with his actions, especially considering… Oliver, who was pacing again, whirled to James. "Do you think he believes the rumours?"

Wasting one's house on a 'known drunkard' and now "a woman of loose morals" was quite different from sacrificing it to help innocent relatives. Maybe Russelby was sincerely convinced of their sins. When Oliver and James had spotted him at the Oak Barrel, he had complained about Tisiphone's supposed alcoholism, after all. Yet, while Russelby had rambled about their entitlement, it also sounded like he was avoiding the three women. Were they even well-acquainted? If not, maybe the man could be made to change his mind about them.

James waved his concerns away. "I don't know, and it hardly matters. The man was enough of a prick that his father wanted nothing to do with him. He's just a greedy bastard."

Oliver dropped into an armchair, staring at the ceiling. So much for solving the issue through conversation. "I could buy their house," he said.

There was a long, confused silence. James was making faces.

"I could!" Ollie insisted. "And then rent it back to them for a pittance."

"I do not think they have the pittance," his cousin pointed out. "Which would lead to speculation on what currency exactly those pretty young misses pay rent with." Having gone straight for the kill, he kicked Oliver's corpse with logic. "And, while I apparently do not grasp just exactly how much money you can throw away on a whim, your father would object to purchasing a building that would bring negative income. What with the maintenance and everything."

Right. Maybe turning the Lane ladies into kept women was not the solution. Which begged the question: what was the solution? Oliver gave it some thought. He sank deeper into his armchair. He gave the question some thought again. "I'm throwing a ball."

It was quite telling that James gawked more at this suggestion than at 'purchasing a whole house'. "You're throwing a ball?"

"I will get Mother to throw a ball. And then we will invite the Lane ladies, make sure they get positive attention, and it will improve their standing in society, which was always the plan. Except, this time, we won't crowd them with suitors."

There was another uncomfortable silence.

"The lengths you will go to not to interact with the ladies!" James murmured. "I'm impressed!"

"I heard that. And you know things are less likely to go wrong if I do not get personally involved."

"This is not 'personally involved'?"

"Physically involved. Ah, about the suitors, what did your friends think of Miss Margaret?"

James winced. When he did not answer, a feeling of gloom and dread washed over Oliver.

"Just tell me," he sighed. "What went wrong now?"

"Barnes was among those friends, and he is none too pleased with the rumours going around. His family turned against him and accused him of being the worst kind of rake. It started a feud of sorts, and it took several witnesses to convince his mother he had nod touched any lady's bosom. Anyway, my other friends were spooked."

How in the world did such obvious nonsense spread so fast, and cause so much damage? Oliver had spent years vanishing from parties, and nobody had ever suggested it might be to engage in lewd behaviour. He could have retired to any closet with any woman for any activity: his repeated absences were perfect gossip fodder. And yet, the ton went and invented tales about innocent people who had met only once.

"Damn it all," he muttered. "Is there anything I can do to help him out?"

"Once again, Oliver: this is not your fault. You did not come up with the stupid story. The blame lies solely on whoever did. I just hope Barnes doesn't trace it back to a man, because it would end with a 'meet me at dawn' and endless problems. Most likely, it came from some attention-seeking young lady and snowballed from there, though. You make up something to impress one friend in private, and the next thing you know…"

"That does sound probable. All the same, tell him I owe him a drink." He hesitated. "I'll invite him for a meal, provided you also come. I mean, we are virtually strangers." They both knew Oliver was too much of a coward to go on his own, but the excuse was as good as any.

James slapped his thighs and got up. "Alright. I'll pass the message. Meanwhile, keep me updated on whether you're holding that ball or not."

---

Tisiphone drummed on Margaret's door with the tip of her gloved fingers. She did not want to wake her sister if she was sleeping. Her food platter balancing precariously, she waited for an answer, then opened the door and tiptoed in. She found Margaret curled up in bed with her back to the door. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the grey afternoon light. Even the fire was out. Delivering the food in the dark proved a bit of a challenge, since most of Meg's furniture had just moved or been relocated downstairs, but Tisiphone managed to locate a free spot on the dresser. She left her platter there, covering the bowl of warm soup with the plate of potatoes and peas. Hopefully, they wouldn't get too cold before Meg woke up.

She leaned over the bed, removing a glove, and touched Margaret's forehead to check on her fever. Meg flinched and squeezed her eyes shut. More shut. They had been closed to begin with. Her controlled breathing and the tension in her shoulders made it clear that she was praying for Tisiphone to leave, so Tisiphone did.

So, this is a 'feelings' issue, she told herself as she walked out. Margaret's forehead was a normal sort of lukewarm. She might be pretending to be ill.

Tisiphone hurried to the basement, finding Farrah and her mother playing cards at the kitchen table. They were betting candied almonds, and Farrah was winning.

"How bad was Margaret's fever yesterday?" she asked them, staring pointedly at the housekeeper.

"Not too strong, but she felt shaky," Farrah replied. "Did it get worse?"

Emmeline put her cards down, shooting an alarmed glance at Tisiphone.

"Not that I could feel," her daughter replied. "Mama, your cards are face up. And Meg's temperature feels normal. She's still asleep, I couldn't ask. I left the food."

"Good, good," Emmeline muttered. She looked down at her cards and what had been a pretty decent hand. "And not good! I lose this turn, I suppose."

Farrah's large pile of almonds grew even bigger. Tisiphone sat down and watched them play the next turn, biding her time. She had a question to ask, but it had to seem as innocuous as possible. Once Emmeline was sufficiently absorbed in the game, she risked it.

"Did you hear about the anonymous letters Meg has been getting?" she asked, snatching a handful of almonds. She nibbled on one. "I wonder which suitor sent them."

Tisiphone was familiar with anonymous mail. She had received some in the previous years, mostly calling her an alcoholic. Some had included liquor shop advertisements. Emmeline didn't know about that. Most of those insults had come through the Penny Post, which Tisiphone had not minded that much: you had to be a total imbecile to pay money to mail insults to people. The most evil of the bullies, however, had made sure to send their missives from the other side of England, so she would have to spend a fortune in postage when receiving the letters. Had she refused them, word would have spread that her family could not afford to pay for mail, and it would have compounded to the initial rumours about Tisiphone.

If someone was using those tactics on Meg, and she figured out whom, heads would roll.

"What? I haven't heard anything about that," Emmeline exclaimed. She put down her cards face up again. "Which letters?"

Tisiphone gave her a benign smile. "It's just the one or two, Mama. She will tell us all about it, I'm sure." She chewed on some almonds. "Musht be enchoying the mystery."

"If you are going to steal my pretend coin, at least close your mouth when you eat it," Emmeline sighed. "And she has better tell us soon. I'm curious, now."

"Yes, Mother. Also, your cards are up."

The distraction worked on Emmeline, but not so much on Farrah: she narrowed her eyes, giving Tisiphone a side glance. The young woman feigned innocence and relaxed somewhat. Further anonymous letters would not make it to Margaret without a thorough inspection, she expected. Good.

---

Mrs. Josephine's Tea Room had been quite empty when Oliver had arrived, which he had done under the pouring rain, soaking wet, and dragging a destroyed umbrella. That was fine with him. He could settle down by the fireplace with his book and a cup of tea, while Mrs Byrne hummed to herself and read the Gazette at the counter. His hair had not dripped water overly long, his jacket would dry eventually, and his boots were waterproof (wet socks would have crossed the line). Some temporary discomfort was much better than staying home and having to deal with the preparations.

While he was the reason his mother was throwing a ball, he had not expected his opinion on the organisation would be needed. Evalyn, however, wanted his input on everything. And he would have been glad to provide it, too, had she not wanted him to share it with the myriad of strangers she had brought in to organise the event. In the span of three days, he had managed to tell the orchestra it would be nice if they "played music", congratulate a modiste on her "cooking" (he had meant "creativity"), and thoroughly confuse a florist with a ramble about gardenias.

It was much better for everyone involved if he stayed the hell away.

The weather and secluded location ought to have been enough to keep strangers at bay. Alas, the English weather never cooperated.

The sun elected to shine, which led to a pack of customers wandering into the teahouse. Three middle-aged ladies, including Lady Ashcroft, and three teenagers. Oliver promptly averted his eyes, frowning at his book as if focused on a complex passage. Surely, polite ladies would notice that and leave him alone.

"Lord Bridgecombe!" Lady Ashcroft called across the empty room. "What a pleasant surprise!"

At that volume, he could hardly pretend not to have heard. He stood, bowing his head. "Lady Ashcroft. Good afternoon." Did he have to greet everyone? He only recognized Lady Cecilia. The other girls appeared quite young — fifteen, at a guess — and he didn't recall meeting them before. As for their chaperone, she was vaguely familiar, in a generic kind of way. Nothing about her stood out, be it her mousy brown hair, her grey dress, her tired face. He felt like he had seen her features before, but not simultaneously on a single person. He bowed his head again. "Ladies."

Lady Ashcroft did not give him a second to sit back down: she marched through the room with aplomb and purpose, stopping at his table. Her companions trailed after her like ducklings after their mother. Conveniently enough, enough seats were open near him that the five of them could sit down, if he invited them to. He did not feel like doing that.

"Have you met my friend?" Lady Ashcroft asked, stepping back so he could take a better look at the other woman. Memories of family portraits flashed through Oliver's mind. He had met her indeed, but behind a black veil, at a funeral. He had only seen her face on paintings. Lady Ashcroft went on. "Lady Russelby, who is here with her nieces, Miss Amelia and Miss Virginia." The girls curtsied. Their aunt bowed politely. "And, of course, you know my niece, Lady Cecilia."

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance," Oliver recited. He turned to Cecilia, smiling amiably. "And indeed I do. It is a pleasure to see you again."

"Likewise, my lord," the young woman replied. She looked up at her aunt. "Should--"

Her words were drowned by Lady Ashcroft's. "I daresay I did not expect to find you here, Bridgecombe! Why, this place is so tucked away, it's a wonder anyone knows about it."

Mrs. Byrne, who was inching closer to welcome the newcomers without interrupting their conversation, rolled her eyes. Oliver echoed the sentiment. "Quite, quite," he commented.

"It was my niece who recommended it," Lady Ashcroft droned on. "There is a sign at the entrance of the alley, of course, but it's barely noticeable. In any case, Cecilia heard about it somehow, and here we are."

Lady Cecilia squeezed in an explanation. "Your cousin mentioned the establishment."

"Right! Mister Robinson. An upstanding gentleman, isn't he?" Lady Ashcroft paused just long enough for her companions to nod. "So, my lord, do you come here often?"

"I only just discovered the place." A noncommittal answer was safer for him, but Mrs. Byrne looked somewhat betrayed to see him dodge such a golden advertising opportunity. "The pastries are however scrumptious, and I cannot praise them enough." That ought to salvage things.

"Are they? Then we… Eeep!" Lady Ashcroft squeaked, finally noticing the shopkeeper's presence. She took deep breaths, patting her chest. "Ah, you scared me. I didn't see you there."

"My apologies, my lady. I did not mean to startle you. Might I show you and your companions to a table?"

"Oh, that will not be necessary. We will sit with our friend. That is, if you do not mind, Bridgecombe. We would not want to impose."

Oliver wiped all emotion off his face. "Of course not. Please take a seat," he invited. He waited for them to be settled before sitting down himself, then endeavoured to let them speak at him. There were in sufficient numbers to converse with each other. He only needed to nod and not pass out.

Pastries and tea appeared, he footed the bill, he sipped his tea, and acquiesced when directly addressed. All the while, Lady Cecilia observed him with increasing puzzlement. By the time he noticed, truly noticed, she had reached the "narrowed eyes" stage. He near jumped out of his skin.

Heavens, I'm going to have to talk to them.

Lady Ashcroft had been perfectly fine listening to the sound of her own voice. What could he even discuss? The weather? Apple pie? Or, maybe, just maybe, he could become the "network of spies" his father had not provided. Sleuthing was the foundation of nobility small talk. Surely he could manage it.

"Lady Russelby," he asked when Lady Russelby paused for a sip of tea. "I met your husband the other day, perchance, at Lord Farcliffe's house! He told me you would soon be moving to Mayfair?"

The woman blinked, having not expected to be spoken to. "Ah, indeed?" she said, letting her brain catch up with the question. "Yes, we plan to. My husband assures me it should be 'soon', but there are complications."

Oliver flipped through his mental catalogue of civilities. "I am sorry to hear that. I hope it's nothing serious."

Lady Ashcroft scoffed. Lady Russelby's face remained devoid of expression. "I hardly involve myself in such business. My husband is the one who deals with the specifics. We will refurbish first, in any case. It might take some time, seeing how the house is occupied for now."

Amelia and Virginia, who had so far been whispering to each other not to die of boredom, chuckled. Lady Russelby silenced them with a lifeless gesture.

"By y-your cousins, I suppose?" Oliver pressed, clammy all over. "The dowager viscountess and her two daughters?"

Lady Russelby's annoyance was quickly smothered. "Yes. They have been in dire straits, or so I am told, but I hear their situation is looking up. It is for the best, those poor things," she stated. "How difficult it must have been for them, all alone, with no father, no husband…"

Virginia made a strangled noise. Her sister kicked her under the table, covering her own grin. Oliver was not the most socially adequate person in the world, but it seemed like the viscountess was lying through her teeth.

Lady Ashcroft rolled her eyes. "You are too charitable, my dear. There is no need to lie on their behalf. It's not like all the ton is not aware of their reputation."

Oliver got so angry he forgot to be terrified. "Did I miss something?" he lied, with his best baffled look. "I met the ladies. Lovely people."

The viscountess pursed her lips. "I do not know them that well," she dodged.

"My lord, you ought to be careful," Lady Ashcroft commented, eyes closed and teacup lifted in a pose of elegant wisdom. "You should not trust people's public facades too easily. You never know what kind of crooks might sink their claws into you. Especially in your position."

He assessed the situation. The woman's opinion could not be changed: her stubbornness had served her well as a widow, allowing her to maintain her position of power, but she was now entrenched in her opinions. Lady Russelby had "money in the game". The teenage girls were, well, teenage girls. They were not out in society, and had no impact on the ton's dynamics yet. The most important person at the table was Lady Cecilia.

At the moment, she was staring out the windows, listening intently, for all she pretended otherwise. Her brow was furrowed, her jaw set, and yet she seemed to be holding back tears. Oliver, emotional wreck that he was, instantly liked her better.

"I am shocked you would say that!" he told Lady Ashcroft. "I got an opportunity to talk to the three of them at Lady Cecilia's gala, and they spoke so warmly of your niece! Quite frankly, they made a favourable impression on both me and my cousin."

There was a stretch between "drafted me to rescue her from your clutches so she could dance at her own ball" and "spoke so warmly", but it was all born of good will towards Lady Cecilia, so he did not feel too guilty. However, that was it. He was all out of social interactions.

Lady Ashcroft's face scrunched. "Is that true?"

Oliver defaulted to acquiescing. "Absolutely."

Lady Russelby's expression did not change, but her eyes darted left and right as she lost herself in her thoughts. Amelia and Virginia's perplexity faded in an instant, and they returned to their quiet chatter.

Lady Cecilia's attention had been captured. She had turned to him, albeit with weary caution. Obviously, she wanted him to elaborate, but that was not happening. Instead, he looked at his watch.

"I am afraid this is as long as I can stay," he declared, pocketing the watch again. His mental catalogue of civilities got another cursory visit. "I am expected at my solicitor's. It was a pleasure to see you! I hope we can do this again soon!"

"What a shame," Lady Ashcroft sighed. "Well, we won't hold you, my lord. Please pass on my warm regards to your mother, will you? We are set to meet in two days, but I miss her."

He acquiesced, promised to, saluted each lady and young girl individually, said his goodbyes again, exited the tearoom, hurried out of sight, dashed to the back of the building, and proceeded to curl up on the wet pavement and freak out in peace.

---

Marnborne had been stalking them. There was no possible way the man could appear out of thin air whenever they headed to Hyde Park. Tisiphone and Emmeline used different paths each time, and yet he still ambushed them at random corners, every single day.

Mostly, he wanted to know if Margaret had recovered from her "terrible flu", which Meg intended to milk for everything it was worth. If Tisiphone had not been so worried as to why her sister was pretending to be sick, she would likely have suggested the tactic herself. Marnborne was persistent.

"What does the physician say?" the creep asked Emmeline as he walked next to her, heading in the same direction, and matching her pace.

The term "accompanied" did not fit because it would have involved consent. He "accompanied" ladies in the way manure did when you had not paid attention to the ground and could not find a nice patch of grass.

The one perk to his aggravating presence was that, while he was bothering them, he was not attempting to get admitted to their house to harass Margaret directly. Seeing how he did not seem to have any interest in grown women, they did not have to worry about their elbows being grabbed, their shoulders being touched, or anything of the sort. Silver linings.

"He is a bit concerned," Emmeline replied, which was not a total lie: the doctor had come, seen Margaret, and promptly declared that it was a girlish kind of illness that would pass, maybe, but that a good trip out of town might be required to get some fresh air and good cheer into her. "He recommended rest and quiet, until it passes naturally. Seaside air, if it does not."

Tisiphone had to admire her mother's composure. She would not have been able to smile so amicably to a man she wanted to punch in the face. As a matter of fact, she was not able to, as demonstrated by her interactions with Bridgecombe.

"What a shame," Marnborne sighed. "She is missing the best days of the season."

It started drizzling.

"Oh my," Tisiphone gasped. She checked if their stalker had an umbrella. He did not. "Mother, should we head home? We'll get soaked."

Emmeline made a show of looking at the sky.

"Oh, it looks like rain," she sighed. "We'd best get home. Why can't the weather ever be reliable?"

Marnborne saw his chance and took it. "I'll escort you home. It's on my way."

His new tactic seemed to be buttering Emmeline up until he could get his hands on Margaret. For a normal suitor, it would have worked, too: it was best to endear oneself to the mother of your intended bride. That being said, normal suitors were not gross, forty-something creeps. Marnborne's posturing only served to disgust them more. Emmeline's public facade was impeccable, however, so he persisted.

Tisiphone fantasised about throwing him into the Thames.

"How kind of you, my lord!" Emmeline exclaimed, "but you already wasted so much time on us. You ought to hurry home to avoid the storm."

"Don't you worry about me!" he countered. "It is not wasting my time to spend it with such charming ladies."

Tisiphone stared through his soul until he looked away, clearing his throat.

"All the same, you would be trapped in the rain," Emmeline said. "We could not invite you in with my daughter suffering from such a severe flu. We would blame ourselves endlessly were you to catch it."

"Then, I can at least accompany you to your doorstep. The rain is no issue, I have a hat."

Maybe there would be a thunderstorm. Wouldn't that be nice.

Emmeline knew when to fold. "You are so kind, my lord. Very well, but let us hurry."

Her daughter peeked at the sky. Dark clouds were racing to gather over them, in what promised to be the worst hailstorm of the week. She took Emmeline's arm. "Thank you so much, Lord Marnborne. Let's go, mother."

And so, they headed home. Slowly. Tisiphone would have stood in a fire to watch Marnborne burn: a little rain was nothing at all. Emmeline seemed in agreement. She ambled along at a respectably elegant pace. Ladies, after all, did not run.

The storm started within minutes.

"Oh no!" Tisiphone exclaimed. She let out a weary sigh. "Well, there's no helping it."

Marnborne shot daggers at her. He was thoroughly soaked. Water dripped from the brim of his hat and down his neck. His dark jacket had gone a shade darker. He wore shoes. What a tragic mistake, when boots were in fashion.

Emmeline daintily raised her hand to keep the rain from her eyes. "I knew we should have taken umbrellas. I shall never trust the weather again. "

She shook her head and kept walking. Tisiphone followed. Her wet socks did not bother her, for they meant Marnborne was suffering too. He looked miserable.

"Are you sure you don't want to head back, my lord?" she asked him, all concern and innocence. "You will only end up soaked."

He went red in the face and had to swallow his indignation. He was trapped, utterly trapped.

"What kind of gentleman would renege on his word?" he declared, sucking up to Emmeline to the end. "Let's go."

---

"Heavens, you are tall," James commented, when Oliver returned from the washroom attached to his atelier.

The atelier was meant to be just that: there were no apartments attached to it, no bachelor pad where James could retreat after a night of drinking, not even a bed. Thankfully, it did have a dresser filled with spare clothes, which had saved Oliver from having to cross town in muddy pants and a tattered jacket.

That being said, he was tall. James' clothes were both too short and too large on him. His boots would cover the gap between the hem of the trousers and his ankles, but the sleeves of the shirt did not reach his wrists either. Both smelled like turpentine. Well, beggars could not be choosers, and this beat walking home with pavement imprinted on his backside.

"It will do. Thank you, James. I don't know what I would have done without you."

Sat in the rain until midnight and scurried through the empty streets like a wet rat, likely.

Mrs. Byrne had sent word of Oliver's predicament to the atelier, and James had come to his rescue.

"Don't mention it. In the mood for a stiff drink to warm yourself up?" the young man asked. He gestured at a varnished canvas covered in red and yellow blots. "I'm done with 'Spring II', and I'm free all evening."

How did you politely decline your cousin's invitation when he had recovered the wreck of "your entire person" from a teahouse's backyard? You did not. Oliver nodded. "Your club, I expect?"

"Of course. Don't worry, with this weather, it will be empty."

Ollie peeked out the window, at a street swallowed by a grey curtain. The rain was relentless, beating against the roof in a deafening roar. Now that he was not sitting directly under that deluge, he felt no urge to head back outside. "Let's go. You have umbrellas, right?"

"My mother has us covered," James muttered, digging five of them out of a cupboard. "Do you want the black one or the black one? There's also a black one, a black one, and a black one." Not waiting for an answer, he threw one of them at Oliver, who flailed and hugged the air to catch it. His cousin slammed the cupboard door. "My mother," he explained, "is a worrier." He smiled politely, testing his own umbrella. "That should do."

They arrived at the Oak Barrel only moderately drenched, finding the club as empty as James had promised. Loxley nodded at them from behind the bar. "My lords. Settle by the fireplace, I'll throw another log in."

Oliver nodded, heading straight to that table. Unsurprisingly, James first headed to the bar to chat with Loxley, so Ollie stood by the fire with his back turned to them, waiting for his borrowed pants to dry. He started at the sound of furniture being dragged through the room.

"Look what Loxley added!" his cousin called, hauling a wooden folding screen to him. "Isn't this the height of convenience?"

"Robinson, my floor!" the owner snapped. He hurried to James, snatching the screen from his hands and carrying it effortlessly to Oliver. "Here you are," he said, unfolding it between their table and the next. "I'll bring the other one, Lord Bridgecombe. You," he told James, "sit down and wait."

Oliver watched as the open space around them was turned into an enclosed alcove by the fire. Those screens were such a practical addition. Hidden as they were from the other tables, he allowed himself to relax. James ordered drinks, then borrowed cards, and Oliver soon found himself having a good time. Even when other customers started trickling in, he remained at ease, since nobody would bother them.

And then, James frowned.

"Russelby," he whispered, leaning over the table. "And Lord Marnborne with him."

Oliver paled, shrinking in his chair. He had seen enough of the viscount's family for the day. He held his breath. Much to his relief, the two men did not emerge from behind the folding screen, but they did settle at the closest table. James collected the cards and dealt them again, displeasure clear on his face. Oliver absentmindedly collected his hand, then stared through it.

Behind him, Marnborne shifted his massive frame in his chair, which creaked under him.

"Heavens, finally some warmth," the man whined. "What a ghastly afternoon it has been. I swear that harpy of a girl took her time on purpose."

Russelby ordered drinks, letting his friend ramble. Marnborne had a lot to say about insolent chits who had "more spite than sense". Oliver wondered for an instant if Miss Margaret had rejected him, but his next words clarified the situation.

"Hopefully, her sister recovers soon and I can press my suit directly. The mother, I can handle, but Miss Lane spawned straight out of hell."

"How is Miss Margaret taking to you?" Russelby asked. "Sudden illness aside."

"That's hard to say. Her sister proved quite the obstacle so far, and will not let me address Miss Margaret directly. She has been poisoning the well, too, which predisposed Miss Margaret to dislike me."

The silence that followed lasted too long. A glass was put down on the table. Someone clicked their tongue.

"Don't worry about that," the viscount said. "It won't be long before I get her to eat from the palm of your hand."

Oliver's eyes went wide. "Get"? He leaned back in his chair, getting closer to the screen to better hear Russelby's voice. His assertion warranted a great deal of spying. The viscount did not explain, however: he merely ordered a bottle of wine. The conversation veered into oenology, and Oliver did not get to hear more, because James had leisurely opened his hand over their table, and dropped his cards. He looked closer to beating someone up than Ollie had ever seen him.

He got up.

Oliver nearly climbed over the table to grab his arm and force him back into his seat. He was starting to gather that James, as outwardly conciliatory as he had always acted, could and would get into confrontations. The episode with the gossiping ladies in Hyde Park had been a wake-up call. He did not want to find out just how far his cousin would go.

James sat back down, looking at him with a chilling sort of calm. To which the young earl, future duke, gestured in panic. Oliver was many things. 'Good at people' was not one of them.

"Wait," he mouthed.

He was not sure not to convey that eavesdropping would be more useful than intervening. Not that it mattered: James looked down to the side, his expression not softening the slightest bit. Oliver awkwardly collected their cards, and dealt yet another hand. They both went through the motions of the game, without actually playing, while Ollie listened in on Russelby's and Manborne's conversation. Unfortunately, the topic oenology led to vineyards, which soon led to France, then the war, then which handgun maker was the most reliable, at which point the Lane misses were unlikely to be mentioned again.

Oliver lost himself in his own thoughts, attempting to assemble fragments of the situation into the one picture: ultimatums, emptying houses, upcoming moves, and the viscount's alarming pronouncement. But he had to be missing a crucial piece, for he could not figure out Russelby's master plan.