Fennimore.
For the umpteenth time he huffed out an irritated breath at this morning’s incident. His thoughtless lack of propriety had not helped his cause, but at least it had got him here, thanks largely to Lady Crudgington. Miss Cranford had seemed horrified to see him and had introduced him around the room most begrudgingly. He had made a much better impression on the Viscountess, although prudence dictated he be cautious with her. She liked male company. More than liked it, if his suspicions were correct, which made aligning himself too closely problematic. If Gislingham was the jealous type, Gray risked alienating him. The first priority had to be getting closer to their chief suspect. Only once all hope of that was dead could he risk a dalliance with the wife to get what he wanted. Or the ward.
Miss Cranford was entirely off limits until he understood the lay of the land. For the sake of the mission, she had to be his last resort even though she was the family member he was most drawn to. As much as he was tempted to shamelessly flirt with her and was wildly curious to know whether her vibrant blushes ended just below her demure neckline or travelled all the way down those shapely legs to her toes, seducing a gently bred young woman tended not to go down well with protective male relatives with a cruel streak a mile wide. Doing so would not only alienate Gislingham, it would probably result in getting Gray killed.
He could pretend to properly court her, he supposed.
The errant thought caught him unawares. Not because he wasn’t supremely confident in his abilities to thoroughly charm her, more because it terrified him to have even thought of it. He had willingly come within a hair’s breadth of marriage once before and had ended up broken-hearted and deceived. From the tender age of ten he’d had his future with Cecily mapped out. They were going to wed as soon as he turned twenty-one when he finally gained his financial independence; they would buy a nice house near their favourite beach in Wales and raise fine horses and the best Welsh lamb alongside their bushel of children.
Then his father and hers had brokered a different deal, one Cecily had been given a choice in, and to Gray’s horror the love of his life decided she would much rather be a wealthier marchioness wedded to his elder brother than live on that farm with him. It had been that same week that the walls of Jericho had come tumbling down. Blind with grief and convinced she would change her mind if only he could quickly enlarge his fortune to supersede his pompous brother’s, Gray had taken every penny of the money his grandfather had left him in his will to London and the hells where the savvy owners, gamblers and card sharps had quickly relieved him of it. It had been the harshest way to learn his lesson—daring to dream was as pointless as regret, and risking your heart was for tougher men than him.
He now avoided all serious overtures of intent, even if the serious overtures would be just a ruse to infiltrate Gislingham’s confidence. He couldn’t bring himself to toy with another person’s feelings as Cecily had done his. Heartbreak, it turned out, took for ever to get over. He avoided touching hearts with the same diligence that he avoided commitment and he wouldn’t trifle with Miss Cranford’s no matter how much his body wanted her.
Assuming she would be interested, of course. Which she didn’t appear to be in the slightest. She had barely said three words to him between all those polite introductions, so he had given up trying. Probably because he didn’t have Trefor with him. She had adored Trefor... Good grief! Another pointless train of thought in the grand scheme of things. He needed to be a better spy, not jealous of his dog.
He rounded the shrubbery and stopped dead. The object of his musings was lying flat on her back on a stone bench, a gauzy shawl draped over her face like a shroud leaving her fiery copper hair to crackle in the sunshine. One hand rested gently on her belly while the other was thrown over her head. The artful pose, reminiscent of one of the epic tableaux of the Renaissance where some ancient Greek heroine had been cut down tragically in her prime, was doing wonders for her bosom. Her covered face allowed him to gaze longingly at it for a few moments as her chest gently rose and fell with her breathing in her splendid, fitted coral gown. Bizarrely, despite that unexpected bonus, he missed seeing her smile. That stunning smile combined with her current alluring position would be quite something to witness.
A sensible, dedicated spy would silently retrace his steps and take another route to continue his unhindered reconnoitre. But for some reason, his feet had already decided to head towards her as if pulled by some invisible cord. He was halfway across the lawn when he realised she wasn’t asleep, in fact, and much to his amusement, she was talking to herself.
‘Give him a fighting chance, darling.’ If he was not mistaken, she was snippily mimicking Lady Crudgington. ‘You are a little too buttoned up.’ The hand that had been on her belly wafted in the air. ‘I cannot recall a time when I have ever heard you sound so waspish over a mere man, Thea.’ Gray suppressed the spontaneous snort which threatened to erupt as she blew a raspberry so fat the floaty shawl quivered. ‘Settle for a wholly unsuitable man before you become so decrepit and wizened no one will ever fancy you and to hell with the consequences. Your exacting standards are far too high and your imagination is as vivid as your wayward, vertical hair. And while you’re about it, become a total scandal, why don’t you? Throw yourself at the fellow. Stand on the precipice and leap! The clock is ticking after all. Tick-tock, Thea. Tick-tock.’
He did laugh at the second raspberry, making her sit bolt upright, the delicate shawl slipping to puddle at her feet and her lush mouth a delightful O of embarrassed outrage. ‘How long have you been there!’
‘Long enough to know that Lady Crudgington thinks you should give Mr Hargreaves a fighting chance, but that you are not so enthused by the idea.’
She was simultaneously blinking and blushing furiously. ‘Yes... Mr Hargreaves...indeed...and you are correct. I am not at all enthused by the idea.’ Primly, she straightened and adjusted her clothing. ‘If anything, I am thoroughly unenthused.’
‘I’m exceedingly glad to hear it. Having had to listen to him for the last half an hour, I found his conversation quite...’
‘Sycophantic? Insincere? Grinding?’
He smiled at her accurate assessment. It was refreshing she didn’t mince her words. ‘Yes. To all. You can do much better than him.’
She beamed again as she had this morning and the sight of it did odd things to his heart. ‘Thank you, Lord Gray! That is exactly what I keep telling Harriet, but she is determined to meddle.’
‘Well, I dare say the meddling is necessary. You are on the cusp of decrepit.’
‘You heard everything, didn’t you?’ The blush on her cheeks mirrored the deeper one staining her collarbone and disappearing beneath the lace edging her close-cut bodice. ‘It’s very rude to eavesdrop.’
‘Surely eavesdropping involves listening to an obviously private conversation between two or more people. As you were loudly talking to yourself, out in broad daylight, I didn’t think it counted. It gave me a very interesting insight into the young lady you are beneath that impenetrable exterior.’ She looked attractively flummoxed and guilty at his assessment, which was very intriguing. ‘Besides, like you, I sensibly came out here to hide and get some fresh air, so the eavesdropping was merely an unanticipated bonus. How could I resist it?’
‘For a big man, you move with impressive stealth. Was it your intention to sneak up on me?’
‘You credit me with too much talent, Miss Cranford. All I did was walk across the grass. If you hadn’t been talking so much, you would have heard me. Do you mind if I sit—or is that grossly improper? If it is, I can hide somewhere else.’
She hesitated,
