“Perish the thought,” she returned, laughing.
She started for the door, paused, and glanced back. “Thank you. For accuracy, for honesty, for not being bored.”
“I am never bored,” he said, “when people mean what they say.”
She inclined her head, then was gone, absorbed by light and conversation as water takes back a stone.
Samuel remained, the quiet gathering him in. At the table, the bowl sat prim, its cargo of chance innocent as sugar almonds. In the morning, handswould dip and draw, and the day would arrange itself with an inevitability Crispin would call Providence and Samuel would call interference.
He turned toward the stairs, pausing when Crispin appeared at the corridor’s far end, sauntering with the satisfaction of a man who had set clocks to his liking.
“Crewe,” Oakford said pleasantly. “Enjoying the architecture?”
“It stands up,” Samuel said. “That is sufficient in a house and a plan.”
Crispin’s mouth tilted. “Do be at breakfast promptly. The lots behave best when drawn before the coffee is finished.”
“I suspected as much,” Samuel replied. “Good night, Oakford.”
“Good night. Dream of straight roads,” Crispin called, and vanished the way he had come.
Samuel looked once more at the moon-washed lawn, at the black seam of hedge and the pale sweep of terrace. He told himself he had weathered greater hazards. He had. Greater hazards, sterner tests, worse nights. This was, in the end, only a fortnight among friends and their schemes. It was a mere matter of keeping his footing.
And yet some part of him,unhelpfully awake, knew that equilibrium is a trick best practiced on firm ground.
Tomorrow would provide none.
CHAPTER 3
Sun light illuminated the gravel drive as Lady Alice Pickford stood at her chamber window. Viscount Crewe’s dry praise from last night refused to fade as she observed the gathering carriages and parasols below. Footmen in crisp livery moved between vehicles, ladies adjusted their bonnets against the spring sun, and gentlemen assumed casual poses. A horse snorted nearby, its impatient whicker reaching Alice like a summons she chose to ignore.
She turned from the glass and examined her reflection in the dressing mirror. The walking dress was a calculated choice of cerulean blue cambric, making her eyes sparkle, cut to flatter without impropriety, and trimmed with darker ribbons that drew the eye where she wished. Her maid hadpinned her hair with precision, but Alice loosened a single curl near her temple. Perfection was for statues. She preferred to look alive.
An hour ago, Crispin announced breakfast at the head of the long table, a silver bowl in hand, playing ceremony as he winked at Clara. He drew folded papers one by one, reading names in pairs while the assembled company murmured, laughed, and feigned surprise.
"Lady Alice Pickford," he announced, pausing just a beat too long, "and Viscount Crewe."
Alice maintained a fixed, pleasant smile, but her gaze flicked to Crispin’s face, catching a fleeting expression of satisfaction,the look of a man whose shuffled deck had revealed the card he’d palmed. Clara, seated beside him, had the grace to suddenly examine her teacup with interest.
Alice descended the main staircase with deliberate slowness, trailing her fingers along the polished banister. The great hall echoed with the sounds of departure. The clatter of boot heels, the rustle of fabric, and bursts of feminine laughter that rose and scattered. Through the open doors, she glimpsed the courtyard in full commotion.
Six carriages stood in a neat row, their leather hoods thrown back to welcome the fine weather. Grooms held horses that stamped and tossed theirheads, eager to be off. A stout baroness was being handed into the first vehicle by her equally stout husband, both exclaiming about the fortunate sunshine. Behind them, two young ladies in matching pink muslin whispered behind their fans, casting glances toward a dark-haired gentleman who pretended not to notice.
"Such a perfect day for it," one of them said, loud enough to carry. "I do hope we've packed enough champagne."
"The hampers are simply enormous," her companion replied. "Lady Oakford thinks of everything."
Alice paused at the threshold, allowing the scene to arrange itself around her. The air carried the scent of crushed gravel, horses, and the green promise of the countryside beyond the gates. Somewhere in the gardens, a thrush sang with the optimism of spring.
Beside the fourth carriage stood Viscount Crewe.
He checked his pocket watch, his head bent over the silver case, a clear focus in his posture that showed his commitment to punctuality. His charcoal grey coat fit him well, and polished boots completed the look. Everything about him radiated rigor, a life governed by strict schedules.
Her pulse quickened—not from admiration, but from recognizing a worthy challenge.
As if sensing her attention, Crewe lifted his gaze. Their eyes met across the courtyard, and the noise of hooves and chatter seemed to fall away, leaving only sunlight between them. His look was cool and assessing, while hers sparkled with challenge.
For a long moment, neither moved.
