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Tobias Crane sat sprawled in the armchair across the room, legs stretched toward the fender and arms hanging out to the sides. One hand clutched a bottle, which Tobias raised to his mouth for a long drink. The lamp sat on the table, casting barely enough light for him to see Tobias, certainly not enough for Tobias to spy him peering stealthily over the shabby little sofa.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” Tobias mumbled, then shook his head. “I like that. ‘S good rhyme. But not summer, already been done.” He frowned. “Winter day. Shall I compare thee to a winter day.” He said it a few more times, as if tasting the words, and drank from his bottle again. Brandy, Harry guessed from the way Tobias grew rapidly drunker.

He slowly eased his muscles, just enough to settle silently into a more comfortable position. It might take a while for Tobias to drift off to sleep, and Harry couldn’t go anywhere until he did.

“Compare thee... winter’s day.” Tobias was still talking to himself. “Yes, winter’s very good. Sparkle like snow. But cold.” He frowned, drinking some more. Drops dribbled down his chin. “Lady M’riah’s not cold. Warm, lovely girl. Like fire in winter.”

Harry felt an odd urge to laugh even as he scowled. Tobias’s poetry was terrible, not at all the sort of thing to appeal to Mariah—and yet, who was he to say Tobias had no right to compose odes to her? The heir to a viscount could call on her and flirt with her and dance with her in full view of society, and ask the Earl of Doncaster for permission to court her without fear of being thrown out on his face. Tobias would be Lord Crane someday, and not a distant someday. Crane was over eighty and in uncertain health, and the considerable Crane fortune would fall to Tobias along with the viscounty.

Harry closed his eyes, no longer feeling the urge to laugh. Tobias was still muttering to himself, but less distinctly. He was falling asleep, though not quickly enough for Harry. The floor was hard and cold, and he didn’t dare move. Even drunk as a lord, Tobias would notice a man suddenly rising from behind his sofa. All Harry could do was sit and ruminate on the utter impossibility of his own hopes and dreams while a possible traitor composed bad poetry to the woman he loved.

Finally, at long last, the rasp of faint snoring drifted across the room. Harry dared another peek from behind the sofa. Tobias had slid sideways in his chair, the bottle cradled in the crook of his arm. He was sound asleep, and the lamp had burned very low. Harry stayed where he was until the snores turned deep and regular, then slowly crept from his hiding place and left.

* * *

The next several days proved an excruciating test of Harry’s patience and subterfuge. On pretext of cataloging and organizing Crane’s papers, he examined several months’ worth of letters and documents. Crane’s letters of course were missing, but Harry could see with whom he corresponded and what they discussed. There were letters from the Lord Chancellor, arguing details of the Six Acts and other laws. Polite notes from members of Parliament. Letters from friends and acquaintances abroad and at home, even a letter from his sister-in-law, Tobias’s mother, timidly asking for funds in her son’s absence. And of course the voluminous correspondence from the gardener at Brimstow, John Rusk.

To Harry’s amusement, Rusk was impatient with Crane’s horticultural vision; there seemed to be a quarrel between Crane and Rusk over the importance of Quercus robur—a large oak tree near the gates of Brimstow, as Harry well knew—versus fields of lilies and tulips that were to be planted or uprooted, it was difficult to tell. The passions of gardeners were quite beyond him, Harry thought, moving on to examine the tradesmen’s messages.

He didn’t truly expect to find incriminating papers in Crane’s own desk. Crane was too intelligent for that, if he were a traitor at all. But it must be done, and he had to search until he was satisfied there was nothing.

Tobias broke up the monotony one day, knocking on the door and coming in before Crane could tell him not to. “Uncle,” he announced, “I have come to seek your blessing.”

Harry immediately turned his face to his work. Even aside from the way Tobias provoked his uncle’s temper, Harry didn’t care to remember the man comparing Mariah to a winter’s day.

Crane shot his nephew a sour glance. “To visit your mother? Yes, yes, go.”

Tobias shook his head. “No, indeed, sir. I am going to take a wife.”

Crane grunted. “More fool you. Who is the lady? Some impertinent chit, I suppose.”

His nephew flushed. “Not at all! She is a lady of the highest standing, the most impeccable character⁠—”

“Well, just tell me,” snapped Crane, “since you seem determined to make it known to me. And why do you require my blessing in any event? I am not your father.”

“But you’re the head of my family, and I value your blessing very highly, since my father is dead.” Tobias said it with a straight face. Harry kept his head down to hide his own expression. Tobias would be sunk without his uncle’s financial support.

Crane seemed to have the same thought. “I suppose you have assessed this blessing in pounds sterling,” he said irritably. “Who is your object, then?”

“Lady Mariah Dunmore.” Tobias puffed up his chest with pride.

Fortunately for Harry, Crane’s reaction was derisive enough for both of them. “Damned fool! She won’t have you.”

His nephew blinked and raised his chin, stung. “I believe she might.”

Crane seized on the telling word. “Might! And the moon might crash into the sun. Might! Doncaster won’t have you, even if she would. Unless you’ve managed to find your way beneath her skirts and leave your babe in her belly, you haven’t a prayer.”

“Uncle!” Tobias was shocked. “Of course I would never abuse her that way!”

His uncle shrugged. “I never said you should. But your only hope is that she’s lost her head over you, silly girl, in which case she might have allowed you liberties that would force her father’s hand.”

Harry’s fingers clenched on his pen. He could no longer keep it moving across the page. For a second he could feel the velvet skin at the back of Mariah’s neck, the soft brush of her lips against his, the breathy gasp she made when he slid his hand under her nightdress, around her breast. Just like that, his body reacted merely from the memory of holding her. He swallowed and tried to tamp down the flush of anger and desire roiling through him.

“You insult me.” Tobias sounded mortally offended. “I intend to make an honorable offer for the lady’s hand, and I believe she might be inclined to accept.”

“Why?” Crane’s voice was like a silken whip, soft but stinging.

“Well— Because...” Tobias flushed. “She has rejected every other suitor. She is kindness itself every time I speak to her. She clung to my arm very sweetly at the Arnold soirée a fortnight past. I think she favors me, Uncle, and I intend to propose marriage.”