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Crane squinted at him for a moment as though he couldn’t quite believe Tobias was serious. “Eh, go to it, then.” He waved one hand in dismissal.

Tobias chose to declare victory and retreat. Beaming, he bowed. “Thank you, Uncle. Good day.”

The viscount sighed as the door closed. “The damned fool doesn’t know what he’s doing. The Doncasters may be what he wants, but I warrant he’s not what they want. He’ll end like our noble king, stuck with an unsuitable wife he can’t be rid of... Well, well, Towne! What are you doing there?”

Harry rose at the peevish query. “Finishing the diagram of the new knot garden at Brimstow, sir.” His employer snatched it from his outstretched hand and scowled at it, but Harry knew it was perfectly done.

“I wish to add something here,” Crane said, stabbing one palsied finger at an open space. “Something clean and bright, but delicate...” He muttered to himself, then tossed aside the drawing. “Oh, off you go.”

A short time later, an exhaustive list in his pocket, Harry walked down the steps of Crane’s house and headed for the Horticultural Society. It was a bright sunny day, after a week of rain, and he strode along briskly, stretching his legs and inhaling the fresh air. He turned toward St. James, intending to make the most of his reprieve from drawing and spying on his way to Piccadilly.

Before he had reached the end of the street, a small but smart phaeton flashed past. It made him think of Tobias, preparing to propose to Mariah. His steps slowed. He didn’t think Mariah would accept—not because of her feelings for him, which he didn’t know for certain in any event—but because Crane was right: Tobias was a fool, and Mariah had never spoken fondly of fools. She could never be happy with a buffoon, no matter how charming and handsome he was, and she would hardly appreciate Tobias’s extreme interest in her family status and connection.

Still, it struck black murder in a man’s heart to see another man pursue his most passionate desire. Harry resumed walking, telling himself he was a bigger fool than Tobias, though it did no good. Fool he might be, but he was a fool desperately in love.

The wide boulevard through St. James’s park was filled with Londoners out savoring the sunshine. Every man seemed to have a woman on his arm. Harry imagined strolling though a park with Mariah at his side, her smiling face turned up to him, the sunlight warming them both. She had been glorious the day he met her in the park as Lord Wroth, and even more beautiful the day he sat in her mother’s drawing room hunched over his tea and tried not to stare at her with his heart in his eyes. It was bad enough he couldn’t call on her today, but to know Tobias Crane was on his way to propose marriage to her on this perfect spring day...

Harry cursed under his breath, abruptly turned at the end of the park, and went up into the main road, where dozens of busy shops lined the street. It took him out of his way, but he didn’t care. Crane could wait a little longer to discover a new plant. In fact, he felt less and less obliged to hew strictly to the viscount’s directives now that he knew the true requirements of his actual job, and today he felt rebellious enough to drop all pretense of being Crane’s man for a while.

It took some time to locate the right shop, and then more time to choose his purchase, but when he left, he walked along with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. A week ago, he would have never dared, for fear of discovery or Stafford’s wrath or any of a dozen other reasons. But today... today he thought it was a grand thing to do.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Mr. Crane to see you, Lady Mariah.”

Mariah’s first instinct at the butler’s announcement was to flee. She was cozily nestled in a sunny spot in the garden, an open book on her lap, enjoying the warmth of the sun and daydreaming about when Harry might come to see her next. It seemed an age since he had climbed through her window. She’d kept to her promise not to know him if they met in public, even if she never promised not to look for him in public—but all her promises had been in vain. She hadn’t caught sight of Lord Wroth or Mr. Towne anywhere, and was past being ashamed to say she had looked for both. Harry had disappeared entirely from her life, and although she felt more at peace with that, his absence left a sad hole in her world.

And now Mr. Crane had come to cast a shadow over the rest of it. For a moment she debated telling the butler to send him away, but decided against it, reluctantly. Her mother was already watching her with concern, and Mariah knew turning away visitors would alarm her even more, no matter who the visitor or what the reason.

She set aside her book and got to her feet. “I’ll see him in the drawing room, Hawking.”

“Very good, my lady.” The butler bowed and glided away. Mariah followed more slowly. She had a dreadful apprehension she knew what Mr. Crane had come about; no one could have missed his devoted regard and attentions. Joan would tease her to no end about this one, even though her cousin found her marriage proposals less and less amusing as the number of them mounted.

Mr. Crane swept a deep bow as she entered. Mariah curtsied, and left the drawing room doors wide open. With any luck, her mother would come by and save her.

“Good day, Mr. Crane.”

He always wore the same broad, slightly foolish smile when he looked at her. “It is a very fine day, indeed, Lady Mariah.”

“Won’t you be seated?” Purposely, she took a single chair. He sat on the edge of the nearest sofa, never taking his eyes from her face.

For a moment neither spoke. It made Mariah uncomfortable, the way he looked at her with such focused admiration. “How is your uncle?” she asked, thinking more of Lord Crane’s secretary. “I trust he is in good health.”

“Indeed he is.” Mr. Crane wet his lips and inched forward in his seat. Before she could react, he reached out and took her hand. “Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?”

Mariah blinked. “A winter’s day? Am I cold, sir?”

Horror flashed across his face. “No, no, no! Never, dear lady! I—I should have begun with another poem⁠—”

“Oh, please do not,” Mariah said hastily. “That is—please just speak your mind, sir. I am not a devotee of poetry.”

“You aren’t?” It seemed to confound him. His brow wrinkled in confusion, and his grip on her hand slackened, just enough for her to pull free and quickly clasp her hands together in her lap. “But—then— Oh, dash it all!” He lurched to his feet, looking almost like a boy about to plead for a treat. “I adore you,” he blurted out.

Mariah blinked again. “Sir⁠—”

“Truly I do. Since the moment I saw you. I’d have told you then, except that it seemed bad form, and perhaps a trifle out of place, what with your cousin standing right there and a crowd of people close at hand⁠—”

She blushed in mortification at the memory of their first meeting. “Mr. Crane, please.”