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“Here you are, Theopolis.”

She tossed a piece of dried crust onto the ground.

With a strident cry, the jay swooped down, snatched the treat with his beak, and flew away. In his wake, a clouded yellow butterfly drifted toward the periwinkle colored scabious, no doubt to enjoy sweet nectar for breakfast.

Rayne made a mental note to try to sketch the next clouded yellow she saw feeding. Doing so would test her artistic abilities, but she enjoyed challenging herself. Shouldn’t one want to continually improve in some small way?

Spinning in a small circle, she sighed contentedly.

This was simply lovely.

Summer was her favorite season and morning her preferred time of day.

She’d awoken early, as was her custom, despite not having sought her bed until well past midnight. The ball hosted by her Aunt Everleigh and her husband, Griffin Dalton, Duke of Sheffield, last night had been a veritable crush and, therefore, a roaring haut ton success.

At least three hundred of le beau monde’s finest had attended, ensuring write-ups in all of the gossip rags and newssheets that were of any account. Yes, the ball had been a rousing triumph.

And made more so because her dear friend, Nicolette Twistleton, had received a very romantic, very sigh-worthy public marriage proposal from Mathias Pembroke, Duke of Westfall. To Rayne’s utter delight, Nicolette, who’d been previously jilted and had sworn off all men, had said yes.

Now Rayne and their other closest mutual friends were excited to congratulate Nicolette again and to hear all of the delicious details over several cups of steaming tea while nibbling decadent dainties, cakes, pastries, and biscuits.

Rayne was a debutante this Season—albeit a rather older debutante. She had danced several times and enjoyed a few splendid hours with her friends. Though in general, large gatherings inevitably strained her nerves.

A long-ago, disquieting memory tried to impose itself upon her current happiness. Rayne wasn’t having any of that today. Purposefully tamping down the unpleasant recollection, she unceremoniously shoved the unsolicited remembrance into a distant corner as she’d learned to do over the years.

Nothing would ruin this delightful morning.

Today no heavy haze of coal dust layered the city, and the air was fairly fresh for London. The sky shone vivid blue for a change, with only a few wispy clouds feathered across the far horizon. Several birds’ calls echoed from the trees and shrubberies in Griffin’s illustrious grounds and also the less formal gardens next door.

Resuming her song, Rayne continued on the meandering footpath, each footfall a satisfyingly crisp crunch on the gravel.

“In June there was a yellow rosebud…”

Headed toward the farthest corner of the garden, she touched a fingertip to a velvety sun-colored rose as she passed by. On that side of the grounds, a stone wall, inlaid with small, projecting steps on both sides, separated the Sheffields’ gardens from their neighbors’.

Neighbors who hadn’t been in residence in a very long while, according to Griffin. Since before he’d purchased this stately house, in fact. And neighbors who, at one time, must’ve been close friends with whoever had owned the manor before Griffin.

For why else would the stairs permit easy access across the wall if that were not the case? Perchance the residents of the two households had been relatives. She would have to remember to ask Griffin about that.

Mayhap he knew the history of the empty house and its owners. Or perhaps he knew if and when they were expected to return to London. In the meanwhile, Rayne fully intended to continue enjoying the cozy fairy-like garden with its utterly delightful stacked-stone folly.

Did Griffin or Everleigh know about the steps in the wall?

Probably not, and she wasn’t positive that she wanted to share her secret. After all, Rayne was the one who enjoyed exploring every enchanting nook and cranny, just as she had at Fittledale Park.

A small stab of nostalgia speared her, and she tightened her mouth for a pace.

She missed Fittledale Park, the quiet country estate near Colchester that Everleigh had purchased after her first husband’s death. In point of fact, Rayne found nearly everything about London overwhelming: the routs, balls, soirees, musicals, the theater…the men.

Mostly the men.

She’d never completely outgrown her fear of males and, truth be told, doubted she ever would.

Although outings to Hyde Park, Green Park, and St. James’ Park were enjoyable, one never knew how many acquaintances one might encounter. And worse, be forced to discuss trivial drivel with them. Unless she were atop a horse. On those occasions, Rayne could gallop Rotten Row and not have to partake in the usual boring twaddle.

And then there were the never-ending assemblies…

Well, honestly. They were nothing short of a perpetual competition to see who was the first tulip of fashion; who would dance with whom; who might make a brilliant match this Season; whom might give someone the cut; and what succulent gossip might be spread about with the ease of whipped butter on a fresh-from-the-oven hot cross bun.