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Rayne peered ahead to where the path ended near a pink tea rose-smothered arbor set before a stunning octagon cobalt-blue, sea-green, lavender, and white tile mosaic. An ostentatious sundial in the mosaic’s center commanded one’s attention, much like a grand dame entering a salon or prima donna upon the stage.

Impressive and impossible to ignore.

Her musings returned to the mysterious stairs. Surely Fitzroy, if no one else, must be aware of the unusual wall separating the properties. If Griffin didn’t know the wall’s history, mayhap the gardener did.

Fitzroy had come with the manor. Griffin had often said, “I don’t think there is any question of him retiring to the country.”

The charming rock expanse ran parallel to a tall, well-maintained hedgerow. So conceivably, the gardener hadn’t given it much thought. There wasn’t much reason to because no one occupied 19 Belford Square—the house next door.

That was rather unfortunate since the place was quite charming, in a lonely sort of way. As if it pined for its owners to return and fill it with life and love once more.

Nevertheless, the slightly overgrown gardens were something to behold. Whoever had designed them had possessed quite the artistic eye.

As meticulous and attractive as Fitzroy kept the Sheffields’ grounds, the unkempt, natural beauty of the property next door beckoned Rayne as it had since she’d accidentally discovered it when she’d come to live in London after Aunt Everleigh had married Griffin.

In truth, Everleigh wasn’t really Rayne’s aunt.

Well, she was her step-aunt by marriage, but they shared no blood.

Such trivialities didn’t matter to either of them. The women had grown as close as sisters while Everleigh had been married to Rayne’s grand-uncle, Arnold Chatterton. Arnold had been estranged from his sister for many years and was a stranger to Rayne. Nevertheless, Grandmother’s brother had been appointed her guardian when Mama and Grandma had died from influenza within a week of one another.

Now there had been an evil, evil man, as had been his equally depraved son, Frederick. Both spawns of Satan now likely—and deservedly—warmed hell’s deepest bowels.

A shiver scuttled down Rayne’s spine and lifted the flesh along her arms. Her earlier joy evaporated with the alacrity of a water droplet sprinkled upon a roaring fire, taking her cheerful smile with it.

How very different Griffin was from Arnold and Frederick, thank God.

Even so, Rayne didn’t doubt memories yet haunted Everleigh as much as they did her from the time they’d spent under Arnold and Frederick Chatterton’s cruel thumbs. At thirteen, Rayne had gone to live at Keighsdon Hall and had endured their vindictiveness several years longer than Everleigh.

It had been a tumultuous, terrifying existence.

With a determined shake of her head, Rayne pushed those morose musings away and focused on the present.

Everleigh and Griffin intended to visit his lace and textile manufacturing plants today, which meant she had hours to enjoy herself in the wild tangle next door. If all went well, she’d be home—her hair properly piled atop her head in the manner of every respectable young miss on the Marriage Mart—and possessing sketchesthat she might later create watercolors from, well before they returned.

As she reached the stone barrier, she took up her song once more.

“In June there was a yellow rosebud…”

Singing beneath her breath, she balanced her basket atop the wall’s slightly rounded top. Once she’d gathered her skirts in one hand, she ascended the narrow steps, using the wall for balance. After carefully turning around, she descended the other side.

“And that is the flow’r for me.”

“And that is…hmm, hmm, hmm.”

Still humming, she’d hopped onto the slightly damp, shaded ground. Angling her face upward, she shook her hair so that it tumbled down her back.

I should’ve at least tied it back with a ribbon.

Oh well. Too late now.

Her mind already moving to the pleasant mission she’d set herself, Rayne collected her basket. Today she meant to draw the glorious wisteria—a task that would strain her humble artistic talents. She didn’t draw for praise or recognition. No, she sketched because she enjoyed trying to capture moments in time.

Everything she knew about drawing and painting had been self-taught, mostly while living at Keighsdon Hall. She had to do something with her time. Lonely, neglected, and an obvious inconvenience—Uncle Arnold hadn’t even bothered with a governess after she’d turned fifteen—Rayne had learned to entertain herself.

The wisteria vine had escaped its staid arbor’s confines and had twisted and entwined itself up a plane tree, creating an enchanting, fairly-like effect. The usually unremarkable tree appeared to be festooned with streaming purple flowers.

The result was quite stunning. Almost magical.

No properly attended garden would ever be permitted something so unrestrained and beautiful. A shame, really.

Why must everything be constrained by someone else’s strictures and dictates of appropriateness, acceptability, or propriety?

Wasn’t there any room for originality and uniqueness?

No. That was the unfortunate, undeniable if somewhat unpleasant truth.

With a slight shrug for what she was powerless to change, Rayne took up singing where’d she left off.

“I oftentimes have pluck’d that yellow rosebud…”

“Wasna it a red rosebud?” an amused male inquired in a deep, melodious brogue.