England

July 15, 1673

ST. SWITHIN’S DAY. Well, it was fitting.

Ford Chase stared out his carriage window at the miserable, wet landscape. According to St. Swithin’s legend, if rain fell on the fifteenth of July, it would continue for forty days and nights. Not that Ford believed in such superstitious swill. But today it seemed almost plausible.

This was shaping up to be the worst day of his life.

The carriage rattled over the drawbridge and into the modest courtyard of Greystone, his brother’s small castle. Cold raindrops pelted Ford’s head when he shoved open the door and leapt to the circular drive. Drenched gravel crunching beneath his boots, he made his way down a short, covered passageway and banged the knocker on the unassuming oak door.

Benchley cracked open the door, then slipped outside and shut it behind him. “My lord, what brings you here today?”

“I wish to speak with my brother.” Ford frowned down at the small, wiry valet. What was he doing answering the door? “Will you be letting me in?”

“I think not,” Benchley replied in a surly tone Ford had never heard him use before. “I’ll fetch Lord Greystone.” And with that, he disappeared back into the ancient castle.

Shivering, Ford stood open-mouthed in disbelief. Well, this treatment certainly fit in with the rest of his day. Rain dripped from his limp brown hair to sprinkle on the stones at his feet. Deciding he needn’t ask permission to enter his brother’s home, he reached for the latch.

The door opened, and his brother stepped out. He looked haggard, his face a pasty gray, his green eyes and black hair dull.

“Colin? What the deuce is going on?”

“Illness. Measles, we think. Thank goodness you’re here.”

Ford pulled his surcoat tighter around himself. “Come again?”

“Amy is ill, along with Hugh and the baby. And half of the servants. One of them died yesterday,” Colin added grimly.

“Died?” Ford’s gut twisted as he thought of Amy—Colin’s lovely, raven-haired wife—and their wild four-year-old son, Hugh, and the baby, Aidan…all dead.

“It’s not so bad as all that,” Colin rushed to assure him. “The poor maid was eighty if she were a day, and the disease went straight to her lungs. Amy and the children will recover.”

Ford nodded, noting his brother looked worried, but quite calm. ”Good. I’ll keep them in my prayers.” He shook more water out of his hair. “At least you won’t be falling ill. Do you remember when all four of us caught measles on the Continent?”

“I could hardly forget.” Moving like an old man, Colin leaned gingerly against the doorpost. “But what does that have to do with now?”

“At a Royal Society lecture, I learned one cannot fall ill with the same disease twice,” Ford explained.

“I’ve had measles more than once.”

“Not true measles, the one with the high fever. Spotted skin is a symptom of many different conditions.”

“If you say so.” Colin shrugged, but his face showed a hint of relief. “Still, the fever is dreadful, and Jewel has yet to suffer measles. True measles, as you put it. Will you take her with you—away from here—before she succumbs as well? It would ease my mind, and Amy’s too, I’m sure. The worry is doing her no good.”

Alarm bells went off in Ford’s head. Take his niece? Where? And…how? What was he to do with a little girl? Instinctively, he began backing away. “Uh, I only stopped by to let you know I’ve left London and will be at Lakefield for the foreseeable future—”

“Perfect.”

“—working on my watch design. I…I just wanted to be alone for a while. You see, Lady Tabitha has eloped.”

“With the rest of the family off in Scotland, I was at my wit’s end deciding what to do. I was about to settle Jewel in the village. But this will be much better—”

“Tabitha eloped,” Ford repeated loudly, stopping in his tracks.

Didn’t his brother care that he’d had his heart trampled today?

“She eloped?” Colin blinked, then shook his head. “My sympathies, Ford, truly. But what did you expect, man? After so many—how long had you been courting her, anyway?

“Since…well, I was ten when we met. But we weren’t ‘courting,’ as you say, until…sixteen or so? I gave her that little ring—”

“Sixteen! So now, at twenty-three, you’ve kept her waiting seven years, with nary a whisper of a serious proposal—”

“I told her we’d marry someday. In a few years.” Tabitha had always been Ford’s perfect match—his pretty and spirited childhood friend had grown into a flawless beauty with a sparkling wit. Together at court, they’d reveled in an endless round of lavish balls and entertainments, and while Ford was away at university, she’d busied herself with whatever it was women liked to do, leaving him plenty of time for his pursuits. Parfait. Or so he’d thought. “For heaven’s sake, she was hardly a spinster at twenty-one. And as you said, I’m only twenty-three—”

“I married at twenty-one.”

“You were in a hurry to have children.”

“No. I was in love.”

“So was I! So am I, that is.”

“You really have no idea why Tabitha gave up on you, do you?” Colin rubbed his eyes. “I know you don’t want to hear this, baby brother, but it’s time you grew up. Maybe Jason and I coddled you too much.”

From beyond the passageway, the patter of rain filled their sudden silence. Ford’s hands wanted to curl into fists, but his brother was obviously weary, so he thought it best to ignore Colin’s unfair remarks. Doubtless the poor fellow had spent sleepless nights watching over his wife and sons—exactly why Ford wasn’t ready to settle down himself.

“You look tired,” he said. “You’d best get some rest.”

His brother heaved a sigh. “I’d rest easier if I knew you had Jewel. You’ll take her, won’t you? Just for a week or two. Maybe three. Until the illness has run its course.” Colin twisted the signet ring on his finger, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you hesitating? I need you.”

Ford stifled a groan. What on earth would he do with a five-year-old girl? He loved Jewel, of course. He loved all his nieces and nephews—even boisterous Hugh—and had learned to enjoy the role of uncle. But bouncing a baby on his lap or entertaining a child with a simple card game was one thing. A few moments of fun before returning the little one to its parents. Completely different from being responsible for a child…and all on his own…

“I’m not hesitating.” Ford shoved a hand through his wet hair. “I just don’t know how…”

Colin’s eyes went wide. “Did you think I’d expect you to care for her on your own? Heaven forbid.” His lips quirked as though he might laugh, but he covered it with a cough. “I’ll send Lydia along with her.”

Ford longed to wipe the patronizing look off Colin’s face—but not nearly enough to refuse his offer. With Jewel’s very competent nurse at her side, Ford wouldn’t have to do a thing. He could just poke his head into her room and say hello every once in a while.

“You won’t have to do a thing,” Colin added, making Ford grit his teeth. Could his brother read his thoughts? “Although,” he went on, “talking with your niece might do you some good. Perhaps you’ll learn something about communicating with the lesser species—you know, those of us of insufficient intelligence to grasp the deepest secrets of the universe.”

“Criminy! I—”

“Maybe that was your problem with Tabitha.”

Now Ford’s fingers did curl into fists. He’d never pretended to understand women. No scientific analysis in existence could decipher that code.

But science wasn’t the only thing he understood.

And he’d had no problems with Tabitha!

And he was finished with this discussion.

“Of course I’ll take Jewel,” he said, hiding his fists behind his back. “I’ll be delighted to have her company.”

And he wasn’t lying. Just now, anyone’s company would be preferable to that of his deuced brother.

---

VIOLET ASHCROFT cleared her throat and held up her book. “’To say that a blind custom of obedience should be a surer obligation than duty taught and understood…is to affirm that a blind man may tread surer by a guide than a seeing man by a light.’”

“What is that supposed to mean?” her youngest sister, Lily, asked, busily stitching her tapestry in the grayish light from the large picture window. Lily probably had little real desire to know what the quote meant, but she was unfailingly kind. And Violet would never turn away from anyone willing to listen.

She hitched herself forward on the green brocade chair. “Well, you see—”

“Why do you care?” their middle sister, Rose, interrupted. Rose cared little for anything that didn’t have to do with dancing, clothes, or gentlemen. Tossing her gleaming ringlets, she looked up from the vase of flowers she was arranging. “It’s nothing but a bunch of gibberish, if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked.” Violet aimed a pointed look at Lily. “Did you hear anyone ask?”

“Girls.” Clucking her tongue, their mother poured a dipperful of water into the kettle over the fire. “I used to comfort myself that when you all grew up, this bickering would cease. Yet it never has.”

Lily’s wide blue eyes were all innocence. “But Mum,” she said sweetly. Their mother’s proper name was Chrystabel, but as their father called her Chrysanthemum, they’d taken to calling her Mum. “It’s loving bickering.”

“And a poor example for your little brother.” With a sigh, Mum began plucking petals from a bunch of lush pink roses. “What does it mean?” she asked Violet. “And who said it?”

“It means we should understand why we are doing things instead of blindly behaving as we’re told. Rather like our Ashcroft family motto: Interroga Conformationem, Question Convention. But said much more eloquently, don’t you think? By Francis Bacon.”

Violet snapped the book closed, its title, Advancement of Learning, winking gold from the spine in her lap. “But I’m wondering,” she teased. “When did my Mum become interested in philosophy?”

“I’m interested in all of my children’s hobbies.”

“Philosophy isn’t a hobby,” Violet protested. “It’s a way of looking at life.”

“Of course it is.” The kettle was bubbling merrily, spewing steam into the dim room. The fire and a few candles were no match for this gloomy, rainy afternoon. “Will you come and hold this for me, dear?”

Violet set down the book and made her way over to the large, utilitarian table she always thought looked out of place in what used to be a formal drawing room. “Did Father bring you those roses?”

“He did, the darling man.” Mum’s musical laughter warmed Violet to her toes. “Could you smell them from across the room? He rose early to gather them between dawn and sunrise, when their scent is at its peak.”

Violet snorted. “Why not let the poor man stay abed, and simply cut a few extra blooms? We have plenty.” But leaning in to smell the roses, she found them uncommonly fragrant. It was rather darling, the way Father indulged Mum’s strange whims. Not that he was without his own eccentricities. Her parents both seemed to be blind where the other’s peculiarities were concerned.

And so much the better, in Violet’s considered opinion. If she were ever to wed—which was to say, if one of Hal Swineherd’s pigs ever sprouted wings—her husband would have to be more than a little blind. The eldest Ashcroft daughter was no great beauty, with her square-jawed face, her heavy eyebrows, and her unfashionably tanned complexion.

And she preferred not to even think about her hair.

And then there were her drab brown eyes, not the mysterious almost-black of Rose’s or the fathomless deep-blue of Lily’s—just brown. Average. Like all of her. She was neither fat nor thin. Not tall like Rose nor petite like Lily. Medium height, medium figure, medium everything. Average.

But what she lacked in lustrous curls, she made up for in prodigious good sense—for instance, the good sense not to dwell on the disadvantages of being hopelessly average. Instead, she chose to appreciate its one big benefit: average drew no attention, and above all things, Violet hated being the center of attention.

Rose thrived on it, though. “Let me help, Mum,” she cried, dropping the stem of blue sweet peas she’d been about to add to her floral arrangement. “Violet won’t get the top on straight.”

Tact had never been Rose’s forte.

But there was still time to learn—Violet believed one could learn anything, if she put her mind to it. With a tolerant sigh, she stuck a wooden block upright in the big bowl and held it in place while Mum sprinkled in all the rose petals, then turned to lift the kettle.

A slow, careful stream flowed from the kettle’s spout, just enough water to cover the sweet-smelling flowers. Quickly Rose popped another, larger bowl upside down on top of the wooden block, using it as a pedestal. The steam would collect beneath and drip down the edges to the tray below. As it cooled, it would separate into rosewater and essential rose oil. Distillation, Mum called it.

A rich, floral scent wafted up, and Violet inhaled deeply. As hobbies went, she didn’t mind her mother’s unusual one of perfume-making.

“Thank you, girls,” Mum said when Violet released the bowl. “Would you hand me the vial of lavender essence?”

Violet turned and squinted at the labels, then reached for the proper glass tube. “I read in the news sheet this morning that Christopher Wren is going to be knighted later this year. And he was just elected to the Council of the Royal Society.”

Mum took the vial. “An architect in the Royal Society? I thought that was for scientists.“

Violet nodded. “Scientists, yes, but there are philosophers as members, too. As well as statesmen and physicians. And, evidently, at least one architect. I so wish I could attend one of their lectures.”

“The Royal Society doesn’t allow women at their meetings.” Mum pulled the cork stopper and waved the lavender under her nose. “Besides, hardly any of the men there are eligible.”

“I don’t want them to court me, Mum.” On the whole, she didn’t want anyone to court her, much to her mother’s distress. “I only wish to cudgel their brains.”

Mum froze with a dropper halfway in the vial, taken aback. “Cudgel their—”

“Talk to them, I mean. Learn from them. They’re so brilliant.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Men aren’t interested in talking to women,” Rose told her, “and the sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll find one of your own.”

“Faith, Rose. I’m not yet eighteen. You’d think I was in my dotage, the way you’ve become set on marrying me off.”

“You’re expected to marry before I do—and at the rate you’re moving, you’ll be yet unwed when I turn eighteen.”

“Rose!” Mum admonished.

The words stung, but Violet decided she couldn’t resent her sister for stating the facts. She truly didn’t intend to be married by Rose’s eighteenth birthday, nor by any of Rose’s subsequent birthdays. For Violet was smart enough to realize that the eccentric tendencies she’d inherited from her family, together with her plain looks, left her little likelihood of finding—let alone enticing—a compatible gentleman. The knowledge didn’t bother her; she’d long ago accepted her fate and, with characteristic good sense, learned to see the advantages of a life spent free to do as she pleased.

But that didn’t mean she begrudged her sisters their happiness. Bold, beautiful Rose was only fifteen and already eager for love. And fourteen-year-old Lily, sweet and nurturing and just as lovely, was born to be a mother.

But Violet was the oldest, and convention dictated the sisters wed in order.

Still, when had the Ashcrofts ever been conventional?

“Hang what’s ‘expected,’” she said to no one in particular. “We can marry in whatever order we choose.” Or not at all, she added silently.

“Hmm,” was her mother’s noncommittal reply. She added three drops of lavender to the bottle of fragrance she was creating, then swirled it carefully.

“Is that a new blend?” Violet asked.

“For Lady Cunningham.” Mum sniffed deeply and passed the bottle to her oldest daughter. “What do you think?”

Violet smelled it and considered. “Too sweet. Lady Cunningham is anything but sweet.” The woman’s voice could curdle milk. Returning the mixture, Violet hunted for the vial of petitgrain she knew would soften it.

Nodding her approval, her mother added two drops, then made a note on the little recipe card she kept for each of her many friends.

“Look,” Lily said, her embroidery forgotten. She rose and settled herself in the large, green-padded window seat. “There’s a carriage about to pass by.”

Mum and Rose hurried to join her at window, while Violet returned to her chair and opened her book. “So?”

“So…” Lily brushed her fingers over one of the flower arrangements that Rose left all over the house, sending a puff of scent into the air. “Carriages hardly ever pass by here! I wonder who it could be?”

“The three of you are too nosy for your own good.” Violet flipped a page. Imagine being more interested in someone’s mundane exploits than in the sage wisdom of a great mind!

“It’s our occasional neighbor,” her mother said. “The viscount.”

Violet’s attention strayed from her book. “How do you know?”

“I recognize his carriage. A hand-me-down from his brother, the marquess.”

“How is it you know everyone’s business?” Violet wondered aloud.

“It’s not so very difficult, my dear. One need only take an interest, open her eyes and ears, and use her head. I believe the viscount is in tight straits. Not only because of the second-hand carriage, but heavens, the state of his gardens. Your father nearly chokes every time we ride past.”

“I’m surprised Father hasn’t made his way over to set the garden to rights,” Lily said.

“Don’t think he hasn’t considered it.” Mum leaned her palms on the windowsill, studying the passing coach. “Why, I do believe Lord Lakefield isn’t alone.”

Despite herself, Violet rose, one finger holding her place in the book. “And how do you know that?”

“The vehicle’s curtains aren’t drawn.” Mum gave a happy gasp of discovery. “There’s a child inside! And a woman!”

Idle curiosity brought Violet out of her chair—Francis Bacon could wait a moment, after all. She wandered toward the window to look out. But of course the carriage was only a blur.

Everything more than a few feet from Violet’s eyes always looked like a blur. It was one reason she preferred staying at home with her books and news sheets, rather than going about to socialize with her mother and two younger sisters. She was afraid she’d embarrass herself by failing to recognize a friend across the room. Or by tripping. Which she did. Frequently.

“Well, well, well,” Mum said. “I must go bring the lady a gift of perfume and welcome her to the neighborhood.”

“You mean find out who she is,” Violet said.

Her mother’s second hobby was delivering perfume and receiving gossip in exchange. Not that anyone begrudged her the information. To the contrary, Chrystabel Ashcroft never needed to pry a word out of anyone. Warm and well-loved, she barely walked in the door before women began spilling their secrets.

On the rare occasions her mother had succeeded in dragging her along, Violet had seen it happen, her bad eyes notwithstanding.

“I wonder if the viscount has married?” Rose asked.

“I expect not,” Mum said. “He’s much too intellectual for anyone I know.” As the carriage disappeared into the distance, she turned from the window. “Why, he’s a member of that Royal Society, isn’t he?”

“I believe so.” Violet watched her mother wander back to the table, wishing she’d never mentioned wanting to attend a Royal Society lecture. The last thing she needed was Mum plotting her marriage. “Perhaps he would suit Rose or Lily.”

“I think not.” Mum sniffed the perfume in progress, then chose another vial. “I cannot imagine whom he would suit, but certainly not your sisters.”

“It’s just as well,” Rose said, “since you’re forbidden from matching us.”

“You know the rules, Mum,” Lily added.

The three sisters had a pact to save one another from their mother’s matchmaking schemes. It was one thing—perhaps the only thing—they all agreed on.

“Heavens, girls. It’s not as though I arrange marriages behind the backs of my friends.” Everyone Mum knew was her friend. Literally. And they all adored her. “All of my brides and grooms are willing—”

“Victims?” Violet broke in to supply.

“Participants,” Mum countered.

Lily sat and retrieved her handiwork. “How many weddings have you arranged this year, Mum? Three? Four?”

“Five,” their mother said with not a little pride. She tapped her fingernails on the vial. “Only seven months in, and a banner year already.”

The sisters exchanged a look. “And all five of these couples,” Violet ventured, “were fully cognizant and enthusiastic participants in your plans?”

Mum cocked her head. “I’m not sure what cognizant means. But enthusiastic, yes, all of them. And now blissfully happy, I might add.”

Rose plopped back onto her own chair. “Bliss or no, you’re not matching me up, Mum. I can find my own husband.”

“Me, too,” Lily said.

“Me three,” Violet added.

“Of course you all can.” Mum’s graceful fingers stilled. “I wouldn’t dream of meddling in my own daughters’ lives.”