“Scrappers are willing to get dirty in pursuit of their ends,” Nick remarked, making his point, he hoped. “Which one catches your fancy?”
“That one.” Leah nodded at a swan gliding along across the pond. “She could not care less for what troubles her inferiors.”
“Above it all,” Nick agreed. “But probably hanging about over there so nobody will hear her stomach complaining. Too proud, that one.”
“I am not too proud,” Leah said, keeping her voice down. “My father is not to be underestimated, and you will make matters worse with your meddling. When you tire of playing the gallant, I will be left to suffer his displeasure.”
“Hush,” Nick soothed, seeing she was near tears and hating the sight. “Yon stalwart footman will suspect we are not in charity. Toss some more bread, Leah, and listen to me.”
She obeyed, to his relief—and did not take umbrage at his appropriation of her name.
“I am not going to meddle and then lose interest in your situation.” Nick kept his voice low, as it had been in the darkness of the Winterthurs’ parlor. “I will see to your welfare, and without bringing you further misery. You are out of the habit of hoping and trusting, and you grow frantic at the thought of the fate pressing upon you. Trust me, and I will win you free of it.”
“You must not do this.” She swiped at her eyes with her glove. “You must not.”
“Ah, now.” Nick’s tone became wistful. “I might have been talked out of it before, but I’ve made you cry. Shame on me, and there’s no help for it now. Compose yourself.” He shifted to stand behind her, not quite touching but shielding her from the gaze of the nosy footman, literally guarding her back while she gathered her wits.
“I hate to cry.”
“I’m none too fond of it myself. Are we out of bread crumbs?”
“Not quite.” She passed the bag back to him, and he sidled around beside her. “Aim for your friend.”
“But of course.” Nick spied the little duck paddling near the bank and tossed the last handful in its direction. “I’m off to Kent for the next couple of days, but I’d like you to call on my grandmother on Friday morning, and I do mean morning, not a morning call.”
“I can do that,” Leah said, surprising him. “She invited me in my brother’s hearing, and I’m not sure my father comprehends the connection. He doesn’t socialize a great deal, though he is received.”
“Then don’t tell him, unless Lady Warne tells you to.” As Nick stood close to her, Leah’s fragrance enveloped him again. Lily of the valley had never struck Nick as an erotic scent, but it was winding through his senses and stirring all manner of feelings.
“Return of happiness,” Nick murmured, earning him a sharp glance from the lady. “Your scent—lily of the valley?—it symbolizes the return of happiness.”
“I’d forgotten that,” Leah said, smiling at him slightly.
“I would not lie to a woman.”
“You are not the typical titled heir,” Leah said, her smile fading. “I could not abide you were you to lie to me, Lord Reston.”
For a man to keep certain matters to himself for years on end was not lying. Nick tried to convince himself of this regularly.
“Call me Nick,” he said softly as they regained the path. “And send a note around to Lady Warne. Be warned, though, she’ll stuff you like a goose if you let her.”
Leah eyed Nick up and down. “I bid you good day, my lord.”
For the benefit of the footman, Nick adopted the same polite tones.
“Good day to you as well, Lady Leah.” He bowed correctly over her hand. “And my regards to your dear sister.”
He appropriated the bench again and watched until she’d left the park, footman in tow. The ducks set up another squawking, and Nick glanced over to see his little scrapper swimming hell-bent for the next offering of crumbs tossed forth from the hand of another pretty young lady.
Scrappers, he reminded himself, were sometimes not fussy enough about how they gained their ends; and eating just any old handout could leave a fellow with a mighty sorry bellyache.
***
The solicitor’s spectacled gaze put Wilton in mind of a rabbit tracking the location of a fox at the watering hole.
“We have yet to receive any indication Lord Hellerington’s intentions are sincere, my lord. There’s been no subtle inquiry, no overt interest, no draft documents sent over by mistake, if you take my meaning.”