“He’s a retired regimental. Good with his fists and a saber. With a gun, too, if we need it.” Kit snorted a laugh. “Just get his name right from now on.” He, too, kept his eyes on the door. “Who is with Miss Spencer?”

“Annabel Pearce, Baron Chilworth’s eldest daughter.” Jasper scratched his chin. “I had hoped Spencer would hire some dotty old matron for his daughter’s companion.”

“Someone who sleeps in the corner and focuses on her knitting?” Kit teased. “Is she going to be a problem?”

An astute guardian would keep Miss Spencer on her best behavior. There would be little chance to baffle her with charm and too much punch and learn more about her father’s movements in London.

For years, Jasper had watched the men of Society embark on daring reform, either through legislation or direct action, only to return to stillness and the status quo, their gazes searching the shadows as they spoke. They acted differently. They spoke differently. Their courage died.

After one too many incidents, he began looking where they looked, seeing what they saw. Whom they saw.

Sir Reginald Spencer.

Jasper wanted Spencer off the chessboard. Annabel Pearce was too attentive to let him accomplish it easily.

“Most definitely.”

Chapter Two

It is goingto be a long month.

Annabel strolled through the hedge maze that had likely once been the pride of Kennet Hall’s garden. Now, its outer shape was a model of smooth respectability, but its paths were bisected with clumps of weeds. The inner walls were marred with tendrils and sprouts that waved in the breeze like hair escaping its pins.

Despite that, it was the perfect refuge. Its circular shape reminded her of the labyrinth in the courtyard of her village church. Many times she’d walked the worn stones in thought, searching for peace of mind.

Something she desperately needed today.

Sitting in Sir Reginald’s library, agreeing to his scheme had seemed the simplest path. Now that she was here, the task he’d set for her seemed enormous. The house was a sprawling mass of staircases and hallways, full of guests and servants. Of which she was neither.

Not for the first time since her father’s bankruptcy, Annabel thought it would be easier to be a maid. The work would be difficult, certainly, but she’d be able to leaf through Lord Ramsbury’s papers without notice. She’d also have a place far from those who had known her in her past life.

Which made it sound like she had died—faded away with the loss of her dowry.

“I’m still shocked to see Annabel Pearce here—in gray, no less. It’s such an unbecoming color on a young lady. She looks as though death will be knocking any moment.”

The voice, with its nasal pitch, soaked through the green wall of the maze. It belonged to Belinda Wallace, who had come out the year after Annabel. In a ballroom, clad in silks and lace, butter wouldn’t melt in Belinda’s mouth. But they weren’t in a ballroom, and it was easy to imagine the sly, sharp smile she wore everywhere else.

“Though the gray is at least this year’s style,” said Charlotte Bainbridge. “Last Season her gowns were all from the year before, if not older.” Her hushed tone made it sound as though previously worn dresses were the eighth deadly sin. “It’s no wonder that she didn’t catch a beau.”

“Dresses had nothing to do with it,” Belinda said. “She’s as poor as a church mouse. Father says Baron Chilworth risked everything in a scheme that came to nothing. They’ve rented or sold as much as they could. Father’s talking of making an offer for their library, though Mother can’t understand what he wants with piles of old books.”

Despite the warm sun and the spring breeze, a chill went through Annabel. Her family’s library would belong to someone else, or to several someones if an auction was required. The ton would dismember and distribute it without respect to the family who had curated it with a reverence others reserved for horses.

“Miss Pearce loves her library,” Elizabeth said. “She speaks of it often. It will pain her greatly to lose it.”

The sadness in the girl’s words, her proper use of Miss Pearce, gave Annabel’s spirit a lift. They would never be true friends, but perhaps she was making an impact on her young charge.

“Aren’t you worried about having a companion not much older than you?” Charlotte asked. “I can’t imagine why your father chose her.”

“Mama was meant to bring me out,” Elizabeth explained. “When she grew too ill for London, Father had to find someone quickly. Miss Pearce was the best of those who applied.”

Annabel remembered their meeting quite differently. She had been so panicked over being sent to the workhouse that she’d accepted Sir Reginald’s offer without questioning the salary. Only after a month did she realize how much she was underpaid.

Still, working for her wages was better than scheming for a wealthy protector.

“It was kind of your family to take her,” Belinda said. “But I’d be wary. It would be a shame to have her turn your beau’s head while you aren’t looking.”

In the long pause that followed, Annabel was tempted to break through the hedgerow and tell them all how little she thought of ton men and their double lives. How she’d rather spend her days alone than be forced to gossip with empty-headed ladies who sent their children to nannies and their husbands to mistresses without a second thought.

Never mind that the young men queuing up for Elizabeth were barely able to shave.

But it would do no good. No amount of protest would convince these sheltered girls that a different life existed outside their family’s walled gardens.

“You shouldn’t worry Elizabeth so,” Charlotte said. “In that drab color, with her nose in a book and no dowry? No man will ever take notice of Annabel Pearce.”

A Season ago, the mean-spirited comments and the malicious giggles that followed would have stung. Now, Annabel’s skin was thicker. She had made the difficult choice to pay her own way. She was making—

“Too right, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said, laughing. “She’ll be lucky to have the blacksmith as a husband. Her children will be born with ashes under their nails.”

The girl’s jibe sent a pin into Annabel’s heart and heat to her ears. She didn’t crave a husband, but the thought of never having children woke her in the middle of the night and sent her curling around a pillow. When dawn broke, she consoled herself with the thought of making a difference for others’ children. Like Elizabeth.

But she was making no measurable difference at all. She was simply stepping in to ensure another ton brat found a better title and a larger house.

“I could tell you that eavesdroppers never hear well of themselves.”

Annabel spun to face the speaker, realizing too late that the wild hedges had caught her hair. At least the snare gave her a reason for the tears in her eyes.

“Instead I’ll tell you it could be worse.” Fiona Allen reached up and helped free her before smoothing the loose strands back into place. Her twisted smile and arched eyebrow gave her words a dark humor. “You could be me.”

Every Society matron in London told their daughters, nieces, cousins, and random guests at tea the story of Fiona Allen’s fall from grace. It was a twisted fairytale of a beautiful girl with a father so wealthy his lack of title didn’t matter, a splash of a first Season, and a quick engagement with the bachelor heir every girl had wanted.

And prematurely anticipating the wedding night, a broken engagement, and a hurried trip to the Continent to avoid the scandal.

She was a walking warning about the results of disobeying the rules.

What Annabel remembered, however, was Amelia Chitester’s disastrous house party and Fiona’s brazen flirtation with Amelia’s fiancé. How scandal shadowed her every step.

Annabel reached to her hair to check the pins. “I’m sorry, Miss Allen.”

“Don’t be. My life is much less complicated these days.” Fiona took Annabel’s hand and tucked it into her elbow. “Let’s leave these harpies-to-be in our wake. There used to be a lovely statue garden at the end of this path.” She stumbled over a flowering vine trailing across the path. “Perhaps the jungle hasn’t claimed it yet.”

Annabel tried to free herself. Guests could stroll the grounds. She was not a guest. “Miss Allen, I should be—”

“Miss Spencer doesn’t need you in the daylight. Besides, all the young men are in the stables, no doubt wagering over whatever race Jasper has planned.” Fiona tugged Annabel forward.

“I could return to the house.” She should. If Jasper Warren was out planning a race, it was the perfect time to search his office.