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She’d obeyed him, and been good and done everything as she ought. All for nothing!

Knowing it was useless to stay in bed where her thoughts would continue torturing her, Jessamine threw off her covers. Thankfully, Lady Bess had not witnessed her indisposition of the previous evening, and Megan was too kind to say anything.

Kindness—ugh! Jessamine preferred a good, bracing dose of sarcasm or censure to pitying words and looks. An immediate vision of Mr. Marfleet came to her mind, and his teasing words on Bond Street. But she erased them, preferring instead to conjure up Mr. St. Leger’s subtle derision and world-weary air. There was a sophisticated gentleman, and one who had appreciated her wit.

After struggling with her garments, she descended the stairs
to the breakfast room in the hopes that a cup of tea would help her head.

She was thankful only Megan was there so she didn’t have to feign lightheartedness in the face of Lady Bess’s unfailing morning cheer.

Megan smiled, but a second later her smile faded. “Are you quite well? You look pale. Maybe you should have stayed in bed a bit longer the way Lady Bess has this morning.”

“Only a bit of a headache,” Jessamine said, advancing into the room. “It will pass, I’m sure, once I’ve had a cup of tea.”

“Let me get it for you, and perhaps some dry toast.” As she spoke, Megan bustled about serving her.

“Thank you,” she murmured when the tea and toast sat before her. She bowed her head to say grace then took a sip of the strong, hot tea.

“Do you think it was . . . the champagne?”

Jessamine stared at her friend. Between Megan and Mr. Marfleet, it would seem she’d been observed the entire evening. “I’m sure a couple of glasses of champagne can do a person no harm.”

“No, of course not. Unless you are not accustomed to it.” Megan fell silent after her hesitant comment.

Jessamine nibbled at a corner of her toast. A letter from home lay at the side of her plate. She broke the seal and unfolded it. Recognizing her father’s hand, a wave of homesickness came over her as she read about the Sunday services, a sermon he’d prepared, a prayer he’d written, and the calls he’d made on parishioners. All the while he lamented her absence.

My plants are sadly neglected too. I’ve had to be away so much with a spate of illness in the village that I’ve had little time to water the seedlings we sowed. They are crowded and looking reedy. I miss my able assistant, but your mother assures me that a London season is a necessary step at this time of life in order to find a suitable husband.

I was content with finding a wife in my own corner of the world and have been blessed with your mother all these years.

Yet, I understand that it was good for you to be away for a season. Too many memories here, I imagine, the hopes and dreams of youth being dashed.

By now I hope you’ve met a number of young gentlemen to allow you to begin to understand God’s wisdom in taking Rees away. Resignation to God’s will is sometimes hard, but if one trusts in His ultimate wisdom, one will see that the ways of Providence are best . . .

Her father went on in this vein for a few more paragraphs, but Jessamine stopped reading, her fingers crumpling the edge of the paper as she curled them into a fist.

The ways of Providence.
What man had she met in London to rival Rees? Those silly dandies and bucks of the evening before?

Mr. Marfleet—her father would doubtless approve of him. They were cut from the same “cloth.” Her lips twisted at the unintended pun. Quiet, unassuming parsons. Her father had been content to live in a tiny vicarage at the mercy of a rector who lived several hours away in a thriving town and rarely came to see how her father fared.

And Mr. Marfleet had left the comforts of his family name and wealth to go as missionary to a foreign land. Yet, likely back home, he’d receive a comfortable living in some prosperous parish because he was a baronet’s son.

No, she did not consider Mr. Marfleet superior to Rees. Not that Mr. Marfleet was interested in someone like her, someone who imbibed champagne and pawned the family jewels, she thought with a bitter laugh.

“Good news from home?”

She looked across the table at Megan. “Only the usual things. Papa’s sermons and his plants. Thankfully both he and Mama are
well. There has been some illness affecting several parishioners, so I’m glad it has not touched them. I hope your mother is well.”

“I’m thankful your parents are well. Mama writes the same. She is keeping busy visiting neighbors. They had a strawberry picking party at the squire’s, and she has put up several jars of jam.”

“How nice.”

“Jessamine—”

She looked up from the rim of her teacup at the serious note in Megan’s voice. “What is it?”

“Rees is on his way to London . . . with Céline.”

Lancelot was eating his breakfast of cold slices of tongue, a boiled egg, and toast, his mind on his plans for the day, when his father walked into the breakfast room dressed in a riding outfit as he habitually did at that hour, his top boots shining, his cravat spotless, his cheeks ruddy from the outdoors.

“Good morning, Lancelot. I’m surprised to see you up so early,” he said in a jovial tone, glancing down at the
Morning Post
and a tray of correspondence the butler set before his place.

“It is past ten.”

His father helped himself at the sideboard. “Ah, but I know you had a late night. I don’t expect you to burn the candle at both ends. You’re still getting your strength back.”

“I was home shortly after midnight, so no need to worry.”

His father brought his heaping plate back to his place and sat down, rubbing his hands together. “Mm. Nothing like sitting down to a good breakfast after an early morning ride in the park.”

He dug into his food as Lancelot continued his own breakfast.

His father paused to take a sip of coffee. “Did you have a successful evening?”

Lancelot finished chewing before replying. “I’m not certain what qualifies as a successful evening.”

His father chuckled. “In my day it meant dancing with all the
pretty girls making their come-out, promising to call on a few on the morrow, then making the rounds of a few clubs and if my luck wasn’t holding, leaving the tables without having written too many vouchers, and trying my luck with the ladies in Covent Garden. But we won’t go into that, since you are a respectable clergyman.”

“It doesn’t sound as if the life of a young gentleman about town has changed much from your generation to mine,” Lancelot said dryly.

“I suppose it hasn’t. I think Harold is a prime example. He may forgo dancing with the young ladies, but as for gaming and . . . the rest of it . . .” His father sighed heavily before turning his attention back to his plate.

Lancelot leafed through a botanical periodical that had come in the mail. He was reading an article on
Aloe picta
, “spotted aloe,” a native of the Cape of Good Hope, easily confused with the common soap aloe, when his father spoke again.

“Your mother tells me you’re dangling after some chit—or is it two? Doesn’t do to muddy the waters, you know.”

Lancelot pulled his attention from the foreign plant with a scowl. “I don’t believe my behavior qualifies as ‘dangling after a chit.’”

“You must excuse the expression, but I’m afraid you’ve gotten your mother’s hopes up, and I just wanted to see if there’s any substance to the tale. Both she and Harold say the young ladies in question are presentable enough.”

Lancelot stared at his father. “They were present at your own dinner table.”

His father’s light-blue eyes widened and his light-brown eyebrows rose as he searched his memory. “I seem to recall a pair of young things here. Were those the ones? Well, they seemed pretty enough.”

Lancelot said nothing, used to his father’s obliviousness when it came to anything not within his immediate sphere.

“I don’t want to pry into your affairs, my boy, but since you are seven-and-twenty and have evinced no interest in the fairer
sex until now—or kept very quiet about it—you can understand if your mother is snapping like a turtle at a cricket at the merest whisper of any interest on your part.” He smiled gently. “Come now, is there any reason for us to hope?”

Reluctantly Lancelot faced his father again, remembering the look of disdain on Miss Barry’s face as she snatched back her necklace. “I rather think not. The lady in question has taken me quite in dislike, and I really am not sure of my own feelings at this point.” As he’d walked the streets of Mayfair last night, he’d gone from chagrin to a desire to wash his hands of her.

His father mulled over his words before sighing. “Well, thank you for the honest answer, at any rate.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And the other young lady?”

Lancelot shrugged, at a loss. “She is a nice young lady, but—”

“But you are not in love with her. No chance to change your mind?”

Feeling his face redden, he looked down at his empty plate. “I think
love
is too strong a word at this juncture.”

“Well, don’t be surprised if it sneaks up on you before you’re aware.” His father chuckled again. “So, the young lady has got under your skin, has she?”

Lancelot shrugged and flipped over a page of the illustrated periodical. “She wants nothing to do with me, and I begin to think I want nothing to do with her.”

“What’s her name again?”

“Jessamine Barry.”
Jasminum.
Jasmine. He could still smell the heady scent of the jasmine garlands made by the people in India and sold on the streets, used as offerings at their temples and heaped upon their funeral pyres.

His father thrust out his lower lip. Finally he shook his head. “Never heard of her. Barry is an old enough name. Could be a distant relative of any number of Barrys of my acquaintance. Didn’t your mother say she was a vicar’s daughter?”

He nodded.

“Probably as poor as a church mouse, but with that upbringing she should suit as a vicar’s wife if you manage to get a new living soon.”

His father picked up his letter opener and twirled it against his fingertip. “In the meantime, your mother is right. You must find a wife. You are no longer a young man. Even without a living, you have an adequate allowance. But the most pressing thing is to ensure the succession.” He sighed heavily, his eyes somber as he gazed across the table. “It is clear Rosamunde will not give Harold any children.”

Lancelot tried to interrupt, but his father held up a hand.

“It’s been more than ten years Harold has been married with no issue. They live separate lives these days. If one of you doesn’t beget a
legitimate
son soon, the estate and all the lands risk passing to a lesser Marfleet branch—some distant cousin of mine, I shudder to think.”

“Harold is hale and hearty.”

His father gave him a pitying look. “But a few years older than you and living a more reckless life. Of course, jaunting off to India was probably more dangerous than anything he ever undertook. But the good Lord saw fit to bring you back in one piece, if not precisely hale. But it won’t do to tempt fate any longer. I will not accept that both of you fail to produce a son of your own.” His father’s blue eyes fixed on him under his bristling brows.

“I am telling you as your father and head of this family, that before anything else, you must marry and begin producing a family. If this girl won’t have you, look to another. The season’s in full swing. London must be bursting with young ladies of marriageable age. If you can’t attract one young miss with your name and pedigree and a respectable income, you have no right to call yourself a Marfleet!”

“Yes, Father.” Lancelot fixed his eyes on the periodical but could no longer focus on the words. His parents wished him to marry,
yet he felt he had already proven a failure this season and he had little heart to attempt a new pursuit.

Jessamine’s jaw dropped at Megan’s announcement. The next second she snapped it shut. “Rees is on his way to London?”

Megan nodded, her gray eyes filled with concern. “I received a message by courier from Rees. They landed in Dover. He said they’d be here tomorrow or the next day since he is taking it in easy stages, because of . . . Céline’s condition.”

Her condition. Carrying his child. Jessamine looked down at the remains of toast crusts on her plate. Her fingers curled into her napkin. “I see. Where will they stay once in London?”

“I’m not sure. I know Lady Wexham—my goodness, I don’t even know what to call her. Mrs. Phillips sounds so odd and too formal, seeing as she is now my sister.” Megan’s eyelids fluttered downward as if embarrassed to remind Jessamine of the new relationship. “And she’s so much older than I.” She gave a strangled laugh. “More an aunt than a sister, I should say.” Megan cleared her throat. “I know she has a town house here in London, but I don’t know if they’ll stay there. Rees says very little in his note.” She brightened. “Well, I shall soon find out.”

“He will probably call on you right away,” Jessamine said in a wooden voice.

Megan swallowed. “I imagine, unless he has to report to the Foreign Office first. I imagine he’ll be very busy, what with this crisis in France.”

“But not too busy to see his only sister.”

Megan swallowed, her gray eyes large as they gazed into hers. “Will you mind very much?”

Jessamine dusted the toast crumbs off her fingertips. “I shall be fine. I have an idea I wished to discuss with you,” she said in an effort to change the subject. “I wondered if you would care to engage a dance master to teach us the waltz.”

Megan’s eyes widened. “The waltz?”

“Yes. I found it so elegant when I saw it performed last night. But I dared not attempt it without some lessons first.” She looked down at her plate. “But I haven’t much money left since I had the gowns made, so I thought, if you cared to share a dance master with me, perhaps Lady Bess could recommend someone for us at not much cost.”

“I don’t know what Mama would say, or Rees, if they saw me waltzing.”