Chapter One

Hertfordshire, June 1812

Miss Margaret Hall was unexceptional.

That is not to say she was not accomplished. She was passable at painting, needlepoint, and dancing and average at playing the pianoforte. She displayed herself as expected in grace, deportment, and conversation skills—when given the opportunity. Granted, she may have been noted as slightly above ordinary in looks, with her light green eyes and blonde, softly curling hair. Even then, her slender figure was not the rage in London. So she considered herself unexceptional in that regard as well.

But she was strangely good at anything involving numbers.

So it was not particularly surprising that she was often found curled up in a plush chair by the window in her father’s study, assisting him with the estate’s finances and handling the household accounts for her mother. Such was the case this morning.

“My dear.” Papa’s tall frame was folded into a chair as he perused the ledger on his desk before him. “I believe you may have overestimated the cost of tenant cottage upkeep for this year.”

Margaret glanced up, smiling. “Oh no, Papa, I do not believe I have. You see, I spoke with John last week, and he is certain we shall have an extraordinarily wet summer. At least half the tenant cottages have not had new roofs in the past ten years, so I expect we will be undergoing a great deal of repairs. You will see at the bottom of the account how I arrived at the number I did.”

Rather than remarking on her exceptional foresight, Papa’s expression grew worried. If it were not frustrating, it would have been comical to see the sudden furrowing between his brows, the opening of his mouth, and the widening of his eyes. “You were at the stables?”

“No, of course not.” Meg refrained from sighing before explaining how she’d come to speak with the stablemaster. “John came to the kitchen while I was conversing with Mrs. Rutledge regarding the renovation of the east wing. Knowing we would be reviewing this summer’s accounts today, I asked him about the weather. You know he is the very best at predicting those things.”

Papa’s slender shoulders sagged with relief, though his concern did not dissipate. “Quite right. I am glad to hear it. Not about the wet summer—we will have to adjust our planting schedule to account for that—but about you staying indoors. We cannot have you catching cold.”

Meg looked wistfully out the window to her right, the bright sun drawing her in with pointless appeal. “Of course, Papa. Oh, I have already adjusted those schedules.”

Setting down his papers, Papa stood, his face softening into a smile. “What would we do without you, Meg girl?” He crossed the room and cupped the side of Meg’s face gently, peering down at her with his familiar, kind eyes.

Meg returned the smile with more than half-hearted zeal. She could not begrudge Papa for caring for her. Nor his worrying, much as she may dislike it.

He stepped back and checked his watch fob. “Now, I promised your brother I would join him for a paper-boat race. He returns to Harrow in the morning. You will be well in here?” His face betrayed his reticence; his eyebrows pinched together and his jaw tightened as he surveyed Meg for any complaint. Knowing her as well as he did, he had to be aware that she would far prefer to join him and William, her ten-year-old brother. But she inclined her head regardless.

“Of course, Papa. Remind William not to crease his boat too heavily or it will not retain its balance.” Her voice did not come out strained at all, and Meg was proud of it.

“And we are still to have our chess game this evening?”

Her shoulders relaxed. “I must continue my streak.”

“And I mine. Losing continuously can still bring a man pride, you know. It is a mark of consistency.”

“I recall you saying something similar during my own boat-racing phase of youth.” Meg scrunched her nose teasingly, but her eyes betrayed her longing as they darted toward the window yet again. When she returned her gaze to Papa, his jovial humor had vanished, replaced by that pitying look she so detested.

“We would not keep you indoors if we needn’t, Meg girl.”

“I know.” What else could she say?

“And it will not be forever,” he added in a clear attempt to regain her good humor.

She mustered a smile as bright in appearance as she could manage. “I know, Papa. The physician made mention of some potentially safe outings just yesterday.”

“Indeed.” He looked as if he wished to say more, the furrow in his brow becoming more pronounced as he watched Meg struggle to maintain her happy facade. She would swear that furrow had doubled in depth in just the past months. But then he glanced down at his watch fob yet again and seemed to decide against whatever thoughts he might have shared. “I shall see you for chess then, dear.”

Her smile held up until the door closed behind him. Only then did her hands reach up to massage the sides of her face, where the expression had felt especially false, as she returned her gaze to the book in her lap. Numbers were a safe retreat from the pain she felt. They always made perfect sense. Her eyes grazed the page. Well. They generally made perfect sense. She reached over to the table beside her for her quill pen to make a note on the following week’s food expenses. They were far higher than they ought to be.

Tap tap tap.

Pinching her mouth to the side, she flipped back a page to this week’s grocery account, then back again to next week’s. Yes, this account must be wrong.

Tap tap tap.

Now she would need to determine how to tactfully mention the oversight to Mama. That wouldn’t be as simple as one might think. Her mother was particularly sensitive about her daughter handling the household accounts. Not that Mama truly minded—she just did not wish others to know. Nor did she appreciate any of her mistakes being brought to light. How to do it. . .

Crash!

Meg jumped, the ledger sliding from her lap. The inkpot teetered precariously on the small round table, and she righted it before looking about her with alarm. What was—? She peered out the window—Oh.

A grin fought for purchase on her lips, but she refused to show her entertainment. It would only encourage him. Standing, she walked around the table toward the source of the sound, then undid the window latch so that it swung open. Her hands fisted on her hips as her eyes narrowed, both at the sunlight pouring in the window and at the mischievous gentleman standing outside it, balanced atop a short wall in the garden below. He held the remains of what appeared to be a large branch in his hand, presumably the source of the crash against the window.

“Nathaniel Blake, what are you doing?”

Nathan’s grinning face did not seem at all affected by her attempts at scolding. He swung his arms behind him, looking more like a young boy than a fully grown man of twenty-three. “Move that table will you?” He pointed at the window. From where he stood on the wall, he was eye level with her, but several feet away.

“What?”

“The table. Move it over a bit.” And then he jumped, grabbing hold of the windowsill, and hefted himself up to it, his coat straining across his shoulders with the effort. Meg bit back a laugh as she pulled the table out of the way.

“You know where the front door is, do you not?”

“Certainly,” he grunted, swinging his leg into the study. “But this is far more fun.” His other leg followed the first, and he jumped into the room, dusting off his pants. Chestnut hair flipped across his brow as he looked at her, still smiling mercilessly. “Admit it, you would be alarmed if I ever consistently arrived at your front step.”

Meg began moving the table back in place, but Nathan waved her off, lifting and settling it back in its spot easily, then reaching back to close the window. Meg retreated to Papa’s desk, standing in front of it, still struggling against her smile.

“Alarmed? Unlikely. Relieved more like.”

“Ha! You know you love the excitement I bring to your day.” He walked toward her, wagging his eyebrows teasingly. She smacked his arm, then ducked under it, reclaiming her chair. Nathan sat himself atop Papa’s desk, far too at ease for a gentleman who’d just climbed through the window. It was a testament to how often such a thing occurred.

“I admit your unplanned entrances do add a small amount of interest to otherwise mundane afternoons. Very small.” Her fingers pinched together in the air to indicate how little she appreciated his climbing through the window. But then, contradicting her own words, she finally allowed her smile free reign.

“Thank you. A little recognition is all I ask.” Nathan winked at her. “Especially since I had to lurk in your garden for half an hour before your father left. Couldn’t have him see me climbing through windows; he wouldn’t let me come around so often if he did.”

“Oh, but the maid from last week was all right? And the footman from the week before?” Meg raised her brows.

“Well, of course. They are all on my side.”

“Your side of what?”

“Of believing you need a little fun in your days.” His gray eyes took on a strangely serious look as they traveled across her face. “I saw your brother and father crossing the lawn just before you finally noticed my attempts at catching your attention. Which, by the way, required me to throw half a bush at the window. I will need to apologize to your gardener. Are you still confined to the house?”

Meg sighed, staring wistfully out the window again. She spent far too much time gazing out windows these days. “Yes. I know they do it because they love me but . . .”

“But you wish they loved you less?”

She shot him a dry look. “No.” Then she sighed. “But maybe, yes. I only wish they were not so very overprotective. I miss the feeling of the sun on my face.”

Nathan swung his legs slightly and took on an overbearing tone. “Well, I find myself terribly jealous of you, remaining safe inside. Look at all of these freckles.” He gestured dramatically to the bridge of his nose, his eyes crossing in an attempt to see it. “My mother is beginning to accuse me of not taking a great enough interest in the running of the estate. But I simply prefer a more hands-on approach. She told me—my own mother!—that she’d prefer my hands spend a bit more time holding pen and paper. Can you fathom it?”

Meg looked heavenward in feigned exasperation. “You haven’t a freckle on you, Nathan. And we both know you are overly invested in your family’s lands.”

“Exactly! It is why her comments cut so deeply!” He sighed impressively, and Meg laughed again. Nathan was only attempting to raise her spirits, and she appreciated it, but she rather wished he could manage a conversation—or perhaps simply a sentence—without some sort of jest.

He must have sensed her reticence, for he sobered before speaking again. “Meg, you know how sorry I am that you have been stuck in here for so long. But you must realize how very terrified you made them—and me if I’m being honest—when you were sick. You may not recall, but there were very many times the physician did not believe you would last the night.” His hands flexed against their hold on Papa’s desk. “You could have died, Meg. What would we have done if we lost you? It’s a miracle you are before me now, healthy and happy, only four months later. I think we would all like you to stay that way.” His hold on the desk lessened, and he offered her a crooked grin, his stormy eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. A deep groove, not quite a dimple, appeared in his cheek. Meg could not help returning the expression.

“There’s my Meg! Now, what shall we do today to relieve your boredom? Chess? A friendly game of lawn bowls in the portrait hall?”

Meg’s laugh, and response, were cut off with the door bursting open to reveal Mama.

“Margaret! There you are. I need to discuss—Oh, Mr. Blake,” Mama glanced sidelong at Meg with a pointed look at the door, which had been closed. “I did not realize you were visiting. How are you? And how is your mother?”

Meg stood and straightened, grateful there had been at least six feet of space between her and Nathan.

Nathan had jumped from the desk the moment the door opened, and he now flashed Meg another grin before bowing to Mama. “Very well, Lady Hall. And how do I find you this beautiful day? My mother sends her regards.”

Mama smiled indulgently at Nathan, her ire with Meg seemingly forgotten for the moment, though it would likely return later. Meg’s parents allowed her friendship with Nathan in part because they had been friends almost from the moment Nathan sent a crudely made rattle “for the baby” upon Meg’s entrance into the world. Additionally, she believed her parents felt such pity at Meg’s sequestered life that they allowed the friendship to continue, even encouraged it at times. But Mama drew the line at a closed door; she would not allow the visits to continue if she felt untoward behavior was being carried out.

For now, though, she was all smiles for the charming Nathaniel Blake. “I am well, thank you. You must excuse my harried entrance; I simply have the very best news for Margaret! Darling, you will not believe what your father has agreed to! Oh, we simply cannot stay in this dusty room for such a marvelous discussion. Come. Come. Let us retire to the drawing room. You as well, Mr. Blake. I shall need your involvement.”

Nathan’s eyebrows lifted as he shared a glance with Meg.

Meg shrugged slightly. She had no clue what her mother could be about, but whatever it was, hopefully it would provide some sort of diversion from Meg’s rather monotonous existence. Perhaps they were to travel to London for the little Season after all! Having missed the Season—her first Season, the idea was rather thrilling. And terrifying.

Mama still stood just in the doorway, watching them expectantly. “Well? Do not just stand about—come!” And then she swept out the door and down the hall with all the aplomb of a particularly buoyant cloud. Nathan’s low chuckle reached her ears.

“Apparently our lawn bowls game will have to wait.”

Meg smiled. “It would seem so.”