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wrap her arms around the baby of the family. The months since Uncle Edward’s death had not been easy on any of them, least of all Willow, who at nineteen should have been looking forward to her first, perhaps even second season here in London.
    Ah, but there had been no seasons for any of them, no advantageous social connections or prospects of any sort. There had only ever been the four of them and Uncle Edward. Kind, if somewhat distant, their mother’s elder brother had always seen to their basic needs, but the extras, such as parties and seasons and introductions to eligible young bachelors, had been overlooked.
    They had never discussed the reasons for this lack, not even among themselves. They had simply accepted their quiet life at Thorn Grove for what it had been: safe, tranquil, and thoroughly predictable. A retired army officer, Uncle Edward had shunned most social occasions, preferring his books and long walks with his hounds on Thorn Grove’s woodland paths.
    Life might have been considerably worse. Laurel knew that, yet as the eldest she wished she could give her sisters all they deserved. To see both twins married and raising a baby or two . . . and for Willow, the prettiest of them all, a white silk gown, dove’s feathers in her hair, presentation at court, and a glorious season ending with a brilliant proposal of marriage . . .
    As for herself . . . yes, she had wants, needs, that could not be met within the confines of their limited sphere. Adventure, travel—to see firsthand the sights she had only ever visited in books, to savor even a small taste of excitement, spontaneity.
    Oh, such a capricious host of wishes, but what did it matter? Wishes, like daydreams, never came true.
    Willow studied her intently. “What’s troubling you, Laurel?”
    “Nothing. Can I not hug my dearest little sister?” She released Willow and turned away, blinking to clear her eyes. It wouldn’t do for the others to see signs of weakness in her, such futile wistfulness. Though they might not wish to admit it—especially the twins—her sisters looked to her for guidance and security, especially now that they were alone in the world.
    She paused again to glance out at the gleaming street and the slick stones of the buildings across the way. Wishing Holly had not gone out so close to dusk and hoping she would be home soon, Laurel started up the back stairs.
    A sharp clatter of the bell and a burst of wind and rain stopped her short. Instead of Holly stepping inside and shaking the wetness from her cloak, a tall young man stood on the threshold, holding the door open against his back. Laurel’s first thought was one of gratification. Apparently someone in this city enjoyed his books more than he feared inclement weather.
    Raindrops streamed off his cloak to splatter the floor; a chilly gust fanned the pages of Ivy’s account book. The man said nothing. His bland expression betrayed no emotion. Taking in his superior height and attentive if uncommunicative stance, Laurel decided he must be a footman, though his dark, nondescript clothing revealed nothing about the personage he served.
    Through the open doorway, carriage lanterns illuminated misty gold circles of rain. Black and sleek and of fine quality, the vehicle displayed no identifying crest or insignia. Laurel heard the carriage door opening, the lowering of the step, someone being handed down to the street. A figure moved into view, cloaked and bowed to the rain despite a second servant standing just behind with an umbrella.
    Something about the size of that figure, and the prim, dancelike step that brought her over the threshold, sent a tingle of recognition up Laurel’s arms.
    Just as two plump hands reached up to draw the hood back, a King Charles spaniel, grown squat and gray-muzzled with age, clambered through the doorway. His wet paws slid on the hardwood floor, and he gave a rapid shake that showered Laurel’s skirts with water. He raised moist, velvety