Page 24 of Hearts of Briarwall

If Andrew was worried about the tenuous position of the farming landowner surviving Britain’s second industrial revolution, it was founded. How he would like to help his friend diversify. He owed him that. He owed Briarwall that.

“We are meeting a gaggle of brothers,” Spencer said. “Baird? Brooks?”

“Burke.”

“That’s the one. We are meeting them at a horse auction and then taking luncheon at a club in Guilford.”

“Grant’s.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s Florrie’s club,” she said offhand.

He sputtered. “Miss Janes owns a gentlemen’s club?”

She looked at him as if he were daft. “No, silly, it’s one of her father’s clubs. Grantmore Hill is the estate, his clubs are ‘Grant’s,’ and Grantworks Locomotive is his empire. And I promise you, if Florrie owned a club, it would not befor gentlemen only.”

He scratched his head. “No, I imagine not.”Grantworks Locomotive.He shook his head at the magnitude of that holding alone. “Family name?”

“Veryoldfamily name.” Miss Wooding stood, dusting off her breeches. “Well, I’d best be off. Florrie might prefer late mornings, but once she’s going, she’s about as patient as Andrew.” She walked to Hermes, who lifted his head and nudged her. She pulled a treat from her pocket and offered it to him, stroking his withers, the morning sun caressing both beast and woman. “C’mon, Hero.”

The dog nudged Spencer’s hand before trotting off after his mistress. The whole picture left him charmed.

Lydia mounted the stallion. “Do you walk every morning, Spencer?”

“It’s a habit of mine, yes,” he said.

She grinned. “Then perhaps we’ll meet this way again.” She turned the horse, and the trio cantered off toward the stables.

Spencer found himself at odds as to whether or not he’d look forward to that.

Florrie finished her animated and detailed retelling of the key hunt just as the Janes’s Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of Floris perfumery at 89 Jermyn Street in London. The Wendy League exited the car with a flurry of skirts and a flock of gauze, ribbon, and rosette-adorned hats. Florrie’s lady’s maid, an older woman called Agnes, followed as chaperone. The driver nodded at Florrie’s instruction to return in an hour and drove off.

Lydia never tired of riding in a motorcar. She was thrilled and fascinated by every part of it: the vehicle’s speed, the growl of the engine, and the motions of working the pedals and steering column. Whenever she could manage it, she would lean over the back of the driver’s bench, peppering Kemp with questions and memorizing what it took to operate the Rolls-Royce. She’d become quite good at ignoring the disapproving looks from Agnes. The woman wasn’therlady’s maid.

The jingle of a shop’s bell pulled Lydia’s attention away from the retreating car, and she grinned at Florrie’s impatient beckoning for her to join the other girls already crossing the threshold into the grande dame of London perfumeries. She entered the shop and a gathering of fragrances filled her senses. Mahogany display shelves gleamed with polish and glass, showing off crystal decanters, glass bottles, and crisp, tastefully printed boxes. Soaps, shaving creams, and tonics, and of course perfumes and eaux de toilette, each held their own space in the sparkling shop.

One of two well-dressed gentlemen behind a long counter approached across the parquet floor and bowed. “Ladies, welcome to Floris. I am Mr. Dupree. Miss Janes, we received your message yesterday afternoon. I look forward to accommodating your friends’ desire for a fragrance to reflect each of their tastes and personalities.”

Florrie offered her hand. “I am delighted, Mr. Dupree.”

He took her hand and bowed over it, then righted himself.

Florrie introduced the girls. “My dearest friends—Miss Burke, Miss Wooding, and Miss Whittemore.”

Another bow. “Ladies. If you will follow me, we have reserved a table for you toward the back.” He gestured and took the lead, the girls following. Agnes took a chair near a front window and pulled out her crochet hook and thread, settling in to wait.

“I hope they haven’t taken my name to heart,” Violet said with a smirk. “All my life, I’ve received a violet-scented something-or-other.”

“You don’t like the scent?” Lydia asked.

She wrinkled her nose and fiddled with the aquamarine dragonfly pinned to her lapel. “I did as a child. It’s very sweet, isn’t it? I’m not a child anymore.”

“No. You are not.” She put her hand on Violet’s arm and leaned in conspiratorially. “The violet is such an unassuming little flower that I’ve always suspected it of malevolence. Those small, bright green leaves and all that delicate purple.” She pretended a shudder. “I shall help you steer clear.”

Violet raised her hand to her heart. “My champion.”

Lydia laughed.

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