Page 6 of Hearts of Briarwall

“I think,” Ruby said quietly, “the scent is a powerful thing.” Ruby seldom spoke, but when she did, the whole room listened. “At times, when Cyril, Oscar, and George are readying themselves to go out, after the shave soap and the tonic and the pomade and the cologne, I’m rather reminded of peacocks. They are off to strut andwaftand display the feathers God—or Harrod’s—granted them, and whatever females are drawn to that display are the women they consider pursuing.”

Violet leaned forward. “You’re saying they choose the allurements they wish to use forthemselvesand simply wait for the women who are attracted to those particular allurements?”

“More or less. Not one of them are married yet, though.”

“What a novel idea,” Lydia said with a smirk. “Having the audacity to choose what one finds personally comfortable and attractive andthenwaiting for the opposite sex to come to you. If that’s the trend, you’ll find me in breeches and rolling in cedar branches.”

Violet snorted. “The foxes would adore you.”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Lydia said, grinning. “Foxes and hedgehogs to do my bidding.”

Ruby nodded with her own giggle.

“Shall we put it to the test?” Florrie asked with a look of mischief that rivaled Peter Pan’s.

Violet, always the competitive one, squared her shoulders. “What do you propose?”

“I propose I take you all to Floris in London as soon as we can manage. There, we have you personally suited to a perfume, and then ... we simplywaft. And see what happens.” She beamed.

To Lydia’s surprise, each member of the League leaned forward, eyes alight with interest.

“You can’t be serious,” Lydia said.

Florrie turned to her, brow raised. “What are you afraid of? That the wrong man will come calling? Or the right one will?”

Violet leaned back and shrugged. “Seize the opportunity to fly, Wendy-bird.”

Lydia found herself nodding. What could it hurt? Anyway, a trip to London would get her out of the manor and away from playing hostess for an entire day. “Well then.” She lifted her teacup. “To London.”

The others lifted their cups. “To London.”

“And to peacocks,” Florrie said, smiling impishly. “And theirfeathers.”

The room filled with laughter.

Chapter 2

Spencer Hayes wasn’t new to railway cars or stations or the miles in between. Yet his pulse still quickened as the brakes labored to slow the beast of an engine. After the train entered Paddington Station, he folded up the paper he’d been reading and eyed the crowded platform.

As he did, he caught the gaze of the young woman sitting across from him, the one who’d stared at him throughout the trip from Birmingham. Finally having his attention, she smiled prettily. He adjusted his derby lower on his brow and nodded politely, then grabbed his travel case from beneath his seat and rose, making his way to the nearest exit and feeling like a cad. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t even make conversation with—let alone smile at—a pretty woman?

The train came to a stop, and Spencer allowed the cacophony of whistles, the hiss of steam, the shouts of porters colliding with shouts of disembarking passengers and their awaiting welcomes, and the barks of cab drivers to possible fares to muffle his discomfort over the woman on the train. He stepped off the train and made his way to a small leather trunk set on the platform with other passengers’ luggage. He wrapped his hand around the familiar handle and headed out from the massive arched station toward the cabs, the horses, and the swish and step of a thousand people.

Before exiting the station entirely, he turned and looked back at the machinery that had brought him here, the big black cylindrical steam engine above wheels and pistons, the coal car behind—the mechanics of the thing pinging around in his head. How long would it be before the diesel engines ran this line? Not long, likely. Still, he admired the iron horse. It had brought him here, one step nearer his future.

Spencer’s jaw tightened. So many steps. Just months ago, he’d stepped onto a ship to America in search of the education Oxford could not give him. Now, he was home, having learned more than he’d intended. He took a deep breath and let it out, then turned away from the train and the crowd and made his way to the streets beyond.

He reached Westbourne Terrace and strolled past the few motorcars waiting there, admiring the line and curve of each.

“Hayes! Spencer Hayes!”

At the sound of his name, he looked to his right and found a familiar face. “Wooding, you old man.”

Andrew Wooding grinned, reminding Spencer of the schoolboy he’d once played cricket with, and shook his hand.

“How are you?” Andrew said. “It’s been years. Good of you to meet me here. Worked out perfectly with the appointment with my solicitor. Come, let’s get your things in the carriage and leave this smog of a city.” He took Spencer’s trunk and motioned him to follow without waiting for answers. He hadn’t changed there, then.

“I’d think you have a man for that,” Spencer said, half-serious.

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