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Mary Ann hung back, clutching her portion of bread against her chest. “They do not care for being chased,” she said, eyeing aparticularly large mallard that had circled around behind them. She took a careful step away from it. “I believe that one means mischief.”

Abigail stifled a yawn behind her gloved hand. The night had been long, her thoughts circling like the very birds they now attempted to feed. She sank onto the stone bench with relief, wondering briefly if they should have brought Ms. Norwood after all. The woman had a way of corralling the girls’ energy that Abigail, in her current state, could only envy.

The ducks regarded Heather’s offering with imperial disdain, as if bread crusts were beneath creatures of their stature.

“Maybe they don’t like bread,” Mary Ann observed, scattering a handful of crumbs in front of the finicky fowls.

“They’ve likely been fed a bakery full of treats this morning considering half of London is here,” Abigail said, settling on the stone bench overlooking the pond. The morning had proved warmer than expected, and she turned her face into the sun, enjoying the heat.

As the girls continued to coax the recalcitrant ducks to eat, she glanced up the gentle slope where Graham had positioned himself beneath a sprawling oak, arranging their picnic with military precision. Each item from the basket found its appointed place on the blanket—plates aligned, napkins folded into perfect triangles, cutlery positioned at exact angles. As if by ordering these small things, he might somehow contain the wild uncertainty of a family outing.

He’d kept his promise about the park, despite the shadows still lingering beneath his eyes. The weather had held—both outside and between them.

It’s a start.

“Uncle Graham says ducks remember faces,” Heather announced, abandoning her bread to chase a particularly fleet-footed bird along the water’s edge.

“Then they shall know to hide from you next time,” Mary Ann said, edging away from several ducks who had discovered the feast.

The shadow fell across her lap. Abigail looked up, shading hereyes against the sun.

“What a charming picture.”

A gentleman approached with the deliberate pace of someone who expected others to wait for his arrival. His walking stick—ebony with a silver ferrule far too ornate for a simple park outing—struck the path with each step, like a conductor’s baton marking time.

He was perhaps forty, thin but wiry, with dark blond hair just beginning to gray and sharp, fox-like features that seemed perpetually poised for amusement at someone else’s expense. His clothes spoke of money spent but not wealth possessed—a brocade waistcoat embroidered in gaudy colors, a jeweled cravatpin, and a coat whose cut had been the height of fashion several years past.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he continued, sweeping his hat from his head with a flourish that belonged on a theater stage. “But I simply could not pass without greeting my dear little treasures.”

“Cousin Freddy!” Heather’s excited cry shattered the quiet, sending ducks scattering across the pond. She dashed forward with arms outstretched.

Mary Ann followed with decorum, but her face brightened with pleasure. “We didn’t know you were coming to park.”

Rarely had she taken such an instant dislike to a person. She stepped forward, but the girls were already rushing into his embrace.

Everything about this man is wrong. But who is he?

The man caught Heather in an embrace that lifted her clear off the ground, swinging her in a circle that sent her dress billowing. “My darling hurricane, how you’ve grown! And Mary Ann, my precious blossom, still the little lady, I see.” He set Heather down and withdrew two small packages from his coat. “I couldn’t arrive empty-handed for my special girls.”

Heather immediately tore into hers, squealing with delight at the painted spinning top inside. Mary Ann carefully unwrapped a neat bundle of vibrant ribbons, holding them up with a widesmile. Nothing extravagant, but chosen with clear knowledge of their preferences.

Abigail rose from the bench. In all their conversations about the girls, Graham had never once mentioned this cousin who so clearly knew them well. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”

“Ah, forgive me.” His gaze traveled over her walking dress, lingering a moment too long to be polite. “Frederic Hollan, Baron Hollan of Windcroft. And you must be the new duchess who has so thoroughly captured all of London’s attention. How fascinating to finally meet you.”

His smile revealed too many teeth and not enough truth.Abigail had seen enough predators in London’s drawing rooms to recognize another.

“Lord Hollan,” she acknowledged with the smallest dip of her head—just enough for courtesy, not enough to suggest deference.

“Cousin Freddy used to visit Mama all the time,” Mary Ann explained, testing her new ribbons against her hair. “Before she and Papa went to heaven. Do you think this one will match my blue dress?” She held up a pale yellow ribbon for Abigail’s inspection.

“Your dear mother had such a generous heart,” Lord Hollan said, his voice taking on a note of practiced sorrow. One hand pressed briefly to his chest, as if physically containing his grief.

Abigail bent to inspect the ribbon, taking the moment to steady herself. “I think it will be lovely with your dress. Girls, please thank your cousin for your gifts,” she instructed, smoothing her dress while glancing back up the hill where Graham stood with his back to them, surveying their picnic spread.

Turn around, Graham.

“Thank you, Cousin Freddy,” the girls intoned, dropping curtseys.