Simon had never been a big fan of hunting, and he certainly wasn't sorry to be missing out on the event this morning.

And he most definitely wasn't lying to himself on both of those accounts.

Alright, he was most definitely lying to himself.

Simon had, actually, always enjoyed the hunt. But with the absence of Lady Blair and the entire troupe of Rosecrest gentlemen, it allowed him the opportunity to catch Lady Whitley alone.

Last evening had not gone well, to put it mildly.

Perhaps it was because she'd been tired from the journey or distracted by all the commotion in the parlor, but Lady Whitley likely hadn't heard a word coming from Simon's mouth. Of course, it hadn't helped that Simon had hardly been able to put together a single coherent sentence.

She must think him doltish, indeed.

But this morning there would be no distractions, and hopefully, Lady Whitley was well rested after a peaceful night.

Simon set off through Rosecrest, winding his way through the halls, which were filled with portraits and scenic paintings alike. He'd intended on searching for Lady Whitley in the breakfast room, but then she popped into the hallway in front of him, appearing before his eyes.

Perhaps it was a sign of his change in fortune with the lady.

"Oh, Viscount Payne," she exclaimed, turning toward him with wide eyes.

Blonde tendrils fell around her face; it was a delightfully mussed look that had Simon thinking a whole slew of improper things about the lady. He focused instead on her eyes, which were as bright as the country, blue sky was today.

"Lady Whitley," Simon said, nodding in her direction. "I trust you rested well after your travels"

"Quite." She gave a perfunctory nod back.

The poor maiden appeared a little lost, a bewildered expression spreading across her face as she peered about the hall. Or perhaps she was merely planning an escape route.

Simon tilted his head to the side and decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Or perhaps he was giving himself the benefit of the doubt. "Is there something I can help you find? Rosecrest can be quite the maze at times."

Her gaze snapped back to his. "No," she replied, her tone hesitant. "But there is something I'd wanted to ask you, my lord."

She crept toward him. Her slippered feet darted out from beneath a honey-yellow morning gown as she stepped toward him. Simon was momentarily lost in the scent of fresh florals as she neared. It was as if she were a daisy herself, with her white-blonde hair, yellow accents, and flowery smell.

He shook his head, clearing the haze she seemed to cause. "You may ask me anything, Lady Whitley. Anything at all."

Blue eyes all aglow, she said, "I was hoping you could tell me about Lady Farrington."

Simon blinked. "My mother?"

Lady Whitley blinked back. "Why, yes. She is quite...intimidating, is she not?"

"My mother is intimidating?"

Simon really was not doing well with improving his coherent conversation. Apparently, all he could do was repeat her. Simon shook his head once more, determined to do better. "I'm sorry," he said, "is there a reason we are speaking of my mother?"

"It's just..." Lady Whitley nibbled on her lip, and Simon suddenly felt apologetic for how nervous she appeared. She was timid, and yet rather forward, standing a mere pace from Simon. Not that he minded that in the slightest. With a murmur, Lady Whitley said, "I have heard who she is."

"Who she is?" Damnit, Simon. He cleared his throat and tried again, this time trying to not merely repeat her. "I'm afraid I do not understand, my lady."

Lady Whitley leaned forward, quite adorably. And then she whispered to Simon, which was completely unnecessary considering that no one else was around. But he wasn't about to complain; her nearness was splendid. "Lady Farrington is Madame Mischief, is she not?"

Oh, Simon understood now.

He wasn't sure if Lady Whitley saw the truth on his face, but she rushed on to say, "My mother let it slip on our journey here. I have been instructed not to make it obvious that I know, but I cannot help but find myself intrigued by the notion."

Well, of course. What young lady wouldn't be instantly enraptured by knowing that the queen to all of London's gossip was here in this very home. For decades now, Lady Farrington had written the notorious gossip column, Mischief in Mayfair. However, her identity as the Madame was supposed to be a well-kept secret.

Simon thought it to be the very loosest of secrets there ever was.

"She is," he replied after a long pause.

Lady Whitley's eyes lit up, dancing. "My lord, do you think she would talk to me of her work? I should very much like to ask her a few questions."

Simon found it challenging not to smile at her excitement. His mother would most definitely talk to Lady Whitley Ash about...well, anything the lady wanted to talk about. Simon knew that his mother came across somewhat elusive and cavalier at times. She was anything but. His father often said that his mother wore a mask for so long when she was younger that she often forgot to take it off.

But it was never on at home. Lady Farrington was the first to grin at her husband's awful humor and the last to retire to bed if ever her children were up.

However, it would seem that Lady Whitley knew none of that.

At present, the only reason the lady was speaking to Simon with legitimate interest was her keen interest in Madame Mischief. And it seemed like a damn shame to pass by the opportunity to capitalize on that. The devil may strike Simon to hell if need be, he didn't much care. Surely he'd meet his brother here.

"I am not certain," Simon began. "She is quite tight-lipped when it comes to the column."

Actually, she talked all the bloody time about the god-awful thing, and it honestly drove Simon and Sawyer to their wits ends. They couldn't care less who danced with who at the hundredth ball of the season.

"Oh," Lady Whitley's face dropped.

Guilt flooded Simon but only for a moment. "Perhaps I could talk to her for you," he offered. "If there is something you wish to know, I'd be happy to inquire?"

That perked her up if only a small amount.

"That would be lovely, Viscount Payne."

"Please call me Simon. Would you care for a stroll? You can unload all your curiosities on me, which I will later prevail on mother."

Lady Whitley grinned. "That sounds quite nice." Then she added with a little simper, "Simon."

Pleased with himself, Simon offered his arm, and Lady Whitley grasped it. He was rather proud of how he'd maneuvered this situation to his favor. He hadn't even repeated something she'd asked for at least three turns of conversation. It was capital, indeed.

Simon guided her to the end of the hallway, where glass-paned, double doors met them. He pushed his way through it just as Lady Whitley murmured, "I suppose we should acquire a chaperone." She glanced up at him sheepishly.

"My lady," Simon replied, doing his very best to sound reassuring. "We are at Rosecrest. There is no one about to see us." Then he leaned closer to murmur in her ear. "Besides the Queen of England, of course. I do believe she is sitting on the veranda with Aunt Emilia. And they will undoubtedly be keeping a sharp eye on me."

It was another lie. His aunts were quite lackadaisical when it came to decorum and etiquette. And Simon had never been much of a rogue, unlike Sawyer.

Lady Whitley's smile dimpled. Good heavens, the lady had dimples.

Oh, god. What the devil was wrong with him when it came to her? He shouldn't care about anything—he shouldn't care about her dress or smell or dimples or hair—but he did. He cared far too much than was honestly sensible.

"I'll make you a deal, Lady Whitley. I shall tell you all you wish to know about Madame Mischief, of course."

One of her brows peaked. "And in return?"

Simon shrugged. "You can accompany me on my morning strolls each day."

"That does seem fair," she said, cocking her head to the side as if considering it. Then she simply began walking, striding past Simon and out in the rows of rose bushes. He stared after her, wondering if she had suddenly decided against his company. But she rocked to a halt, glancing back at him.

"Are you coming, Viscount Payne?"

Clearing his throat, he corrected her. "Simon."

Her lips tugged upward as she held out her hand. It was a cocky little smile, surprising him. "Simon."

And as Simon walked toward her, he began to wonder if perhaps Lady Whitley knew more of manipulation than he did.

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