"I wouldn't know. I've never been north of the Cotswolds. But yes, Yorkshire." Cabot nodded. "I've just received a message from Worthington House. Apparently Mr. Worthington has got himself into a bit of a pickle in a place called Farby in Swaledale. Perhaps I am not reading Miss Atalanta's decidedly florid handwriting properly but it appears to have something to do with a giant sheep."

"Lysander Worthington wrote a letter to his family?"

Cabot held out the note he'd received from Miss Atalanta. "No, the letter from Yorkshire was written by a Mrs. Oakes. Miss Atalanta comments upon her excellent spelling but sadly deficient penmanship."

"An educated lady? Rusticating away in the Shire of York? I shall always call it that now, I have decided, for I much prefer it. It always did seem a place out of pace with time." Button steepled his fingers thoughtfully and narrowed his eyes. "A mystery lady keeping poor Lysander away from his family? I must know more."

Cabot watched the gleam rise in Button's pale blue eyes. Oh, no. Marrying off the Worthington clan, one by one, seemed to be Button's raison d'etre.

It was just as he feared.

"The Shire of York should be lovely this time of year," Button mused as if to himself.

Cabot made no response. Looking up, Button smiled at him sweetly.

It was the puckish tilt of his head that did Cabot in every time. He hid the ache behind his usual severe demeanor and said nothing.

"I'm well aware that you prefer the city," Button said in response to Cabot's silence. "You need not accompany me. I shall merely tag along with those Worthingtons whom are set to travel the Great North Road."

Cabot gazed evenly back at Button. As if he would stay behind. "Someone should come along to keep you out of trouble. Worthingtons aren't, as a rule, equipped with a great deal of common sense."

Button nodded agreeably enough. "If you insist."

Cabot turned away, his elegant fingers creasing the note closed with great exactitude. "I insist."

As if he would ever allow Button to leave his sight again.

One night. One random act of thievery in his desperate nineteenth year. One breaking of a lock to search for something, anything to sell for food or shelter.

He'd been so hungry, so clumsy. He had knocked over a small cabinet in the dark. It had crashed to the floor, its myriad tiny drawers casting a spray of buttons out onto the floor.

He'd tried to make a run for it, slipping and falling again on the button-covered floor, when a gentle voice had spoken from the darkness in the back of the shop.

"You look cold. Would you like a hot cup of tea? There's a room in the attic. You don't have to pick up the buttons until tomorrow."