“Mr. Fitton, would you assist me in a small matter?” Lady Victoria asked, drawing the man a few yards away from the pianoforte.

Mr. Fitton gave an uneasy glance at Miss Urick, his mouth tightening as John escorted the young lady away. Victoria touched Mr. Fitton’s arm, to bring his attention to her.

Although he turned more directly toward her, he kept casting frowning glances over his shoulder at Miss Urick and John. “Yes, Lady Victoria? What is it?” His lips thinned more when he looked at her. “What was that nonsense at the card tables?”

“A mere misunderstanding.” Victoria smiled and clasped her hands at her waist. “I was hoping you might remember if anyone left the room while Miss Urick was playing?”

“Left the room? Why should anyone leave the room? And what should it matter if they had?”

Swallowing a spurt of irritation, Victoria managed to keep her tone unconcerned as she said, “Just a matter of a…” Inspiration cleansed away her annoyance. Then a familiar sense of nausea hit her at the notion, but once she thought of it, she couldn’t think of any other way to explain her questions without a great deal of embarrassment. “A matter of a wager, you see.” She could hardly say the word, wager, but she managed it. She pressed her crossed arms more tightly against her stomach. “With Mr. Archer. I wagered that Miss Urick’s playing was so, er, angelic, that no one could possibly leave the room while she was at the pianoforte. So I wagered that fewer than four were absent.”

A hard gleam in Mr. Fitton’s blue eyes indicated that he was neither amused nor deluded by Victoria’s question. “And yet you saw fit to leave, as did a number of others.”

“Well, yes. I left—hence my question—but it was quite against my will, I assure you.”

“Against your will?”

She blushed and modestly cast her gaze down to the carpet. “It was necessary—I am sure you understand.”

“I see,” he said, though his hard gaze showed no sympathy—or embarrassment at what she had so delicately hinted. “Well, I noticed Mrs. Stedman left, though that was a while before you disappeared.”

“Anyone else? You see, the wager concerns that period between Mrs. Stedman’s return and now, while Miss Urick was playing that beautiful Haydn piece.”

“Everyone was milling around,” he replied, running an impatient hand through his dark hair. “I had no reason to notice anyone in particular. Several of the gentlemen went out to smoke, and others may have left the room, as well.”

“Do you remember who went out to the balcony?”

“That fellow, Wickson, I believe. And his friend—that person with whom you made this ridiculous wager—vanished.”

She couldn’t help defending John. “He was sitting by the fire.”

“Then he should know if anyone else left. You made a foolish wager, my dear, if you want my opinion. That Archer fellow already knows the results if he was sitting by the fire.”

“The wing chair has a high back, and he was staring into the flames as he listened to Miss Urick’s playing. You can hardly blame him if he noticed nothing but the lovely music.”

Mr. Fitton’s handsome face softened briefly at the mention of Miss Urick. The ghost of a pleased smile flitted over his mouth, and he cast another glance in her direction over his shoulder. “Indeed.” He bowed. “However, I am sorry that I am such a disappointing witness. I failed to notice the other guests.”

“Quite understandable,” Victoria replied softly as she examined his chiseled features wistfully.

Even though she’d realized that her heart lay firmly in John Archer’s hands, part of her felt sadly dashed to realize that Miss Urick had earned Mr. Fitton’s affection. The sense of doors closing, of opportunities lost, assailed her.

How could she be so contrary, so insincere and easily swayed? She longed for John with such depth of feeling that at times the intensity took her breath way, and yet here she was, pining over the loss of another man’s interest—a man for whom she had previously cared not one whit.

As inconstant as the moon… Or so Mr. Shakespeare would say.

She nodded, thanked Mr. Fitton, and walked away, ashamed of her conflicting emotions. Glancing around the room, she was relieved to note that John had the larger burden of talking to the women, for there were far more women than men.

Chewing her lower lip, she considered to whom she should speak. Mr. Wickson’s comment about her puce pelisse itched at the back of her mind, an annoying fleabite of a problem.

Had Rose taken possession of the pelisse? If so, why had she been wandering around London wearing it? Why had she walked by Sir Arnold’s townhouse? If she had been seeking Victoria, why hadn’t she knocked on the door and asked for her?

Victoria could only hope that Rose would obey their summons and come soon to explain such extraordinary behavior. There had to be a simple explanation, and hopefully one that didn’t have anything to do with the missing tiara.

Her gaze fell on the plump form of Mr. Wickson. He was standing next to the colonel, and the two men appeared to be deep in conversation. She hesitated for several seconds before straightening her back and walking over to them, conscious of the social awkwardness presented in her situation.

The colonel, a stickler for the proprieties, would no doubt disapprove of her boldness in approaching the two men rather than allowing them the privilege of addressing her first.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said as she joined them, a smile fixed on her face.

“Oh, Lady Victoria,” Mr. Wickson sputtered. “I say, has your maid returned then? Dashed odd thing—her wandering about London in your pelisse—dashed awkward.”

“Yes, well, I hope she shall arrive soon with an explanation, though I must admit that I told her she could have the garment.”

“As well you might!” Mr. Wickson exclaimed. “Wretched garment—not at all the sort of thing I imagine you’d enjoy wearing.”

“My old nanny made it for me. And puce is an exceedingly popular color with a great many people,” Victoria replied, once more leaping to defend the honor—and taste—of Nanny Barrows.

The colonel cleared his throat and eyed her with a hard, censorious gleam in his eyes. His rigid stance made him tower over her, and Victoria took a step back before she determinedly smiled up at him.

“Puce is an excellent color, however that does not explain why it keeps coming into the conversation,” the colonel said. He looked beyond Victoria to the doorway. “Or why it is necessary to drag others into the matter. However, I suppose no one will be satisfied otherwise.” He sighed and shook his head. “I find it all inexplicable.”

“As do I,” Victoria agreed as pleasantly as she could through gritted teeth. “In the meantime, I was hoping the two of you could assist me. You may think me excessively featherbrained, but I have made a wager that no one left the room while Miss Urick was playing. She is so talented, do you not agree?”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Wickson hastened to agree. “Exceedingly talented.”

“And yet you saw fit to escape to the balcony while she was playing, Mr. Wickson,” the colonel observed, his brows beetling over his piercing eyes.

“Well, yes, of course.” Mr. Wickson inserted a finger into his collar and yanked as he looked around the room. “Smoking, you know. Didn’t want to bother the ladies—dashed awkward, I know, but what can you do?” He shrugged. “They object, you know—the ladies, that is—they object to the smoke, though I can’t for the life of me understand it.”

“I’m sure our hostess appreciates your thoughtfulness, Mr. Wickson,” Victoria said reassuringly. “Did anyone join you?”

“Join me?” He stared at her blankly.

“On the balcony. Did anyone join you on the balcony?” she asked, working to keep her tone pleasant though she wanted to grab his neckcloth and shake him vigorously.

“Right, right.” He heaved a relieved sigh and stared at her expectantly.

“Well?” she prompted. “Were you alone on the balcony?”

“Right—oh—yes, well, Sir Arnold, of course.”

“Anyone else?” she prompted when Mr. Wickson stopped, his face assuming an expression devoid of any intelligence, at least as far as she could ascertain. She looked at the colonel. “Did you notice anyone leave the drawing room?”

“This talk of a wager does not fool me, Lady Victoria.” He clasped his hands behind his straight back and stared at her with a tight mouth. “If you are seeking to shift the blame to someone else, then I am afraid I cannot help you.”

“Not at all, Colonel. I assure you, I have no desire to shift the blame to anyone, unless they deserve it.” When he opened his mouth, she continued, saying, “As soon as my maid arrives, I am sure we will settle the matter of my puce pelisse. So. Did you notice anyone else’s absence?”

“I was here and there, Lady Victoria,” he replied vaguely. “Listening to the music. If anyone elected to leave the drawing room, they did not inform me of that fact.”

“I see. Well, I appreciate your observations, gentlemen.”

“Yes, well, don’t feel too bad if Archer wins the wager—he always does. Uncanny, how he does it. Downright uncanny.” Mr. Wickson patted her elbow awkwardly.

Victoria laughed. “Oh, I am still hoping that he shall not get the upper hand, Mr. Wickson. I certainly don’t intend to surrender, yet.”

“Excellent! Teach him a lesson, eh? Serve him right if he loses.” Mr. Wickson grinned as he pulled on his lapels and straightened his evening jacket. “I have a good mind to teach him a lesson, as well, eh? Can’t give up and let him win every wager, can we?”

“No, we cannot,” she agreed warmly. “Did you have a wager, as well, then?”

“Wager? I should think so—a hundred pounds if he marries you.” He winked and nudged her with his elbow. “Don’t give him the satisfaction, eh? Refuse and—I say—refuse and I will split the one hundred pounds with you. Fair enough, eh?” He stared at her with bright, hopeful eyes.

She stared back as the room spun around her. A wave of nausea whirled through her, rushed up, and hit the back of her throat. She reached out to grip the back of a nearby chair.

He wagered he would marry me! Just like Mr. Laverick! Her stomach fell, and if it weren’t for the support of the chair next to her, she’d have collapsed on the floor. As it was, her limbs shook and folded, landing her on the chair’s padded seat.

She loved him, and he had betrayed her. He’d never loved her at all—he was simply trying to win his wager.

But at what cost?

Then she remembered the delicate hints her parents had dropped about John’s family. And parentage. Or lack thereof. Anger, humiliation, and a sharp, stabbing pain filled her. By marrying her, he would make his fortune through her dowry, and win one hundred pounds while he was at it. Not such a bad bargain, for him.

For her, it was devastating. How could she have been so stupid, so silly as to be fooled again by a fortune hunter? What did it say about her that men could so easily make her the subject of their humiliating wagers?

She couldn’t bear to meet the gaze of either Mr. Wickson or the colonel. Her cheeks burned as her body shook. She clasped her hands in her lap and took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm.

Cool. Controlled.

No matter what his motive was, the important thing now was to prove her innocence. She could not allow the shock of her discovery to weigh with her, couldn’t show how it had torn the very heart out of her chest and crushed it.

Never again. I will never again give my affection so lightly. She raised her head. Cold steel filled her. She would not betray herself. No one would ever see the depths of her pain.

She smiled, her lips stiff and unnatural, as she stood. The side of her face itched, and she turned her head to see John watching her, a quizzical look on his face. Colder still, she made another promise to herself.

Mr. John Archer was going to lose his bet.