Lady Victoria splashed cold water over her face again. Despite every trick Rose suggested to remove the puffy redness encircling her eyes, nothing seemed to work. Her complexion remained splotchy, and her eyes revealed all too plainly that she’d spent the last few nights crying into her pillow.

No news about Mr. Archer’s fate had reached her. Even Miss Urick had lost interest, shrugging when Victoria asked her.

Unfortunately, her other sources of news were more limited. The other ladies she knew didn’t know Mr. Archer, and it would be a week or more before any death notice appeared in the newspapers, so there would be no immediate help there.

She hated the weakness her weeping exposed, particularly when her parents questioned her. Nightmares, she’d told them. Anything else was impossible. Mentioning Mr. Archer would invariably bring up the subject of the marriage list, and she didn’t want to think about that.

Patting her face dry, she stared out her window at the lovely streaks of blue, rose, and peach painting the sky as the sun slipped below the rooftops. A few puffy streaks of dark gray spiraled upward from chimneys, as maids started evening fires to warm the occupants while they prepared for their evening’s entertainments. Despite the faint chill in her bedchamber, Victoria had declined a fire, hoping the coolness of the air would fade the tearstains on her face.

Tonight was Sir Arnold’s supper, and as unbelievable as it seemed, her parents had assured her that all four of the men on the marriage list were to attend. The affair would provide Victoria with the perfect opportunity to compare one to the other and come to a decision. In fact, her parents had already made an appointment with her for tomorrow morning at ten. They wanted her answer so that her father’s lawyers could draw up the final marriage contract.

Nonetheless, she doubted a decision would be as easy as her parents believed. She didn’t even know if Mr. Archer remained alive. A sharp sob caught in the back of her throat at the thought that he might already be resting in his coffin, awaiting burial. She coughed and finished wiping the water from her cheeks before her maid could remark on her unsettled state.

A bit of rice powder covered some of the splotches, although it left her cheeks deathly pale, and her eyes rimmed with dark red. She sighed as Rose pinned the last curl into place, the tip of the maid’s tongue peeping out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated on perfecting Victoria’s sophisticated, upswept hairstyle.

At least there was one bright spot. If Lord Taggert and his sister were at Sir Arnold’s supper party, it most likely meant that Mr. Archer was still alive. Otherwise, Lord Taggert would have been engaged in packing hastily for his proposed trip to Vienna to visit his cousins.

Staring one last time at her reflection in the mirror, Victoria’s shoulders slumped. Another thought sobered her. Perhaps Mr. Archer had succumbed to his wounds and no one cared sufficiently to stir up a scandal or demand justice. By killing him, Lord Taggert might have proved, once and for all, that Mr. Archer was a nobody, a man unworthy of notice or concern.

Blinking and swallowing back an intense sense of loss, of nearly overwhelming loneliness, she accepted her evening gloves, reticule, and fan from Rose. When she cast one last glance at the mirror, her sadness was so complete that she felt numb. The silver threads woven into the muslin fabric of her gown glinted softly in the last, pale amber evening light. The Van Dyke points gracing the neckline and hems of her sleeves and the intertwined vines of silver embroidery on the bodice looked beautiful in the soft light. Her mother and she had worked hard on that embroidery, muttering more than once when they had to snip and pick out an errant stitch and redo it. Even the hem ended in Van Dyke edging below a thick band of embroidered embellishment.

Despite her somber, tear-streaked face, the dress flattered her, although it failed to lift her mood. She might just as well have worn rags. With a sigh, she fixed a smile on her face, left her room, and joined her parents, waiting for her in the main hallway. Her mother gave her a searching glance, a worried frown carving a V between her brows, but she didn’t make any comments.

Breathing more easily with relief, Victoria climbed into their old-fashioned carriage after her parents.

“Sir Arnold, Colonel Lord Parmar, Lord Taggert, and Mr. Fitton will all be present.” Her father folded his hands over the silver knob of his cane, holding the stick upright between his knees. “Best opportunity you’ll have, my girl, to see them all in one place and make a decision.” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a gusty sigh. “Be glad to get the business done with and you settled at last. Can’t remember your brother having such a time of it, but he’s always been a decisive devil—bit like myself. He no sooner set eyes on Lady Hannah than he decided to approach her father. Married her two months later.” He studied Victoria. “I suppose you take after your mother.”

Beside him, her mother gave her an exasperated smile that barely curved her mouth. She shook her head and shrugged.

When her father sank into such a pompous mood, there was little anyone could do except allow him to talk until he wound down, rather like permitting the monotonous chirping of a wind-up mechanical bird to continue until the spring uncoiled.

While he rambled on, both ladies focused on the windows, watching the last of the deep blue evening light fade. A few lamplighters were already lumbering down the walkways, reaching up with long, curving poles to light the street lamps.

The journey wasn’t long, just a few blocks at most, but the coach kept their shoes and the delicate hems of their dresses clean.

When they were a block away from Sir Arnold’s townhouse, Lady Longmoor caught her daughter’s gaze. “Your friend, Miss Urick, should be there, my dear, as well as several other young ladies, so you should enjoy yourself.” She smiled and leaned forward to pat Victoria’s clasped hands. “That gown turned out remarkably well; I’m so pleased you wore it.”

Though the cloak she wore hid her gown, Victoria glanced down. Perhaps the other guests would only notice the silver-shot gown and not her red-rimmed eyes. With so many other younger ladies present, fortune might smile on her tonight after all, she thought wryly. Her splotchy complexion and maturity might convince the men that the fresher, and certainly happier, young ladies were more to their taste.

Some of the heaviness crushing her chest eased. She smiled at her mother.

“I believe even that Mr. Wickson, who so interested you before, may be there,” her mother said.

“Wickson?” her father frowned thoughtfully and tapped the tip of his cane against the wooden floor. “Wickson? Is he on the list?”

“No, dear,” her mother said. “However, his family is respectable and quite well off, I believe.”

“Wickson? The son of George Wickson? Blithering idiot at Oxford—can’t imagine he’s changed much in the intervening years. Stout enough in a fight, however, and a decent friend. Not a bad sort. If this Wickson of yours is anything like his father…” His words drifted off, and he shrugged. “Well, of course he’d be easy enough for an intelligent girl to manage. If she wished to.” His eyes studied her from beneath lowered brows. “Hadn’t thought you’d be the managing sort, but you women will go your own way, I suppose. Your mother will advise you on the best course. I won’t interfere. My only advice is to listen to her—a sensible woman, your mother.” Chuckling, he gently elbowed Lady Longmoor.

Smiling, she leaned over to give him a light kiss on the cheek. “Yes. After all, you always take my advice, don’t you, dear?”

The carriage rocked and jerked to a halt before her father could respond to his wife’s sally, much to Victoria’s relief. While part of her was pleased to see her parents enjoying one another’s company, a greater part of her wished they would do so behind closed doors. She shifted uncomfortably as a footman came to open the door and let down the narrow steps.

Inside, the butler relieved them of their outer garments and escorted them up the staircase to the drawing room on the first floor. Victoria followed her parents, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in her stomach. If Mr. Wickson were there, she might be able to discover how severely Mr. Archer had been wounded. Or if he had succumbed to his injuries.

The large drawing room they entered had a bow window framed with forest green brocade curtains at one end, overlooking the street below. Several comfortable sitting areas, arranged like islands atop oriental carpets in rich shades of green, cream, gold and brown, broke up the wide expanse of the wooden floor, and a pair of Grecian urns graced half-columns on either side of the doorway.

While the furniture mostly consisted of graceful Queen Anne style chairs with elegant cabriole legs and low, oval tables, it clearly lacked a woman’s touch. The absence of any flower arrangements or decorations other than the urns framing the doorway and a mixed collection of portraits and landscapes on the walls made it clear that Sir Arnold rarely used the room except for the occasional soiree.

The butler announced them, and Sir Arnold came forward, along with a stately woman he introduced as his aunt, Mrs. Stedman.

She was almost as tall as her nephew, with similar gray eyes and curly brown hair held away from her high forehead by a sparkling diamond tiara. However, where he always seemed to be smiling and jolly, she seemed more reserved, though she smiled kindly at Victoria and nodded in greeting. Her gown was a lovely dove gray with blue, green, and rose embroidery around the neckline and hem, and the soft colors flattered her. Sloping shoulders and a very long neck gave her a swanlike appearance, and when she tucked a hand through Victoria’s elbow to draw her further into the room, Victoria felt a sense of welcome and relief. The evening might not be so bad, after all.

Grinning jovially, Sir Arnold bowed and waved them into the room to perform swift introductions. When Victoria looked at him, she realized he had similar sloping shoulders, although his were far wider and heavier than his aunt’s. His brown curls were already starting to recede from his wide forehead, but he had a pleasant, open face and his consistently good mood was infectious.

“We have an excellent assortment of unattached gentlemen tonight, Lady Victoria, so you single ladies ought to be pleased, though I can’t say as I enjoy the competition, eh?” He started to move his bent arm as if to nudge her in the ribs before he collected himself and covered the abortive gesture by raising a fist to his mouth and coughing. “I daresay you can take your pick, eh? A pretty woman has but to make her choice.”

“I suppose,” Victoria replied. “Though it rarely seems that easy.”

“Easy?” He shook his head and chuckled, raising his hand as if to clap her on the shoulder. Ruddy-cheeked, he brushed off his lapel, instead. “No—never easy. Love’s course never runs smoothly and all that. But you’ll be settled and surrounded by a gaggle of young ones before you know it—mark my words.”

The picture of children leaning against her, their plump arms around her neck, brought such a sudden stabbing of desire that it nearly took her breath away. She’d always wanted children—expected to be a mother by this time—but she’d never realized how much she longed for them.

She smiled and nodded, only half listening as he made a few introductions. When he brought them to Colonel Lord Parmar, Sir Arnold made a sly jest that seemed to completely escape the stiff-backed, ex-military man. The colonel stared down his nose at Sir Arnold and greeted Victoria as if Sir Arnold had not spoken.

It was hard not to smile when Sir Arnold chuckled and winked, sharing his amusing, private joke with her. His fine, gray eyes—his best feature—twinkled with good humor.

Her spirits lifted, and Victoria found that her smile was no longer forced as the tall widow, Mrs. Stedman, led her over to a group of ladies seated in front of the cavernous fireplace.

But Victoria couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder, searching for the plump figure of Mr. Wickson. He wasn’t there, and her fragile hope flickered and died. There would be no news of Mr. Archer, after all. Her smile faltered, but at Mrs. Stedman’s light touch on her arm, she pinned a pleasant expression on her face and straightened her shoulders.

Perhaps it was for the best. After all, her parents hoped that she would make a decision tonight. Mr. Wickson—and news of Mr. Archer—would only be a distraction. Her gaze went to Sir Arnold, watching as he chuckled over some statement her father had made.

Her host was certainly pleasant, and would surely make a good natured and indulgent husband. He had many good qualities, she was certain. Perhaps she would grow to love him, even if she felt no attraction and nothing but a mild friendship for him now. At least he didn’t repel her, and he had a very nice aunt.

“Lady Victoria, I believe you know Miss Urick and Miss Jacobs, do you not?” Mrs. Stedman asked courteously.

“Yes—you are both looking very well,” Victoria replied wrenching her attention back to the ladies.

The two ladies wore similar white dresses, but Miss Urick’s was white muslin while Miss Jacobs wore silk. Extensive pin tucks and white-on-white handwork decorated Miss Urick’s gown, while wide lace framed Miss Jacobs’s short neck. Their jewelry was simple, as befitted two young ladies. A lovely cameo graced a thin gold chain resting on Miss Urick’s bosom, and matching earrings dangled from her ears. Miss Jacobs wore a gently glowing necklace of pearls, as well as a pearl bracelet and earrings.

“And Mrs. Grisdale and her daughter, Miss Grisdale, were also kind enough to join us,” Mrs. Stedman said, drawing a middle-aged lady and young girl forward.

Miss Grisdale looked to be barely eighteen, if that, with lustrous black hair and dark eyes that gave her an attractive, exotic appearance. Her pale pink dress, however, was not particularly flattering to her dark coloring, and gave her skin a washed-out, sallow appearance, which was too bad, as her oval face and regular features were beautiful.

Her mother had the same regular features, but deep lines ran from her aquiline nose to the corners of her wide mouth, and her eyes were a brownish hazel. While she smiled graciously, there was a sharpness to her gaze and thinness to her lips that hinted at an easily roused temper. The impression was reinforced by the hesitant glances her daughter kept casting her way. Clearly, the girl was used to—and feared—sudden changes of mood from her mother.

Victoria murmured a greeting before her hostess swept her onward to a pair of ladies standing closer to the fireplace.

“Have you been introduced to the Misses Owsley?” Mrs. Stedman asked.

“No, I have not had the pleasure.”

“Then may I present Miss Owsley and Miss Maud Owsley.” Mrs. Stedman paused and gave a polite laugh. “Oh, dear. Am I in error? I am not sure which twin was born first and is the eldest.”

The lady introduced as Miss Owsley grinned. “Miss Grace Owsley, perhaps. And my sister is Miss Maud Owsley. We have an older sister, you see, who could not attend.” She glanced around. A slight frown creased her brow. “Which is perhaps a good thing since we ladies already outnumber the men, making it excessively awkward.”

Miss Grace Owsley’s expression cleared quickly, though, and her warm smile returned. Her fair hair was piled in curls on her head and threaded through with a green ribbon that matched the ribbon embroidery encircling the sleeves, hem, and neckline of her pale yellow dress. A pearl necklace hung around her neck, and a gold heart-shaped locket, its edge decorated with diamonds, hung from the center of the pearl strand. In contrast, her twin sister’s blond curls were held back with a blue ribbon, the same color as that which decorated her straw-colored silk dress, but her necklace was a simple, thin gold chain with a heart-shaped locket that lacked any further decoration except abstract swirls of engraving.

When Victoria glanced up at their faces again, Miss Grace Owsley wore an endearingly pleased smile, while Miss Maud Owsley had a more serious expression carved into her delicate, heart-shaped features. The faint line of habitual worry burrowed between her fair brows, and it deepened as she glanced around, her lips moving as she counted the men and then the ladies. She gave her sister’s forearm a squeeze, clearly unhappy. However, Miss Grace smiled at her twin and patted her hand reassuringly before turning her attention back to Victoria.

“This is our first Season—we are so pleased to meet so many pleasant ladies,” Miss Grace said, her blue eyes glowing with excitement. Her fingers, encased in a white silk evening glove, played with her diamond encrusted locket. “Everyone has been so kind, and it is all so exciting! And we have already received our tickets for Almack’s!”

Victoria smiled politely as they took seats around the fire. “You are fortunate, indeed. Have you seen much of London?”

“Oh, yes! Mrs. Stedman has been ever so kind and escorted us on three mornings to Bond Street.” Miss Grace’s restless hand touched the green ribbon in her hair. “We acquired these ribbons at the quaintest little shop there, did we not, Maud?”

Maud nodded obediently, but the worried frown remained etched on her delicate features, and she kept her hands clasped at her waist.

The two sisters, so alike in features but so different in expression, reminded Victoria of the Greek masks portraying comedy and tragedy. Grace seemed forever happy, and Maud forever dismal. Or perhaps it was simply the uneven number of men and women at Sir Arnold’s supper party that worried Miss Maud.

Beside her, Mrs. Stedman shifted on the sofa and rubbed her left temple.

“Do you have a headache?” Victoria asked sympathetically.

A small, rueful smile curved Mrs. Stedman’s lips. “I should never have worn this ridiculous headdress, but it has been in my husband’s family for years.” She rubbed the area behind her ear and sighed as she deliberately lowered her hand. “I go out so rarely that I thought I might wear it. I can see now why most of the Stedman women have elected to only wear it when sitting for portraits.”

“Oh, if I had such a beautiful diamond headpiece, I would wear it every evening,” Miss Maud blurted out before blushing furiously and staring down at her clasped hands. “I wouldn’t care how painful it was.”

“Indeed. It is quite lovely,” Mrs. Stedman agreed coolly.

“I just adore diamonds,” Grace said, her fingers once again finding her locket and rubbing it. A satisfied, feline smile curved her mouth.

Maud nodded and clasped her sister’s other hand. “Though rubies are quite nice, as well.”

Grace’s blue eyes sparkled. “When I am married, I shall insist on diamonds.” She gave her locket a final tug before dropping her hand to her lap.

“He will have to be quite rich,” Maud said with a thoughtful frown. Her gaze strayed to Mrs. Stedman’s tiara again.

“Oh, yes. However, Mother says we should do quite well now that we have our voucher for Almack’s.” Grace intertwined her fingers with her sister’s. “There are so few twins that the novelty must be to our advantage.”

“I am sure it will be,” Mrs. Stedman assured them.

Victoria clamped her mouth shut to prevent a yawn from escaping. The simple pearls she wore suited her, and she’d never really had a desire for expensive jewelry. Certainly, Mrs. Stedman’s tiara was beautiful and finely crafted of silver filigree and exquisite diamonds, but she would rather wear the silver ribbon threaded through her hair than suffer a headache all evening.

“Have you been to Hyde Park?” Victoria asked, shifting the conversation away from rich husbands and the expensive gifts one might wrest from them.

“Of course!” Grace and Maud answered simultaneously. They looked at each other.

Grace giggled.

Even Maud’s frown disappeared for a moment, and she pressed her gloved hand to her mouth to hide her smile. “We walk there nearly every night, and we meet so many of our friends. And there are so many dashing men driving their curricles—it is all so very exciting.”

“The Serpentine is very lovely this time of year, too,” Mrs. Stedman agreed.

Before Victoria could respond, there was movement by the door. Anticipating that the butler might be preparing to announce supper, she stood. The other ladies hastily imitated her, and Mrs. Stedman took a step toward the door.

“Ah, there you are, Wickson!” Sir Arnold called as he strode forward, pulling off his glove to shake hands with the new arrival. “Almost gave up on you. Hope you managed to drag a few of your friends along with you. We are overflowing with ladies.” He chuckled and slapped Wickson on the shoulder while he pumped his right hand. “We are fortunate, of course, to have an overabundance of the fair sex, but I doubt they’d agree about it being fortunate.”

“Right, right.” Wickson grinned in response. “Did my poor best, of course. Can’t let the ladies down, can we?” He sidled around Sir Arnold and waved at someone behind him. “Short notice and whatnot, but you know Archer, eh? Oxford and all.”

“Of course!” Sir Arnold beamed. “Excellent!”

Here? Mr. Archer is here? Reaching out to grip the back of the sofa, Victoria’s breathing stopped. Her eyes searched the doorway, desperate to see him.

Sir Arnold’s wide figure blocked her view. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. Finally, her host moved.

John Archer stood framed by the doorway. His handsome face was pale, but he held himself upright and at ease, as if he’d never suffered a scratch. While he wasn’t as tall as Sir Arnold, there was something about his wiry figure that suggested a latent strength and alertness that made her heart hammer in her chest. Even his pallor couldn’t take away from the unsettling sense of danger that surrounded his black-clad form. He stood as straight as a fine blade of steel next to the plump form of his friend, Mr. Wickson.

As if aware of her, he glanced around the room. His gaze caught hers, and she felt herself flush, her entire body vibrating. Without realizing it, she’d released the back of the sofa and taken a step forward.

Then, with a sudden sinking feeling, she looked at Lord Taggert. Tension filled the room—at least it seemed that way. Her chest ached, but she couldn’t seem to breathe. Even the smallest movement seemed likely to start the duel anew.

Then she realized that her parents were still chuckling over something Mr. Fitton had said. Mrs. Stedman, the Misses Owsley, and Miss Jacobs were smiling politely, oblivious to the dark undercurrents.

Only Miss Urick appeared tense and pale, her hands gripping the back of the chair where she’d been sitting, and her gaze bouncing between her brother and Mr. Archer.

“Ah, Archer!” Sir Arnold said. “Wonderful to see you again! Looking well.” He clapped him on the back, oblivious to Mr. Archer’s wince and step backward.

His face grew grayer, but he smiled and murmured something to Sir Arnold that made their host chuckle again and pump his hand even more vigorously. Victoria took another step forward, her gloved hands clasped so tightly at her waist that her fingers ached.

Sir Arnold guided the two men towards the group standing near the bow window. Directly in front of the dark green brocade draperies stood Lord Taggert, his gaze fixed on his host and the new guests. Although he appeared calm, he didn’t smile in greeting and turned away without shaking Mr. Archer’s hand.

Her gaze fluttered to her parents. Thankfully, her father didn’t appear to notice the exchange, although Lady Longmoor frowned, standing at his side. Lord Longmoor pumped Mr. Archer’s hand vigorously and drew him into the small cluster of guests nearby.

At least Lord Taggert had not made a greater show of his displeasure, though Mr. Wickson was clearly awkward around the taller man. Before Victoria mastered her conflicting emotions, Sir Arnold brought Mr. Archer and Mr. Wickson over to the ladies.

The twins giggled and used their silk fans to cool their flushed cheeks as they curtseyed during the introductions. Next to Victoria, Mrs. Stedman nodded and remained coolly polite. Victoria wished she could maintain such a calm demeanor, but to her dismay, she felt her cheeks color when Mr. Archer turned to her.

“How do you do, Lady Victoria?” he asked, his brown eyes glimmering with warmth before he bowed over her gloved hand.

“Very well, thank you.” She pressed his fingers with concern. “How are you faring?”

“Well enough.” He chuckled, but he kept his gaze fixed on her face instead of glancing at Lord Taggert as she half expected. The spicy, almost clove-like scent of bay, blown on a sea breeze, clung to him, enveloping her with the enticingly male fragrance.

She was tall for a woman, but he was a few inches taller, perfectly suiting her. She had no need to strain her neck to look up, or feel that sense of embarrassment she experienced when looking down at a shorter man.

His cheekbones were more hollow than usual, and there were faint black circles under his brown eyes. The marks only made him seem more dangerous and masculine. Her heart thudded in her chest as he took a step closer, grinning warmly.

A blush heated her cheeks again as an answering smile tugged at her mouth. While he gently held her right hand, her left rose involuntarily to her neck. She tugged one of the carefully arranged curls before she realized what she was doing and dropped her hand, feeling breathless.

“You are looking very elegant tonight, Lady Victoria,” he murmured. “A silver lily shining amongst the daisies.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Archer.”

“The truth is never flattery,” he replied. “I am pleased to see you here. I had not known who might have been invited when I agreed to help Mr. Wickson make up the numbers.” He looked around and chuckled. “Though we are still unevenly matched.”

Hearing the last remark, Sir Arnold turned away from his conversation with the Misses Owsley to say, “Indeed. I relied on Wickson to even us out, but we are still nine lovely ladies to a mere seven gentlemen. But we’ll make do, won’t we?” He laughed again and moved to slap Mr. Archer on the back.

Fortunately, Mr. Wickson, seeing the movement, stepped forward just in time to suffer a jolt that made his protuberant eyes bulge even further.

“Did my best, Sir Arnold. Couldn’t find another soul without a previous engagement. Why, I had to drag Archer right out of old Charon’s grasp before he could ferry him across the river Styx, truth be told. Not the liveliest soul, but he should do for the evening,” Mr. Wickson said, eyeing Miss Grace with a grin.

Grace glanced at him, blushed prettily, and demurely lowered her gaze. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she reached over and gave her sister’s hand a squeeze.

Chuckling, Sir Arnold gave Wickson’s shoulder another hearty slap. “Well, it won’t be long before we put on the old feedbag. I daresay he’ll get a bit of color back when he’s had a taste of my cook’s stewed beef steaks—they’re a wonder.” His gaze drifted to a point above Wickson’s shoulder as he sank into a pleasant reverie. “I peeked in the pot. He’s got them stewing in a rich bone broth under a lovely slab of smoky bacon and seasoned with a bit of cayenne pepper, shallots, thyme, and parsley.” He licked his plump lower lip. “Cook caught me at it, though, and slapped the lid down before I could extract even one tender morsel. I tell you, I shouldn’t mind doing a bit of cooking, myself, if that devil of a cook would leave me alone for a few hours.” Smiling at Mr. Archer, he nodded. “And you won’t go away hungry from any table set by Sir Arnold, sir. So, you’ve come to the right place if your aim is to recover, Mr. Archer. We’ll have you in the pink of health before you leave, see if we don’t.”

Close to Sir Arnold, Victoria noticed the faint odor of chicken clinging to him, making her wonder if they were to have fowl, as well as stewed beef, for supper.

Releasing Victoria’s fingers, Mr. Archer nodded to Sir Arnold, chuckling at his enthusiasm. “Then I am honored, indeed, Sir Arnold, to be a guest at your table.”

Now that he had introduced his hobby horse, Sir Arnold seemed determined to ride it to the finish with tales of glorious past meals and successful hunts that led to even more astounding repasts. By the time the butler announced that supper was served, Victoria’s stomach wasn’t the only one gurgling.

Sir Arnold could probably make shoe leather sound enticing, she thought, grinning. In truth, he could probably make old shoe leather enticing. He seemed completely fascinated with the art of cookery and the various herbs that went into it.

As they arranged themselves to make their way to the dining room, her parents gave her a satisfied smile at seeing her standing near their host. Reminded of the list, she couldn’t help the wry thought that if she married Sir Arnold, she’d weigh twice as much as she did now within the first year.

Unfortunately, even the presence of her parents couldn’t prevent her gaze from drifting to Mr. Archer as they paraded out of the room according to rank.

Next to her, Mrs. Stedman rubbed her temple again as she waited for her escort to offer his arm. When she caught Victoria’s gaze, she smiled and shook her head. Clearly, her headdress was still bothering her, and Victoria gave her a sympathetic glance, knowing how sick such a headache could make one.

The dinner, which began with mock turtle soup, removed with a savory haunch of lamb with a deliciously cooling cucumber sauce, and then slowly moved to the beef steak described by Sir Arnold. The dishes were just as scrumptious as their host had promised, redolent with herbs and buttery sauces.

Unfortunately, Mr. Archer sat several seats away on Victoria’s side of the table, so it was impossible to speak to or even see him. Preferring the old-fashioned style of seating all the men at the lower end of the table and the ladies at the upper, Miss Grisdale sat opposite Victoria, while Mrs. Grisdale was on her right and Miss Maud Owsley on her left.

Maud was not a strong conversationalist, though she politely—and monosyllabically—answered any remarks addressed to her. Neither of the Grisdale ladies seemed very talkative, either. So, Victoria was left mostly with her own thoughts and plate after plate of exceedingly delicious food, accompanied by warm, soft buns smelling of yeast and melting butter.

When the time came for the ladies to leave the gentlemen to their port, Victoria wasn’t surprised to find that she felt overstuffed and drowsy as they filed up the staircase to the first floor drawing room again. Now that she knew Mr. Archer was alive and on the mend, her relief left her feeling wrung out and as limp as a damp linen towel.

She was surprised, however, that the party was as harmonious as it was. Lord Taggert seemed to have remarkable control over his emotions. It couldn’t have been easy for him to see Mr. Archer enjoying himself so soon after their duel. She could only imagine what had gone on in the dining room when the door had closed after the last woman left.

A new, grudging sense of respect for Lord Taggert grew in Victoria during their long supper. Perhaps she had dismissed him too lightly. He had been very polite and kind during the evening, at one point noticing Mrs. Stedman’s tiara and her discomfort. He even went so far as to offer Mrs. Stedman a drink of brandy in hopes of relieving her headache.

Still, Mr. Archer was alive, and she was inescapably drawn to him. She couldn’t imagine settling for one of the others, even the pleasant Sir Arnold.

Around her, Miss Urick and Miss Jacobs wandered over to the pianoforte in the corner of the room, while the rest of the ladies took seats once again near the fire that some maid had thoughtfully lit while the guests dined. Ever the gracious hostess, Mrs. Stedman worked diligently to engage everyone in conversation. Including Mrs. Grisdale and even the shy Miss Grisdale, she described some of the plays they might expect to attend, as well as other entertainments.

Despite her efforts, however, it was clear to Victoria from Mrs. Stedman’s pale skin that her headache was growing worse. Before she could suggest to her suffering hostess that she retire upstairs to remove the diamond filigree tiara, the men burst noisily into the room, chuckling over some joke.

Spying the ladies at the pianoforte, Mr. Fitton strode across the room to join them. The handsome, dark-haired man smiled and said something to Miss Urick, causing her to giggle nervously. Her left hand played nervously with the cameo dangling from the gold chain around her neck. She kept running the pendant back and forth along the chain as she smiled into Mr. Fitton’s blue eyes, dimpling and blushing prettily when he returned her smile.

They looked well together, Mr. Fitton with his handsome, chiseled features and dark hair, and Miss Urick with her fair coloring. He bent closer, selecting a piece of music out of the sheaf she held in her hands and placing it on the pianoforte. Several other members of the party noted the trio and moved closer.

“Will you not play for us, Miss Urick?” Lady Longmoor asked as her husband pulled several gilt chairs into a rough semi-circle facing the instrument.

“Excellent notion! A bit of music is just what we need. Help our digestion and all that.” Sir Arnold rubbed his hands together as he approached them, before stopping to drag two more chairs forward to add a second line to the arc.

As the rest of the guests drifted toward the arranged seats, Victoria gently caught Mrs. Stedman’s arm. “Is your headdress still bothering you?”

Mrs. Stedman nodded, her mouth compressed into a white-rimmed line.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and remove it? No one will notice, I assure you, and I wouldn’t wish to see you suffering the rest of the evening.”

“I don’t—”

“Please don’t worry. I assure you no one will notice. You cannot possibly enjoy yourself with a throbbing headache.”

Mrs. Stedman sighed. “You’re very kind, Lady Victoria. If anyone notices—”

“No one will.” Victoria gestured toward the pianoforte. “And if they do, I will make your excuses for you.”

Miss Urick had already seated herself, and Mr. Fitton was standing nearby, ready to turn the pages of music as required.

“You see?” Victoria continued. “Everyone will be listening to the music. They will never notice if you are gone for a few minutes, and you will be so much happier when you return.”

“You are right, I suppose.” Mrs. Stedman smiled wryly, her mouth twisting to the right. “We all believe our presence will be missed, and I would certainly think that the presence—or absence—of such a magnificent headdress would be remarked upon, but sadly, I fear no one will notice. A hostess, particularly one of a certain age, is nearly invisible, is she not?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Stedman. I did not mean to imply that,” Victoria said hastily, horrified that her remarks might be construed as insulting. “Not at all.”

Mrs. Stedman laughed and patted Victoria’s arm. “Never fear, Lady Victoria. You said nothing wrong. My mood is not a cheerful one tonight—blame this ridiculous tiara and my vanity. It is not easy being a mature woman in a room full of beautiful, young debutants, as I’m sure you understand. Make my excuses if need be. I shall not be gone long.”

Feeling a bit stung, Victoria studied her hostess’s face, but Mrs. Stedman was rubbing her temple again and eyeing the pair at the pianoforte. Perhaps Victoria was simply oversensitive about her age and the fact that this was her fifth Season. Before she could think of a suitable reply, Mrs. Stedman smiled at her and slipped away through the drawing room doors. The tinkle of a cheerful Bach sonata in D major covered the swift patter of her footsteps as she crossed the hallway to the wide staircase beyond.

When Miss Urick completed the sonata, she partially rose, only to have Mr. Fitton stop her with a hand on her shoulder and a smile. While Victoria couldn’t hear what he said, he showed Miss Urick another sheet of music and placed it on top of the sonata on the rack in front of her. Smiling, she nodded and seated herself again.

Before she could begin the second piece, however, most of her audience had risen to their feet and were shuffling around the room. At some point during dinner, the servants had set up several card tables, draped with white damask cloths, in the far corner of the room. Stacks of playing cards, counters, and other paraphernalia for games had been arranged on one table, and Victoria’s parents, as well as several others, were chatting and making their way towards them. Victoria glanced around, unsure whether she wished to join a game of whist, listen to the music, or move to one of the sitting areas to talk.

Her gaze fluttered over the other guests, searching for Mr. Archer. Mrs. Stedman had returned at some point, and now wore a silver ribbon threaded through her hair and adorned with a curling white feather. She had joined the twins and Colonel Lord Parmar, who stood to one side of the fireplace with one elbow propped up on the white marble mantle, apparently telling them some sort of a story. The ladies stood around him, smiling and nodding, as he spoke, and as Victoria watched, Grace giggled, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. The gesture so closely echoed Maud’s earlier one that Victoria found herself checking the color of the ribbons decorating her hair and yellow dress.

Green ribbons—yes—it had to be Grace.

Curious to hear what the colonel was saying that was so amusing, Victoria took a few hesitant steps forward before her glance strayed back to the gaming tables. Mr. Archer and Mr. Wickson stood halfway between Victoria and her parents, who were seating themselves at one of the tables. As she watched, Mr. Archer’s head came up and he looked in her direction. A quiver of excitement ran through her at the gleam in his eyes. She raised a hand, touching her fingers to the base of her throat as she caught her breath. Flushing, she gave him a shy smile before she looked again in the direction of her parents.

Feet caught in an invisible web, she couldn’t seem to decide or move to join any of the groups shifting around her. For the first time in five long Seasons, she felt like a gauche girl, unsure of what to do and feeling lost in the elegant crowd.

Mr. Archer strode to her, with Mr. Wickson trailing after him. “Are you enjoying yourself, Lady Victoria?”

“Oh, yes. Miss Urick plays beautifully, does she not?” As soon as she said the words, Victoria winced at the utter banality of her conversation.

“Adequately.” Mr. Archer chuckled. “Barely adequate. Do you play?”

“I’m not sure I should admit that I do. I’ve had numerous lessons, in any event, and to my shame, I am even less adequate than Miss Urick.”

“No one could be less adequate than Miss Urick,” he replied dryly, a twinkle in his brown eyes.

Victoria laughed and shook her head. “Now you are simply being cruel, Mr. Archer.”

“John, if you please.” He studied her with such an intent look in his eyes that her stomach fluttered.

She looked away to break the hushed stillness growing between them. A nervous laugh bubbled in her throat, and she bit her lip to keep from giggling like a child.

When she dared to catch his gaze again, she nodded. “Very well, John.”

Golden flecks glimmered in his brown eyes, and a small, self-deprecating smile twisted his mouth to the left.

His gaze was so warm, so rich with tender affection that she looked down again while her fingers yanked and played with one of the curls Rose had taken such pains to perfect. Everyone else in the room seemed to grow dim and shadowy, despite the golden candlelight of the crystal chandeliers and the crackling fire. She risked another glance at him, unable to resist. As her gaze roved over his handsome face, she noticed that a faint shadow of a beard was already darkening the hollows of his cheeks, and although she hadn’t seen it earlier, there was a small cut—perhaps from shaving—on the right edge of his stubborn jaw.

His neckcloth, though starched and gleaming white, had grown rumpled, and the left point of his collar had wilted slightly. Her fingers twitched, longing to touch that small scrape on his chin and run her hand down to feel the beat of his heart under the gold-embroidered satin waistcoat he wore over his lean form. As if sensing her thoughts, his eyes grew darker and the wry twist of his lips more pronounced.

“I say, Archer, I could do with a bit of air, eh?” Wickson said suddenly. He nudged John’s arm and jerked his head toward the door at the rear of the room that led out to a small balcony. He patted the breast of his jacket and gestured again at the French doors. “Air? Smoke?”

A flash of irritation knotted John’s forehead briefly before his expression smoothed out again. His glance at one of the empty chairs near the fire, combined with his pallor, indicated that he had other thoughts. Victoria raised her hand to give his arm an encouraging squeeze, but when her gaze flashed around the room, she noted her mother staring at her. She rapidly amended the gesture to another tug of her much-abused curl.

With a faint smile, John took a step back and bowed. “I do apologize, Lady Victoria. Will you excuse us?”

“Certainly. Though perhaps you might prefer to sit by the fire?” Victoria smiled in return, feeling warm and cherished.

“I certainly would,” John agreed.

Mr. Wickson glared at him, his plump lower lip thrust out and his brows drawn down over his eyes. “Fresh air would suit us both, just as well.”

“Or at least one of us.” John sighed and shrugged.

With a light laugh, Victoria waved the two men away, leaving her once more trying to decide which group to join. The other guests were milling around in small clusters, pursuing other activities, despite Miss Urick’s efforts at the pianoforte. She hesitated and glanced at her mother again, but Lady Longmoor was now engaged in watching her husband methodically deal the cards.

An urge to visit the retiring room struck her, and with another quick look around, Victoria slipped into the hallway. To her dismay, none of the servants were present. Apparently, they were clearing away the remains of the dinner or eating their own. Her gaze followed the long, graceful curve of the grand staircase to the shadowy landing above.

She’d just have to find the designated retiring room for herself. No doubt it was on the second or third floor, and really, since many townhouses were laid out in a very similar fashion, it should not be too difficult to find. She climbed the staircase to the second floor, and paused on the landing to look around.

A lamp, lit and providing a golden light amidst the shadows of the second floor landing, reassured her that guests were expected to come to this floor. Most likely, that meant that the room they were to use was along the short hallway to her left, where the lamp had been left on a narrow table. She strode in that direction with more confidence, stopping at the first doorway on her right.

The door was open, but there were no candles or lamps lit. She peered into the darkness and then went back to pick up the brass lamp from the hallway table. When she returned, she discovered that the open door led into a lovely cream and blue bedroom. Holding the lamp up, she glanced around. Her gaze was caught by a box lying on the cream, blue, and gold carpet in the center of the room.

How odd. She moved forward.

The box appeared to be a rather large jewelry case, lined with green velvet. She picked it up, frowning. It was empty. A cold, uneasy feeling teased her with clammy fingers at the back of her neck. Holding the box, she looked around again, searching for anything that might have spilled out of it, but the carpet appeared bare of anything else.

A few curls of dust and a lone, white stocking were hiding under the bed, but her quick search revealed nothing more.

Standing in the center of the room, she looked around again.

“Lady Victoria! I hadn’t realized you had left the party,” Mrs. Grisdale said from the doorway. Hands clasped at her waist, she stepped further into the room. The long grooves running from her aquiline nose to the corners of her mouth deepened as she frowned. “What are you doing with that?” She jerked her chin at the box in Victoria’s hand.

Bemused, Victoria glanced down at the empty jewelry case clutched in her left hand. The lamp she gripped in her right suddenly felt hot. The light flickered as she moved her arms sharply. She almost threw the empty box on the bed before she managed to control the abrupt reaction.

“Well?” Mrs. Grisdale grabbed the box out of Victoria’s unresisting hand. She turned it over, examining the polished exterior and empty interior. “This is Mrs. Stedman’s case for her tiara—what were you doing with it? Why is it empty?”

“I—well—I don’t know,” Victoria answered helplessly. She waved at the carpet. “I found it. On the floor. Empty.”

“Did you, indeed?” A look of suspicion sharpened her already pointed features. “Perhaps you had best explain that to Mrs. Stedman!”

“What? I told you, it was empty.” Victoria edged backward, but there was no place to go with Mrs. Grisdale blocking the door. “I found it on the floor.”

“I am sure you did.” Sarcasm bathed Mrs. Grisdale’s words in acid.

Gripping the case in one hand, Mrs. Grisdale reached out and grabbed Victoria’s wrist. Her thin fingers bit into Victoria, despite her long gloves.

“What are you doing?” She tried to shake off the woman, but Mrs. Grisdale’s hold on her merely tightened.

“Mrs. Stedman must be informed. This is a serious matter, young lady. As the daughter of a marquess, you may believe you can do anything that pleases you, but I assure you that could not be further from the truth!” Mrs. Grisdale dragged Victoria out of the room, despite her increasingly frantic denials and attempts to free herself.

The light waved wildly in Victoria’s free hand. Visions of the oil spilling over them and setting their gowns on fire crowded out her embarrassment at being dragged in front of the other guests by Mrs. Grisdale. As Victoria passed the table in the hallway, she jerked around to put the lamp down. It teetered, the oil sloshing around in its base. She glanced over her shoulder in concern as Mrs. Grisdale pulled her along. The lamp finally settled on its base, the flaring, flickering light shrinking to a normal, happy flame.

At the top of the stairs, Victoria tried once again to pry Mrs. Grisdale’s fingers loose. “Please, let me go!” Victoria insisted. “If you feel you must, why don’t you ring a bell and have one of the servants bring Mrs. Stedman here?”

“Are you afraid of a scene, Lady Victoria?” Mrs. Grisdale asked, a grimly triumphant glint in her hazel eyes. Her mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Perhaps you should have considered that before you decided to steal that tiara.” With a sharp tug, she forced Victoria to follow her down the staircase to the first floor.

With as much dignity as she could muster, she walked behind her captor into the drawing room. Her stomach clenched and crawled as if she’d swallowed a handful of live ants at dinner—it felt as if the eyes of everyone in the room were fixed on her. A humiliating flush burned her cheeks.

She wasn’t an errant five-year-old child to be chastened thoroughly as punishment, and yet that was exactly how she felt.

Thankfully, Mrs. Grisdale didn’t stop or say anything until she’d drawn Victoria over to Mrs. Stedman.

Their hostess was sitting with Victoria’s parents and the colonel at one of the white-covered card tables in the rear of the room. Playing cards were scattered over the snowy surface, and each of the players held cards in his or her hand. Frowning at his hand, the colonel was the first to look up. His expression grew even more irritated when he noticed them, his brows bristled over his deep-set eyes.

“Well? What is it?” Colonel Lord Parmar asked, placing his cards face down on the table in front of him and pressing a hand down over them. “Well?”

“Mrs. Stedman,” Mrs. Grisdale said, ignoring the colonel. She lifted her chin and stared pointedly at their hostess.

“Yes?” Mrs. Stedman raised her gaze from her cards. Her brows rose as she caught sight of the box in Mrs. Grisdale’s hand.

When Victoria shifted from one foot to the other, Mrs. Stedman’s thoughtful gaze swept from the jewelry box to Mrs. Grisdale’s fingers, grasping Victoria’s arm. She looked up at Victoria, her eyes wide with surprise.

“I caught this woman in your bedchamber with your empty jewel case in her hands,” Mrs. Grisdale announced, her voice ringing with triumph.

Although she tried to stand with her shoulders proudly squared, Victoria couldn’t help cringing. Her gaze fell to the jumble of cards on the table in front of her, wishing she’d decided to join the game earlier.

Before Mrs. Stedman could respond, Victoria’s mother gently placed her playing cards face down on the table. She lifted her head and studied her daughter. The corners of her mouth drooped. She sighed heavily and shook her head.

“Oh, my dear—why?” Lady Longmoor asked in a plaintive, long-suffering voice.

“But I didn’t! I have done nothing wrong!” Victoria expostulated. She shook her arm free of Mrs. Grisdale’s grasp and reached out to touch her mother’s shoulder, her gaze fixed imploringly on her sad face. “I found the box, and that is all!”

“Found the box and took the tiara!” Mrs. Grisdale said, her cheeks flushed with triumph. She looked around, her eyes bright. “You all remember—it was Lady Victoria who insisted—absolutely insisted—that Mrs. Stedman take off her tiara. Why else would she have been so insistent? She wanted to take it. There could be no other reason.”

“She did seem very determined,” Mrs. Stedman agreed, though her voice was slow with reluctance.

When Victoria glanced at her, Mrs. Stedman refused to meet her gaze and stared down at the linen-covered table.

“You see?” Mrs. Grisdale asked. “She must have decided to steal the tiara as soon as she saw it!”

“Lady Victoria—really!” Her father coughed into his fist before he heaved a lugubrious sigh. His shoulders slumped as he stared down at the table, his fingers playing with the cards, aligning their edges and then spreading them out again. “Surely, you are old enough to know this sort of behavior won’t do—not at all. Won’t do at all.” Lifting his head, he glanced across the table at Mrs. Stedman. Every day of his sixty years was etched on his weary face. “I must apologize, Mrs. Stedman, though there is no excuse I can offer you, except to say we shall not leave until your headdress has been returned to you.”

“Father!” Victoria said in anguished tones, wringing her hands together. “Please believe me, I had nothing to do with this. I discovered the box on the floor—empty!” She pulled her pocket out from the slit in her evening dress and frantically removed the contents, spilling them onto the white tablecloth. A silver-chased bottle of smelling salts, a lace-edged handkerchief, a small tortoiseshell comb, and a tiny mirror clattered together, followed by the wooden cylinder of a needle case.

Her gaze bounced from her father’s face to her mother’s, taking in their disappointed expressions. They didn’t believe her, even after she’d emptied her pocket. Her chest tightened until she could barely breathe. Looking around, she focused on John, who sat slumped in a chair by the fire, his eyes closed.

As if sensing her stare, he straightened and turned his head in her direction. The firelight played over the hollows under his cheekbones and the pallor of his skin, but his brown eyes were sharp as he returned Victoria’s gaze. Placing his hands on the armrests, he pushed himself up, took a deep breath, and sauntered over to join her.

Although he didn’t touch her, a sudden flush of warmth cascaded through her. Some of the tension tightening her shoulders relaxed.

“What has happened?” he asked in a mild, almost disinterested voice, as if he believed that whatever it was, it was clearly nonsense.

“Mrs. Stedman’s tiara is missing,” Victoria said before anyone else could speak. “I found her jewel box empty on the floor upstairs.”

Before he could respond, Mr. Wickson hurried up and caught John’s arm. “I say—you’ll never guess who I saw hurrying down the street in that bloody puce pelisse—Lady Victoria! Saw her pass under the streetlamp at the corner. Wonder why she left.” He frowned and shook his head.

John pried Mr. Wickson’s fingers off his arm and cleared his throat.

“Eh?” Mr. Wickson’s brows rose. He looked around, his eyes widening when he realized he was standing not four feet away from Victoria. “I say—back again, are you? How the devil did you manage that when I saw you on the street with my own eyes not two minutes ago?”

Feeling strangled, Victoria coughed and shook her head. “I assure you, I have not stepped foot outside since we arrived.”

“Then it was some other chit wearing your puce pelisse,” Mr. Wickson stated with a frown. “No mistaking that ugly—er—delightful garment.”

“Oh, Victoria—you were going to give that girl, Rose, your pelisse,” her mother murmured. She stared up at Victoria with sad eyes, her lovely mouth drooping at the corners.

Victoria could only shake her head. Warm tears burned in her eyes, and she blinked furiously. She would not cry—she absolutely refused to cry.

“You didn’t corrupt her as well, did you?” her mother asked in her soft, mournful voice.

“Rose?” Her father eyed her. “You didn’t give it to your maid, did you?”

“No—I swear to you—I didn’t do anything! I didn’t take it—I haven’t seen Rose!” Her voice rose tremulously.

Panic rising to choke her, her gaze rushed from one suspicious face to the other. Everyone was staring at her with accusing eyes, disappointment and anger tightening their features. A thoughtful V creased the colonel’s brow, and he tapped the edge of the cards he held against the table as he studied first Victoria and then her father. She could almost hear him considering how best to withdraw his offer.

The only one who seemed ready to believe her was John Archer.

She gripped his arm, and looked up at him, searching his face. “I swear to you, I didn’t take that tiara!”

Patting her wrist, he nodded.