Lord Ashworth bowed over what seemed like the thousandth daintily gloved hand so far this evening. Dragging his gaze upwards, he did his best to appear pleased at the introduction to this young lady, who seemed barely more than a little girl playing dress-up in her fancy gown and satin slippers. Her anxious mother stood just behind her, beaming with pride.

He pondered how Helen would look, wrapped in light, gleaming layers of tulle and gauze. With certainty, she would put every last woman here to shame. Indeed, he knew she could still outshine them all were she to simply walk into the ballroom in her maid’s dress, apron and cap.

Unsurprisingly, his head started to pound. It was unwise to think of Helen right now. He had so far succeeded in burying his more difficult emotions, and he would not jeopardize that. Not now. Although he was furious at the idea of her becoming romantically involved with another man, the possibility of her finding a match within her own social sphere ought to have filled him with relief. It had provoked and distracted him instead, making the ordeal of tonight’s hunt for a bride all the more taxing. He had not been inclined to listen to her earlier pleas on the staircase, but an inconvenient twinge of regret still remained. She seemed honestly mortified, and determined not to let the matter rest as a possible misunderstanding.

Had it all been just a misunderstanding?

He sighed inwardly, his anger dissolving into quiet wretchedness. What did it matter? He had already made arrangements to send Helen to the Dower House. The hollowness that filled his chest grew larger, threatening to swallow him whole. The thought of losing her for good was not something he could fully comprehend yet. William supposed the feeling would pass in time. He had to believe it would.

Forcing his attention back to the task at hand, he managed a weak smile at the girl standing before him now.

“A pleasure, Miss Morrell,” he murmured in a low voice. He smiled politely, but as soon as the girl and her mother took their leave to enter the ballroom, the smile dropped and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, fingers reaching upward to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me that’s all of them,” he muttered half under his breath.

Smothered laughter came from his right where Evanston stood, while a sharp elbow assaulted him on the left, courtesy of his sister.

“Do try to be civil, brother,” she whispered sternly, green eyes flashing. “It’s only the future of your earldom, after all.”

Ashworth scoffed at her but felt the seriousness of her charge. Evanston gazed at the earl wide-eyed, in alarm.

“By God, that’s a rather somber note to start the evening on.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Although, William, there are many lovely young girls here tonight that I would enjoy dancing with . . .”

“How surprising,” interjected Eliza.

“Now, Eliza. I’m shocked,” Thomas said. “If your brother does not wish to dance with the ladies who have assembled here for him, then as a gentleman, the burden must fall to me.” He shrugged noncommittally, his eyes laughing. “I’d be doing God’s work, if you think about it.”

His sister’s mouth pursed. “There is nothing godly about you, Evanston.” She moved to brush past him towards the ballroom, the watered silk of her silver gown swirling out around her. “Come, William. If we don’t succeed in finding you a wife, we can at least watch the viscount dance with countless—”

She stopped mid-sentence, and the earl looked over to see why. As she’d reached Thomas, he’d stepped forward to block her path. His face was serious, but his bright blue eyes were alight with mischief.

“Does the idea of my dancing with other women upset you in some way, my lady? It seems that it might.”

Eliza’s cheeks flooded with rosy color and she stared at Thomas in silence. William growled in warning. He would not have his friend target Eliza for his own amusement.

“Evanston—”

“You don’t think it’s a fair question?” Thomas pressed, the corner of his mouth raised in a wry smirk. “It is a simple thing to resolve, if it does.” He bowed ever so slightly, raising his right hand in her direction. “Will you do me the honor of dancing with me this evening, my lady? I’d hate for your dance card to fill before I’ve finished ravishing all the other females.”

Eliza’s hands flew up to smooth her intricately pinned mass of golden hair—something Ashworth recognized as a nervous gesture—and a tentative expression crossed her face as she gazed up at Lord Evanston.

“You’re right, Thomas, I was being too harsh. You have my apologies.” She glanced over her shoulder to Ashworth, resuming her forward momentum. “We should go inside . . . it is impolite to keep our guests waiting . . .”

Eliza’s progress was again unceremoniously halted when she bumped into Lord Evanston’s chest. She issued a tiny noise of surprise, but Thomas remained immobile.

“Am I to take that as a refusal?”

The earl knew that a lady could not, in keeping with strict ballroom etiquette, deny the invitation of a gentleman to dance if she had not already accepted the invitation of another. He was less certain if ballroom etiquette truly applied when the invitation was given in the hallway before the ball had even started, although it appeared that Evanston was going to hold Eliza to it.

Normally she might have laughed, maybe even swatted him on the arm for good measure, but for some reason she seemed uncharacteristically ruffled by his request. Thomas had been friends with William since childhood, and a regular fixture at Lawton Park for years, even more so after the loss of William’s father, brother, and Eliza’s husband. His sister was very familiar with him . . . though at present she was acting uncomfortable. Awkward.

Interested?

The earl bristled. He held his friend in high esteem, but the idea of Evanston attempting to court his sister was not acceptable in the least. The man was a rogue who prided himself on being able to charm his way through the London gaming clubs and into the bed of whichever woman pleased him most on any particular day. Eliza would not be lumped in with that disreputable lot. In fact, he would consider himself a failure as her brother if he allowed it to happen.

Before she was pressured into answering Lord Evanston’s invitation, William slipped his arm through his sister’s and steered the viscount over to his opposite side.

“Let us reserve the teasing for after the ball, shall we?” he said, shooting a warning glance at Thomas, who had the audacity to look annoyed.

Lord Ashworth clenched his teeth. This was going to be a very long night, indeed.

Clara was stationed in the cloakroom alongside Amelia. They busily received shawls and cloaks from arriving ladies, assisted with the repair of collapsing hairstyles, and mended torn dresses. It was not lost on Clara that all these girls, delicately perfumed and looking their best, were here to gain the favor of the earl. Her earl.

Ignoring the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that refused to subside, she worked diligently. Each task blended into the next, as did the ladies who required her services. The only way to endure this evening successfully, Clara knew, was to remain emotionally distant, so she uttered no more than compulsory responses and kept her eyes trained on the specific demands of her occupation.

An older woman entered the cloakroom with a swish of her voluminous violet skirts, holding a long white glove in her manicured hand. She was accompanied by another lady, the owner of the glove if her solitary exposed hand was an indication, and they both leveled haughty gazes at the housemaids.

“I am Mrs. Levinthal. This glove needs mending.” She relinquished the article to Clara, then raised her fingertips to check on the status of her coiffure in the mirror before moving her dark gaze to glower at Amelia. “Pin my hair too, and be quick about it.” She sat at the vanity and smiled sideways to her friend. “I’m preparing to introduce a friend to the earl, Harriet. I think it will be quite the talk of the evening.”

Mrs. Levinthal’s companion appeared happily scandalized, and leaned in to whisper loudly, “I still can’t believe it. And you said he’s been staying at your estate this past week?”

Clara could see Amelia pinning the woman’s hair with efficient motions of her fingers, her expression neutral.

“Oh, yes. Well, of course it would have been unseemly for us to arrive here together, as his whole purpose in visiting this part of the country is to continue the search. But I can tell you we’ve spent many recent evenings engaged in . . . scintillating conversation,” she said with an immodest laugh.

The two housemaids met each other’s eyes for a fraction of a second, just long enough to read their mutual amusement.

“I’m sure you’ll make him forget all about his little lost fiancée in no time,” snickered Harriet.

Clara’s fingers paused in mid-stitch.

What did she just say?

Her eyes flicked up to the woman, rapidly assessing her. An abundance of silver threads wound through her otherwise black hair, and she guessed she might be roughly fifty years of age. The deep violet shade of her dress combined with the black lace flounces adorning it indicated she was in mourning, but not deep mourning. She was a widow, but it was permissible for her to attend this event and even, within reason, to dance. The oversized amethyst drop earrings dangling from her earlobes, along with the matching necklace, bracelet, and numerous jeweled rings, conveyed her wealth.

Mrs. Levinthal sniffed in displeasure. “Well I have tried in vain to convince his lordship that extending his sojourn in Kent would be of mutual benefit, but he is set to return to Essex on the morrow.” She turned an arched brow to her friend. “It will be necessary to use all my available powers of persuasion tonight.”

Her friend quirked her lips in a sinful smile. “I have every confidence in you, my dear.”

Clara stood as if entombed in a block of ice, and her body felt nearly as cold.

Essex is a large county. Certainly, there could be numerous men experiencing difficulty with their affianced. It is only arrogance to think this has anything to do with you.

A small ahem broke the train of her whirling thoughts, and her eyes darted over to Amelia who was staring at her, confusion in her blue gaze as she continued rapidly securing Mrs. Levinthal’s hairstyle. Luckily, the two women were still indulging in their vulgar brand of conversation and had not noticed Clara’s conspicuous pause, or Amelia’s attempt to regain her attention.

It can’t be true . . .

But Abigail’s furtive letter had warned her of the possibility.

Noticing Clara was still distracted, Amelia’s eyes widened meaningfully, then sharpened to a consternated glare. Clara jumped and finally remembered herself, resuming her work on the torn glove.

Assuming he is in attendance tonight, he will never see me as long as I remain in the cloak-room.

It was this thought that gave her some slight comfort. And really, it was still so very unlikely to be the baron. She chided herself for jumping to preposterous conclusions and placed the final stitch in the seam, turning the glove right side out and presenting it for the approval of its owner, who did not deign to show any approval at all. The woman, Harriet, merely slipped the accessory back over her hand and continued chatting.

Taking one last, satisfied glance at Mrs. Levinthal’s hair, Amelia stepped back. Both she and Clara curtsied, allowing the ladies and the extensive circumference of their skirts a wide berth as they departed to return to the evening’s festivities. Amelia turned to look incredulously at her.

“What happened to you?”

Clara busied herself, unsure what to say, but before she could come up with something convincing, Mrs. Malone walked briskly into the unoccupied cloakroom. Her eyes scanned the racks burdened by lavish garments of different colors, shapes, and sizes.

“Good, I’m glad to see things have lightened up a bit here. We need help at the refreshment tables. Helen, you are excused to assist.”

Cold fear rushed through her. Despite her resolution not to worry about the possibility of the baron being in attendance, she involuntarily shivered.

“B-but Mrs. Malone . . .”

“Now, please. Thank you,” said Mrs. Malone tersely as she exited the room.

Clara stood motionless, finally turning to gaze at Amelia with huge eyes.

“What on earth is the matter?” asked Amelia, throwing her hands out in frustration.

There was no good excuse she could think of to explain herself to Amelia. Pasting a lukewarm smile on her face, she shrugged.

“It’s just that this is my first big event. I suppose I’m nervous.”

Amelia didn’t look reassured, but reached out to squeeze her arm. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be waiting for you here when you’re done.”

Clara’s hands trembled. She curled them into fists and ducked her head as she left the cloakroom.

“Are you enjoying yourself at all, William?”

Ashworth turned to find his sister staring up at him. Eliza’s concerned gaze reminded him of her weeks of effort spent ensuring this evening was a success. She wasn’t aware of the reasons for his unhappiness, nor could he disclose them to her. He would never be able to tell her that he, the fifth Earl of Ashworth, wasn’t interested in any of these preening peahens. That the only woman he wanted was the utterly inappropriate, beguiling housemaid who had ensnared him upon their very first meeting in the village.

He could picture the look of solemn disappointment on his father’s face.

Shaking off the image, he smiled warmly and reached down to squeeze her gloved hand in his own. “It’s been a splendid evening so far.”

Matthew stopped near them and extended a tray of champagne, carefully averting his eyes. Ignoring the obvious awkwardness, the earl lifted a glass to his lips, draining the contents in one swallow, then returned the empty glass to the footman’s tray.

Eliza muttered under her breath as she watched Matthew hurry away.

“You are a terrible liar.”

Ashworth sighed. “You should be socializing, Eliza. Don’t waste your time concerning yourself with my enjoyment.”

Before she could reply, an aging couple approached. The woman he recognized as Mrs. Levinthal, who lived on the opposite edge of town. His widowed father had often spoken of her marriage-minded tendencies, as he had been her target numerous times prior to her marriage to the wealthy Mr. Levinthal, now deceased.

She sank into a curtsy, and Lord Ashworth bowed politely in return.

“Mrs. Levinthal.”

“My lord, it is delightful to see you after so many years!” she gushed vociferously. “Lady Cartwick,” she said with an additional curtsy to Eliza.

His sister returned the gesture. “Welcome back to Lawton Park.”

The woman’s eyes were alight with excitement. “I thank you, my lady. I hope you will permit me to introduce my friend, who has just recently arrived in this part of the country.” Her nose tipped up ever so slightly, and she held her hand out to the man beside her. “This, my lord, is Baron Rutherford.”

Ashworth turned to greet the man, but hesitated at Eliza’s small intake of breath. Her eyes were wide with hesitant curiosity, and she took one step forward.

“Forgive me, but you are—”

“Yes,” interrupted the man in a gravelly voice. “The very same. I have traveled to Kent in search of my betrothed, Clara Mayfield.”

Clara carefully entered the refreshment room, and placed a full tray of lemon cakes upon the table. Despite her nervousness about being seen, she took an extra moment to neatly rearrange the platters of food. She could hear the lively notes of a quadrille drifting in from the ballroom, and her heart suddenly felt heavy and leaden in her chest. Somewhere in that room the earl was very likely dancing with a beautiful woman, and only mere months ago, that woman could have been her.

The sound of laughter caught her attention, and she looked up to see two girls in their immense dresses advancing on the table. Not wanting to attract attention, she left the room by way of a hidden doorway, and with the door closed behind her she leaned against the wall and exhaled in relief. The anxiety she’d felt earlier in the cloakroom seemed laughable here, tucked safely away in the darkened hallway.

Her mind went to Rosa, who was spending the evening upstairs with Eliza’s lady’s maid, Patterson. She pushed away from the wall and set off, making her way through the winding maze of turns concealed in the depths of the house. Instead of heading back in the direction of the cloakroom, she chose to climb the rickety wooden staircase to the second floor. For a reason she could not name, the need to see that small, friendly face had become nearly overwhelming.

Clara crept noiselessly towards the nursery. A shaft of yellow light shone out from the door, left ajar. She entered, expecting to see Rosa and the lady’s maid, but instead found the room deserted. A fire was blazing cheerfully in the hearth, which was good since she could feel the chill of the cold night air wafting in from the windows. A half-eaten crumpet was lying discarded on a plate near the foot of the bed.

Crossing the room, she moved the plate to the bedside table and brushed a handful of scattered crumbs from the coverlet. She supposed that Patterson’s hands had been full these past few hours with Rosa begging to see the excitement downstairs. Allowing her to eat a messy crumpet in bed was probably the least of her concerns.

She parted the curtains, peering out the window to see a horse-drawn carriage being brought around the drive. A guest was leaving the ball already? It was late, to be sure, but too early for most departures. Perhaps they lacked the usual stamina required for this type of event. Clara remembered during the season—and even at country balls such as this—tumbling into her carriage beneath the weak, gray light of dawn, stifling her yawns in an effort to be polite to her hosts.

Part of her, the uncharitable part, wished she could call all the carriages to come around.

With a frustrated sigh, she exited the nursery and headed towards the main staircase. If she knew Rosa, the little girl would have talked Patterson into allowing her a closer look at the party.

Sure enough, she came upon them just above the landing, with Rosa clinging to a lacquered wooden bannister clad in nothing more than her nightgown and robe. Clutched tightly in her arms was her beloved doll, its rose-colored dress looking decidedly dingy after these past months’ adventures.

Patterson turned at the sound of Clara’s approach. “All the crumpets in the world couldn’t keep her from wanting just one peek.”

Clara smiled and lowered herself down onto the carpeted step beside Rosa. The little girl slid her arm through Clara’s and sank into her shoulder, all the while never taking her eyes off the grand foyer below.

“I just saw a lady in a purple dress,” she sighed, enraptured. “It was so pretty.”

“That sounds lovely,” fibbed Clara, thinking of Mrs. Levinthal. “But now it’s time to go to bed. Imagine how cross your mother will be if you stay up all night.” She pushed up to a stand, extending her fingertips to the girl. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Rosa stood as well, raising her doll up as if preparing to dance.

“Look at me, dancing at a ball!”

She adopted what Clara assumed was her most elegant expression—eyebrows lifted, lids fluttering closed, mouth puckered into a tiny bow—and swung her soft cloth partner around in circles. The sound of approaching footsteps in one of the hallways below them caused Clara and Patterson to glance at each other in apprehension.

“Now, my sweet,” whispered Clara urgently, tugging on Rosa’s arm. “Up to bed this instant . . .”

The girl stumbled and lost hold of the doll, sending it sailing through the air to land on the smooth marble floor below. A collective gasp echoed through the two maids and the little girl simultaneously.

Clara stared at the stranded doll in horror as the footfalls grew louder still, steadily approaching the foyer.

She whirled around to stab a finger in their direction. “Upstairs, quickly! I’ll get the doll.”

The lady’s maid scooped Rosa in her arms while Clara descended the final flight of stairs. Deciding speed would be best in this situation, she dashed out into the foyer, leaned over to seize Rosa’s doll, turned back to sprint towards the safety of the staircase . . .

. . . And collided headfirst with a dignified guest.

The man must have entered the space while she’d made her frantic grab. He grunted at the impact and her mind whirled in a sudden state of panic. The worst had happened. She had been caught in an area of the house reserved for the peerage and their private amusements, and physically collided with an invitee.

Mrs. Malone’s words ran through her thoughts, although in this frenzied context they seemed almost crazy, nonsensical.

You are not to meet a guest’s eyes, nor will you interact with them in any way other than to assist them as necessary, speaking only if called on to speak.

She focused her gaze onto the man’s polished leather boots and backed away, attempting a curtsy and gripping Rosa’s doll tightly. If she could make it to the stairs, perhaps this man would pardon her atrocious clumsiness and allow her to escape.

“Forgive me,” she said with deference, continuing her backwards progress until her heels had reached the bottom stair. Curiously, the man’s feet stayed planted at their original location. She could imagine him staring at her in comical surprise, too stunned by her pitiful actions to move, but she refused to raise her eyes to verify if this was the case.

Clara tentatively raised her left foot onto the first step, and it was then that the guest’s feet became a blur of motion, charging at her across the polished marble floor. It took a moment for her to realize he was coming after her with some violence, which seemed extreme given the circumstances, but only when his hands closed around her throat did she fully appreciate the danger of her situation. Rosa’s doll fell to the ground as she reached up to pry at the vice-like grip circling her neck. He squeezed harder and black spots mottled the edge of her vision, her breath slipping from her lungs in weak spasms. She gazed up at the man in horror.

The wild eyes of Baron Rutherford stared back.

He leaned in, his breath heating her already flushed face.

“Found you,” he snarled.

The surreal sound of screams mingled with the strains of the orchestra, and Lord Ashworth halted abruptly in the midst of an uninspired waltz with Miss Morrell. Alarmed, he released his dance partner and scanned the ballroom for Thomas, finding his friend standing near Eliza on the outskirts of the room.

“Evanston,” he called sharply, twitching his head towards the door. The viscount nodded, his blue eyes wide with unease, and the music faded then died altogether as the two men weaved through the gathering of confused couples on the dance floor. Without the background noise of the music, the screams seemed louder and more shrill.

The earl and the viscount reached the door simultaneously. Thomas raised his hands and turned to face the inquisitive mass of people.

“Please enjoy some refreshment in the next room, as we excuse ourselves for a moment,” he said, adopting his most charming smile. “We will return shortly.”

Despite his impatience, William could see the sense in his friend’s actions, if only to keep the crowd from interfering. Eliza joined them outside the ballroom, her eyes panicked, but was met with her brother’s protective arm blocking her path.

“No. I don’t know what’s happening, but you will not . . .”

“I would recognize Rosa’s screams anywhere!” she cried hotly and brushed past him, her pale gray skirts flowing behind her as she ran. Ashworth and Evanston raced to catch up, but none of them were prepared for the scene that greeted them in the foyer.

The lady’s maid, Patterson, was kneeling on the cold floor, her arms wrapped securely around Rosa’s waist in an attempt to detain the crazed child, who was flailing and swinging her doll as if attacking some invisible assailant. The front doors were gaping and an arctic wind gusted through the open portal, blasting Eliza as she lowered herself in front of her daughter.

“Rosa,” she whispered vehemently, stroking the girl’s face with her gloved hands. “What has happened?”

“He took her!” wailed Rosa, tears falling fast from her eyes.

“Took whom, my darling?”

“He took her! That bad man took Helen!”

Ashworth met Evanston’s eyes, and Eliza turned to gaze up at them in frightened puzzlement. Dread, cold and weighty, rooted itself deep in his chest. He stepped closer to the crying child.

“Rosa, this is important. Where are they now?” he demanded, ice flowing through his veins.

“A c-carriage—” sobbed Rosa, sagging with grief, finally allowing her mother to fold her into a comforting embrace.

The earl’s head snapped up as Matthew and Charles rushed into the foyer.

“My lord . . . ?”

He silenced them with a dark look.

“Horses. Now.”