She set out on her destination and promptly lost her way in an unenclosed botanical garden. Exasperated at the loss of precious seconds she started back on the walkway. Once or twice she heard something rustle in the shrubberies. It was late in the season for nightingales, and although no one called to her by name, she wasn’t alone.

She passed an amorous couple strolling in the starlight. They pretended not to notice her. She coughed lightly to make sure they did. She was sorry to spoil their evening, but it would strengthen her case if they happened on the scene she was about to reveal.

A second pair of sweethearts wandered off the path to avoid her. A negligent attendant walked behind them, humming to herself. She spied a third couple in the shadows.

It was an ideal night for love.

And for betrayal? What did she and David really know of each other, pledged to marry by their parents in a distant future that neither he nor Ravenna had ever expected to arrive?

At last she reached the fountain, gurgling in the quiet. The temple beckoned the eye with a white-pillared entrance that stood adjacent to an imposing statue of Achilles. Two stalwart walnut trees loomed like watchtowers over the clandestine meetings conducted beneath their boughs.

Ravenna felt a little sorry for herself. She wasn’t the type of girl a rogue would lure out into the dark; no man in his right mind would risk upsetting her brothers. Still, it might have been nice if she’d been asked. The temple occupied an unlit rise on the lawn. She looked back at Rhys for reassurance. He was slumped against the wall in an inattentive pose. A lady in a boa, presumably Miss Haviland, was descending the terrace steps behind him.

Ravenna wavered, hoping that Miss Haviland’s sweet face would not distract him. She watched in trepidation as the young woman attached herself to his side. Rhys swept her a courteous bow. And turned his back on Ravenna.

“Thank you, Lord Useless,” she muttered. “It’s encouraging to know you have my rear.”

He glanced around sharply as if he’d heard the complaint. Then he gestured to Ravenna over the top of Miss Haviland’s head. She could never stay angry at Rhys. He was not the sort to mistreat any lady, and she trusted the rapscallion completely. He would come through when she needed him.

She pivoted. She might need him sooner than anticipated. Her skin prickled. The awareness of another presence impinged on her nerves. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. She could retreat, return to the ball, and no one would be the wiser. She could plead lunacy if caught or run away, disguise herself as a male and enlist in the navy.

Then she looked across the lawn and perceived a man and a woman intertwined on the bench at the temple entrance. David had collapsed back on his elbow. His other hand was busy hoisting up the viscountess’s skirts. The two of them groped and kissed and somehow switched positions, pale bums bobbing in a graceless display.

She shivered in revulsion. And her anger slowly transformed into detachment. Was she truly willing to expose her fiancé’s immorality to the world, or to London, which in the bon ton’s view amounted to the same thing? Society would scorn her, of course, not David. A well-mannered lady would merely forgive her beloved’s indiscretion. She would never unmask his lewd behavior. Husbands were expected to take mistresses.

Still, to Ravenna’s mind it was better to live in exile than to spend the rest of her life in regret.

She would be doing David a favor, as she saw it. She’d never be a good wife. She would become a shrew who would make him utterly miserable after his betrayal. She could not bear him touching her ever again.

She ventured off the path, closer to the temple. The broken shells of the path crunched beneath her slippers. She wasn’t supposed to make any noise. She was meant to sneak up on him, but suddenly she didn’t care.

His neckcloth flew into the temple. Ravenna covered her eyes as the next article of clothing went soaring, whispering, “Nasty creature. I hope she smothers you. I hope everyone at the party sees you for what you are.”

To think David had kissed her hand at luncheon and now he was kissing what part of another woman’s body she didn’t care to know. Her face burned with humiliation.

But self-pity served no purpose. The other couples in the garden should still be near enough to observe the unspeakable scene. It was up to her to bring it to their attention. A ladylike, albeit loud, call of distress should do the trick.

She searched the area around her. Where were her witnesses? She’d spotted six guests and one attendant after she passed the fountain. She saw only one man now by the statue of Achilles. He was pacing around the stone pedestal, clearly anticipating company, looking anxious and more than a little moody. Every few seconds he raised a pair of opera glasses.

Oh, lovely. Another liaison in progress. She examined his broad-shouldered silhouette for a moment. If she had been in a better frame of mind, she might have appreciated his striking appearance. Then he swung around unexpectedly in her direction. Her heart sank.

No. Not him again.

Trust Simon to live up to his reputation while she was in the midst of ruining hers. What horrid timing. Still, she was curious to see what sort of woman he’d meet for a rendezvous. He could have his pick.

However, that was his concern. He wasn’t married, or engaged to anyone as far as she knew.

He was available -- a handsome man forbidden to her and -- she released a pent-up breath. Never mind his other credentials; he was a brilliant witness. She felt a rush of fondness for the man. The timing was perfect.

Who would doubt a duke’s testimony? Who would label Rochecliffe a liar if he admitted that he had seen David and Lady Frampton going up and down on the bench like a see-saw?

Assuming that Simon had witnessed the unsavory act. He would have to be in his cups or completely absorbed in his own plans not to have noticed something. Assuming, too, that he would stand up for the truth and take her side.

Gentlemen often defended one another’s misgivings. Poor Simon. She hated to put him on the spot and interrupt his impending romance. She would owe him a favor if he complied.

She’d test their friendship soon enough. It was past time to summon Rhys.

A flash from above disturbed her concentration. A falling star? The sky sparkled tonight like a jewelry shop displaying priceless gems.

Absently she lifted her head. Her gaze reached no higher than to the figure of a man stretched out lengthwise across a broad limb of the walnut tree. He was not dressed for the party in a cap and bulky grayish coat.

A star had not glinted on her venture. The metallic gleam of the gun in his hand had.

A chill went down her neck.

His focus appeared to be fixed on some object in the garden. He shifted his weight to his upper body. She backed up a step. The heel of her slipper scuffed the shells again, the sound amplified in the stillness. Had he heard?

His back seemed to tense. She swallowed hard as he returned to his task. He leveled the gun on his target. Who was – the duke? Who else? David and Lady Frampton continued their mortifying spectacle of unbound lust at the temple, out of firing range. The man hidden in the tree was certainly not the aging viscount seeking revenge on his wife’s lover.

Remain calm. Imagine that you are invisible. Words of counsel once given to her from an old friend, from Simon as a matter of fact. She had never forgotten his advice, nor needed to obey it. Still, remaining calm would not save Simon’s life.

Couldn’t Rhys sense something had interrupted her plan? He might have known if not for Miss Haviland’s untimely appearance.

How many minutes had passed? David had become inconsequential, her plan discarded. She could not stand by and allow Simon’s murder. It was irrelevant what he might have done to encourage a violent act. She would intervene to save even a stranger.

Nor could she allow her brother to run blithely into danger.

She would reveal her own presence if she made another sound. There was nothing to do about that.

The branches creaked. She reacted.

Instinctively, she raised her head again to send out a warning to Simon. To her horror what emerged from her throat was not a call of distress, but a battle cry.

She released the unholy scream that in her girlhood she had practiced on the battlements outside her bedchamber. It was the blood-curdling call her aunts had forbidden her to use and claimed was so powerful it could chase off the wind and raise the wings of the long-disappeared dragons that had once inhabited the castle woods.

It was shockingly indelicate. It resonated with power.

Her alarm must have reached the terrace, the person in the tree, his intended victim. However, it came too late. The gunman fired even as her voice faded in the air. In the aftermath of her delayed panic she could not discern whether Simon was still standing near the statue or had fallen.