One

London, England

Early spring 1817

Silhouettes of flowers and swirls of ink fashioned into vines danced around the paper to form an ornate garden of shapes, framing the words written in the center. The artwork had been designed with care, crafted from precise black lines and finished with pale watercolor dots.

Large swooping letters at the top of the first page proclaimed this to be the diary of Lady Isabelle Fairlyn. All of her most personal thoughts would be detailed herein—details that were of vital importance if this mission were to be successful. Knowledge leads to accomplishment, wasn’t that what St. James always said?

“It seems I listened,” he whispered.

It was past time for the tide to shift against the man who’d wronged him so long ago. He aimed a smile at the closed door that led to the hall of the Fairlyn family’s London home. Soon he would be the only one smiling.

Returning to his task, he ran his thumb over the colorful first entry in the small leather-bound book, tracing the line of a leaf in the corner before he turned the page to find the information he had come for. An icy wind whipped through the open window, and the light from the candle beside him waved and flickered. He pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and leaned in toward the light, scanning the words, committing them to memory.

Isabelle Fairlyn’s Diary

January 1817

All gentlemen should strive to be more like Mr. Kelton Brice. He is fashionable, amiable, and a fine dancer—everything I require in a husband. I’ve never danced with him, mind you, but sometimes a lady simply knows these things, even from across a crowded ballroom. From the moment he entered our drive in his sharp red phaeton three years ago, I knew we would one day be married.

It was a chaotic time in the house the day he arrived. Father had recently acquired his title most unexpectedly from Uncle George, and our new home was a whirl of activity. Mother was calling orders to the footmen, having paintings hauled from this wall, and that while the sound of hammers echoed through the house. She and Father had been in another battle since dawn that day. I’d escaped to the garden for the morning, but one can only remain among the roses so long without a bite of food. I’d planned to slip in the side door and take one of the biscuits Father always left behind on the tea tray in the library. Only, when I entered the room, I was caught between my parents as they raged over Father’s inattention to the family, or perhaps it was mother’s vanity with her new station—perhaps both.

Their anger surrounded me, holding me frozen, unable to escape. Then Mr. Brice was there. He was shown into the room, and a calm descended on the scene. He made a jest about the chaos of life with a title, and suddenly everyone was laughing, put to ease in an instant. He gave me a small wink as I finally took the biscuit from the tray and began to back away. Time stopped when he looked at me. And that was the day I fell in love. Some people may say love doesn’t take hold in a single moment, but they are wrong and I am right. By some people, of course, I mean Victoria. Why must sisters be so irritating?

When she learned of my fondness for Mr. Brice, she pointed out quite cheerfully that he had been at our home only a few minutes to deliver a letter by hand to Father and we’d never truly spoken to each other. Even so, I’m certain we will share the kind of love that inspires poetry. Victoria didn’t witness his kindness that day or feel the way he brings a bright joy wherever he goes. She doesn’t know his true nature, but I do. I fairly melted into my half boots right there on the library floor, and if we were wed, no one in my household could ever be cross again. That is love.

I saw him again a few times over the course of my coming-out season last year. He didn’t notice me then, but the upcoming season will be different. I’m certain of it. With my family’s arrival in London, my plans can begin.

In spite of the cold weather, I convinced one of the maids to walk with me to the museum a few days a week instead of taking Father’s carriage. I told her the street where he lives is the safest route for two women to take to Montague House and the British Museum, and she believed me. Thank goodness! Only yesterday I caught a glimpse of him through a window. He was wearing a green coat and leaning against the windowsill while he spoke with someone in his home. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll turn around.

Soon I will finally gain Mr. Brice’s attention, and he will fall desperately in love with me. We’ll be married by special license and spend the rest of our days looking at one another in admiration, surrounded by the flowers he picked for me from a field on our estate. Just like something from a story. My dreams are about to come true. I can feel it in every sunbeam that shines down from the sky.

—the future Mrs. Brice, Isabelle

• • •

Spring 1817

Dreams were fickle little bastards.

Fallon St. James once had a dream—to attain enough wealth and power to spend his time as he wished. Reality, however, had a harsh bite. He had the wealth bit, and with an army of gentlemen at his command, now he certainly had the power. But if he were truly free to act as he wished, he would not be at this damned ball tonight. Yet here he was, searching the crowd for the one man who could destroy everything he’d built.

Fallon clung to the shadows of the ballroom as he moved toward the small parlor, Brice at his side. The only redeeming part of this evening was his current company. Even after years of operations with the man, Mr. Kelton Brice never ceased to amuse him. It was a wonder that everyone in attendance tonight didn’t yet know of their search, since Brice felt the need to fill every gap in conversation with his booming voice. Fallon only smirked. He’d given up any attempt to hush the man years ago, understanding that some things couldn’t be changed. He didn’t wish to silence him even if he could have. Somehow Brice’s loud demeanor and bright clothing only served to disguise the true nature of his work from those around him.

And it allowed Fallon time to think. He was always thinking—he had to be if he was to hold the Spare Heirs Society together and keep it profitable.

Two gentlemen nodded a silent greeting as he passed. He’d made trouble of sorts disappear for both men in the past year, and each of them now owed him a debt, something he acknowledged with a slight tilt of his chin. Their time to return his kindness would come, but not tonight. Tonight was dedicated to Mr. Reginald Grapling and stopping whatever plans he had now that he was roaming the streets and, if Brice could be believed, the ballrooms of London.

“I’m certain of what—or in this case who—I saw, St. James,” Brice said as they entered the side parlor off the ballroom. The parlor contained tables laden with food and a few of the hungrier members of society. “At the ball last night and again a few minutes ago. He was moving in this direction.”

“I believe you.” Fallon scanned the room for Grapling as they circled behind the far table to get a better view. He needed to lay eyes on the man for himself, even if he did have Brice’s word. “I only remarked that it was odd. Last we saw of him—”

“He was being led away in chains?” Brice cut in. “Prisoners do get released on occasion.”

“Not that one. I gave specific instructions.”

“You have men watching the prison? Guards on the payroll?” Brice asked as he plucked a grape from a tray on the table and popped it in his mouth. “It’s not that I doubt you. It’s only…mistakes happen. Prisoners can be released after a time. Do you trust those men?”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

“Of course you don’t.” Brice smirked and shook his head. “But you can trust me. Grapling has escaped. I know what I saw. I only wish I knew what he was after. I doubt he’s been longing to try a waltz for the past four years. Can you imagine him, sitting in his cell at night wishing for a glass of the watery lemonade served at society events? Or better yet…”

Movement caught Fallon’s eye, but he didn’t turn toward it. If Grapling was watching, it was best to allow him to think they weren’t aware of his presence until the time was right. It helped that Brice was still rambling at his side, creating a cover for Fallon’s investigation. Much of the Spare Heirs Society’s activity involved diversion and the nuance of timing. Hunting down this particular adversary was no different. Fallon glanced around under the guise of perusing the trays of sweets stacked high on the nearest end of the table. “We’ll need to have every auxiliary parlor checked,” he stated. Then he saw one heavily lashed, round blue eye peer around the tower of sweets.

A heartbeat later, the owner of the blue eye made a quick retreat behind the sweet trays, blond ringlets dancing in midair.

Someone was indeed watching them, but it wasn’t Mr. Reginald Grapling.

“You take the card room while I stroll through the garden,” Fallon said to Brice, collecting his thoughts. “If Grapling’s still here, we’ll find him and question him.”

“A stroll through the garden? You’re getting soft, St. James.”

“On my way to my carriage,” Fallon clarified, checking his pocket watch. As much as he would like to place eyes on Grapling and assess the threat he posed, Fallon had to be across town in an hour. “I have quite a few meetings planned for this evening. Only a handful of minutes are left for the untimely return of a former Spare Heir.”

Fallon glanced once more to the tower of cakes and biscuits. The watchful eyes were back, this time in a gap where he was certain two slices of cake had been only a moment ago. He followed the line of sight back to his longtime friend, Brice.

Kelton Brice, who was a known bachelor and had no plans to change that fact? What lady in her right mind would glance in his direction if she were looking for anything more than an evening’s entertainment? Or perhaps an evening’s diversion was exactly what this woman sought.

Fallon stepped closer to the table in an attempt to see around the display. If someone was stalking one of his men—even if it was only a light-skirted lady—he needed to know of it. After all, he knew everything.

“I’ll see to the card room and instruct the other Spares to keep a wary eye,” Brice said, pulling Fallon’s thoughts back to their present situation. “Will you need anything further from me tonight? There’s this barmaid down at the—”

Fallon hit him in the arm before he could say more. “You can tell me of it tomorrow.”

“Go on about your stroll in the gardens, then. I’ll be on my way,” Brice replied, eyeing Fallon and rubbing his arm in mock pain. “You didn’t have to injure me. You could simply say you’re in a rush.”

“You’ll survive,” Fallon assured him.

Brice smiled as he took a backward step toward the door. He spread his arms wide in embrace of the night, almost knocking a vase from a pedestal in the process. “Survival—that is the excitement of it all, is it not? A game of survival.”

Brice might see it as a game, but for Fallon, protecting the Spares, his men, was much more than that—it meant everything in his life. He was still watching Brice leave when he heard a small feminine sigh from behind the tower of sweets.

The lady who had been watching his friend bumped into the table as she attempted to skirt it and follow after Brice. The table shifted, knocking loose a tiny pillar holding up one of the great, head-high platters of sweets.

The next moment slowed to a series of heartbeats.

Fallon watched as the display of fruit tarts and sugar-covered cakes wobbled ominously. Without thought, he reached out and caught the third tier from the top in an attempt to stabilize the display before the entire contraption could fall to pieces. His quick grab shifted the series of platters and stands in the opposite direction.

He sucked in a breath of vanilla-and-strawberry-scented air as the display began to slip toward the floor. Then a small gloved hand caught the other side, and he found himself face-to-face with the ever-watchful lady with eyes only for his friend.

When he imagined wood nymphs from mythology, this was how they appeared—with rosy cheeks, doe eyes, and blond curls cascading around a face lit with innocent, ethereal beauty.

Only this lady didn’t belong in the woods with the other nymphs. Not dressed as she was. Fallon wasn’t one to admire fashion, but her gown seemed to be made of stars, as thousands of beads caught the candlelight and skimmed over perfect curves. Who was this lady, and why was she lurking after the likes of Brice?

“Fancy a cake?” she asked, as her eyes cut over to the tower between them.

“Or fifty of them for that matter?” he returned, his gaze trapped, not leaving her.

She bit her lower lip and shifted her hold on the display. “I must admit, I’m rather surprised at the weight of this platter. I can see now why Mother gained a stone when she hired that new cook. Cakes always look so fluffy and light.”

“Until you’re balancing several score of them with the palm of your hand.”

“Precisely,” she said with a small laugh. “Why did you send Mr. Brice to the card room?”

Was this lady not at all concerned that if either of them moved the wrong way, the whole display could come tumbling down? She should be. He certainly was. “Wouldn’t a better question be how are we going to remove ourselves from this predicament?”

“I suppose that depends on one’s priorities,” she murmured, her voice straining as she balanced the platter in her hand.

“And your priority is Mr. Brice.” He eyed her. She wasn’t old enough to be a widow, and the innocent sparkle in her eyes showed a decided lack of any clandestine ideas. That left only one explanation. “You must know he’s a confirmed bachelor.”

“That means he’s available.”

“How do you reason that?”

“He isn’t married,” she said, as if explaining something to a child. “That fact is confirmed. Therefore, he is available for the prospect of marriage. That’s what confirmed bachelor means.”

“Do you think so? Because I know Brice quite well and—”

“He showed me a kindness once, winked at me,” she cut in.

“He winked at you?”

Her eyes lit up with clear delight over further discussion of the undoubtedly notable event. “He did. It was magical. He was visiting my father. He swooped in quite gallantly, and he winked. At me. There was a good-natured smile as well.”

“Oh. All is explained then.”

“Wonderful! I’m pleased it’s settled. You can see now why I wouldn’t want him to leave.”

“Remind me to keep my grins to myself when in your company,” he murmured.

“You think me that impetuous, that I go about hanging upon every smile of every gentleman?”

“No, I…” He didn’t know what his thoughts were regarding this woman besides the obvious: perplexed.

“Go ahead then.” She raised her chin in challenge. “If you dare. Smile. Do your best.”

“Now?” He glanced around, noticing the room was empty—where were the blasted footmen? He had a job to do, somewhere to be, and it wasn’t here holding cakes and smiling.

“Here is mine.” She smiled, and dawn seemed to break in the candlelit room.

Her smile crept into every cold crevice of his mind and warmed it with its light. It wasn’t until a moment later, when the edge of the platter began to cut off blood flow to his fingers, that he realized he was staring at her. “What’s your name?”

“When you haven’t even offered me a kind smile?”

“I’ve saved you from—” He broke off, knowing he’d yet to save her from anything at all. He sighed. “Very well.” He exercised the muscles in his cheeks and exposed his teeth in a smile.

She sighed and gave him a pitying shake of her head. “You’re safe from a leg shackle with that. I’m Isabelle Fairlyn. You don’t smile often, do you? I can see why. You really should work on it a bit more.”

Fairlyn… Knottsby’s daughter? Her name alone should have made him see the lady back to her chaperone and leave at once, but he was too busy being offended. “What’s wrong with my smile?” His teeth were straight and white. No woman had ever complained of his looks before. And he’d never found fault in the mirror.

“Your smile lacks meaning.” She adjusted her grip on the display. “Smiles should come from the heart.”

“I’m holding up a tower of cakes and biscuits at the moment. My heart is elsewhere.”

“If you say so.”

“St. James,” he supplied, wondering if she would recognize the name.

“Ah. You have a terrible lack of a heartfelt smile but a nice name, Mr. St. James.”

“Thank you?” He found he was relieved that she didn’t know of him yet oddly saddened at the same time.

How much business was really discussed while young ladies were present, though? He shouldn’t have expected she would know him, nor did he want her to, though her family name was quite familiar to him. This was by far the strangest encounter he’d ever had with a lady, even without the cakes threatening to tumble to the ground around them.

“You’re welcome,” she practically sang in return. “Now, how are we to get ourselves out of this mess?”

“Carefully. Move your left hand to the right. Your right, not my right. That’s your left.”

“I moved to the right.”

“There!” he commanded with a bit too much force in an effort to still her movements. He glanced up and saw the top layer of the contraption wobble before stabilizing again. “Now, if we lift the top off, we can set it down on the table.” He nodded toward his intended destination.

“On the fruit platter? We’ll squash the berries!”

“I don’t see another option, other than letting this thing crash to the floor and cover us both with icing. Or would you rather stay here forever? I could entertain you with my unnaturally affection-free smile.”

To Fallon’s disappointment, the reminder of his smile seemed to sway her thinking. “What about on the cold meats?”

“Berries have feelings about such things but ham doesn’t? Think of the pigs when you say such a thing.” Why was he arguing about this with her? He should set the damned platter down and leave for his meeting. He would be late as it was. Instead he was discussing pigs and berries? It was a good thing Brice had left when he did, or Fallon would never have heard the end of it.

“I didn’t mean to insult the pigs,” she explained, leaning in. “If you only knew my affinity for animals of all kinds—nature in general, really—you wouldn’t suggest such a thing.”

“Meanwhile this platter isn’t getting any lighter. Let’s move to that side table just there and set this contraption down where no foods will be harmed.”

“All right,” she agreed with another bright smile. “How should we do this? Count to three?”

Three… Yes, counting would keep him from staring at her again. “One, two, three… What are you doing? I said three.”

“Was it to be on three or after three?” she asked.

“Three! Three! Just move!” He shouldn’t order a lady, but she didn’t appear to be capable of following his direction anyway.

“We’re going to the table across the room?” She moved with him down the long table as if they were involved in some intricate new dance to which neither knew the steps.

“All to save the berries and swine,” he murmured as he rounded the end of the table and walked backward across the open floor.

“It’s quite far,” she complained. Then with a gasp, she exclaimed, “My grip is…”

The tiered platter crashed to the floor between them, sending bits of cake flying into the air. They both jumped back just in time to avoid being completely covered in icing.

“Slipping,” she finished with a grimace.

“It may be a bit too late to ask you this, Lady Isabelle, but do you have issue with cake being harmed?”

They both glanced down at the bits of cake littering the floor between them. The platter had landed in a large heap and splattered sugary confection across the tops of his boots and the hem of her gown. He could use a thorough cleaning now, but the sprinkling of icing on her gown would likely go unnoticed.

Looking up, her large blue eyes met his once more, this time rimmed with laughter. “As it happens, I believe I am quite fine with cake being harmed.”

“Good. That’s…good.” He took her arm and pulled her toward the door until she was running to keep up.

“Where are we going?”

He glanced behind them and then back at her as they rounded the corner into the hall and kept moving. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that you shouldn’t ever be caught at the scene of a crime.”

“That’s the one thing you know? I know how to weave flowers together to make a wreath for my hair. And now I know how to bring terrible harm to a platter of cakes.”

He began to laugh. His chest shook with it as if his body were knocking the cobwebs off of a seldom-used piece of furniture. He paused to look at her after they’d rounded another corner into a narrower hall.

“There,” she said, staring up at him in amazement. For a long second, his chest contracted as he waited for her to explain her comment. Why was this wood nymph in a ball gown looking at him with such awe in her eyes? Her thoughts shouldn’t matter to him. He was Fallon St. James. Men across the country feared and respected him for his work—that’s what was truly important.

“You are capable of a heartfelt smile. You may need to worry about a leg shackle yet,” she said, still looking up at him before blinking and taking a step away. “Not from me, of course. I have my sights set elsewhere. Nevertheless, you will do quite well this season.”

He watched her as she took slow steps away from him. Some irrational voice inside didn’t want her to leave. “I don’t want to do well this season.”

“That’s silly. Everyone wants to do well in their endeavors.”

“I’m not endeavoring,” he said, forcing himself to remain still. “I never endeavor—not in what you speak of anyway.”

“Is this more confirmed bachelor talk?” she asked, her eyes narrowed and fixed on him.

“I have obligations, business to see to—”

“With no time for dancing?” She gasped as she searched his face for some secret held there. “You don’t dance, do you?”

Fallon let out a chuckle. When was the last time he’d laughed twice in an evening? “I really should…” he began and glanced away down the hall toward a door that led outside.

“You’re planning to leave now, when it’s still early in the evening,” she replied with a tone of disapproval.

It wasn’t often that anyone dared to disapprove of his actions. Aside from Brice’s ribbing over almost everything he did, Lady Isabelle’s own father had been quite opinionated over Fallon’s actions, but that had been a long time ago. Perhaps disapproval ran though her veins…but laughter and smiles seemed this lady’s usual inclination.

Lady Isabelle Fairlyn was more unexpected than the danger that had him searching the ball tonight. He turned back to her, not wanting to leave, not just yet anyway.

“I am thankful for your aid in my escape tonight, Mr. St. James.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the ballroom and the waltz playing there.

“Of course. Is there somewhere I could escort you? To your family perhaps.”

“I’ve already taken up enough of your time.” She took a few steps away before turning back to him once more. “Practice that smile in my absence.”

He caught himself before promising to do just that. What was wrong with him? Others answered to him. He didn’t answer to ladies—or even to wood nymphs disguised in ball gowns.

“Stay away from falling cakes,” he called after her. And gentlemen like Brice, he finished to himself.

“I can’t make any promises,” she said with a laugh, and she disappeared around the corner.

Fallon stood looking at the empty hall for a moment to gain his bearings, feeling as if he’d been thrown into sudden darkness as Lady Isabelle waltzed away. But a second later he was moving toward the rear of the house. As late as he was already, he would make one more lap through the ground floor in search of Grapling and then be on his way.

His secret club that provided for younger sons of the nobility required all of his attention. He had nothing remaining for other endeavors, as Lady Isabelle had put it. Some gentlemen might have spare time for smiles, dancing, and staring after perplexing ladies, but he had the Spare Heirs Society to see to. And that was exactly how he preferred his life to be.

* * *

Isabelle dusted the crumbs from her gloves and slipped back into the ballroom as if the cake incident had never occurred. That was what St. James had advised, wasn’t it? Escape the scene of the crime. It was all very clandestine and exciting until one was caught standing in a pile of spilled cakes.

What did St. James know of escaping danger, though?

Perhaps he was secretly a pirate. Her eyes grew wide with the possibilities. With his tall frame, dark hair pushed back from his face and worn a bit too long, and those piercing, deep-brown eyes, she could certainly envision him in command of a ship of lawless men. He traveled the high seas in search of adventure and was only here at this ball to sell off a stolen treasure. And pirates weren’t likely to smile often—it all fit!

Either it was true and he was a pirate, or he was simply a gentleman who had spilled a great many desserts in his day and knew how to escape blame.

She giggled as she headed to the column where she’d left her sister. Whoever Mr. St. James was, she was glad he’d come to her aid for two reasons. One, she would have made an even larger mess of things without him. And two, because in spite of the situation, she’d had a rather enjoyable time in his company.

They should be friends. Ladies were allowed to be friendly with gentlemen as long as nothing untoward happened between them, weren’t they? And it wasn’t as if St. James was dangerous. He was friendly with Mr. Brice, after all. No one wicked could be friends with such a boisterous gentleman as Mr. Brice. “We shall be great friends,” she murmured to herself as she joined Victoria to the side of the ballroom floor.

“You have cake icing on your gown,” her sister said as she drained the last of the champagne in her glass and looked around for a footman with another.

“I’m not surprised.” Isabelle smiled to herself. If Victoria only knew what had happened…

Dropping every sweet at the ball on the floor hadn’t been her plan, but at least she’d gotten to see Mr. Brice for a few moments. And St. James had been quite sporting about the entire escapade. He was a pleasant fellow, even if he wasn’t charming in the usual way. His choice of evening wear was far too dark, and his mannerisms were too businesslike. Yet there was a warmth held within the rich color of his eyes that inspired one to trust him, much like chocolate could be counted upon to be delicious. Trustworthiness was important in friendship.

Isabelle looked out across the swirls of brightly colored gowns as ladies danced in time to the music. Some lady here would tame St. James, force him to be fashionable and offer a heartfelt smile when called upon to do so. And his wife and Isabelle would someday laugh over how her friendship with the man had begun.

“You have that amused look on your face that you get when you talk of love, paintings, and flowers,” Victoria said as she grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing footman.

“My talk of love and flowers is delightful,” Isabelle returned, nudging her sister in the arm and causing her champagne to slosh about.

Victoria scoffed as she drank half the glass to prevent a spill. “Where have you been? You disappeared from our conversation midsentence a half hour ago. Have you been stalking Mr. Brice again?”

“Of course not.” Isabelle wouldn’t call it stalking; it was really more research, if anything.

She bit her lip as she considered her sister. Isabelle and Victoria were identical twins, true, yet when Isabelle looked at her sister, she didn’t see the similarities between them in the same way other people seemed to. She only saw Victoria. And her sister was quite Isabelle’s opposite in every way possible. Isabelle noticed Victoria’s too-pink cheeks from the drinks she was downing, the look of boredom in her eyes, and the hint of rouge she’d put on her lips, even though Victoria would deny it if asked.

“Yellow,” Isabelle announced. “I do enjoy the cheerful nature of yellow. Or pink. Pink is a happy color too. Did you notice the color of Roselyn’s gown earlier? It suits her, and it’s a perfect representation of the color at its best. But yellow is ideal for adding a bit of sunshine to the evening.”

“What?” Victoria turned from watching the quadrille to look at her in complete bewilderment. “I know we’re supposed to have some type of bond as twin sisters, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You were disappointed that I didn’t finish my thoughts earlier about the fashionable colors for gowns this season. I thought I would continue. Yellow…” She trailed off in confusion.

“Never mind that. I’m only glad you returned. Roselyn has wandered away somewhere, and Evangeline is nowhere to be found. That Lord Winfield of Evangeline’s asked me to dance. It was dreadful. Do you know he doesn’t enjoy visits to Tattersall’s? What sort of gentleman doesn’t enjoy speculating over the next great race horse? I don’t know how Evie can abide a moment in that man’s company.”

“I don’t believe Evie has any great love for Lord Winfield. Or race horses, for that matter.”

“Great love or not, I can’t make conversation with a gentleman who thinks rides in the park can be daring. Rides in the park! She’s our cousin. We have to save her from such a dull marriage.”

“Are they to be married now?” Isabelle drew back in shock. She’d been sure Evangeline’s head had been turned by some mystery gentleman at the Dillsworths’ ball only recently.

“Isn’t marriage the very blasted reason all of us are here? All of you, anyway,” Victoria corrected. “Since I have no plan to marry.”

“Victoria, how many glasses of champagne have you had tonight?” Isabelle asked, though she could guess at the answer, and it was many.

“How many servings of cake did you eat to soil your gown to that degree?” Victoria countered.

“Two, but they were necessary,” she offered with a smile. “I needed eye holes.”

“I should ask, but since I’m certain it involves spying on a man you hardly know, I won’t.”

“I know him,” Isabelle muttered, now searching for the footman with the champagne for her own consumption.

“Isabelle,” Victoria said with a sigh, “when playing cards, no matter how you wish to have all the kings in the deck, you must play the ones in your own hand.”

“I don’t need all the kings,” she countered, turning back to face her sister. “You make me sound like such the social climber. I don’t care about ranking in society. Brice isn’t even titled. I only want love.”

“Then find a gentleman who is actually present this evening and wishes to dance with you,” Victoria pleaded with a sympathetic smile before turning to survey the room. “What about that one over there?”

“With the faded cravat and receding hairline?”

“Heavens no. Do you think I hate you?”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Isabelle muttered.

“Don’t. I only want your happiness, and that gentleman there looks to be well suited for you.” Her sister tipped her chin in the direction of a man to the left of the first.

“Victoria, is he even old enough to be allowed here? That is the sort of gentleman you think I’m suited for?” Isabelle hit her sister in the arm with her fan.

The gentleman in question could barely be of age. If Victoria had ever read the page of Isabelle’s old diary about gentlemen’s bums, she wouldn’t think such a spindly youth would do for her at all. Isabelle unfurled her fan to hide her blush.

“That man over there seems to be staring in this direction a great deal,” Victoria mused, her eyes flashing toward the shadowed corner of the room.

“Who?” Isabelle searched the room but saw no one looking their way.

“Just there, beneath the balcony. Although he looks rather—”

“Intent?” Isabelle returned, finally spotting the man to whom Victoria was referring.

He clung to the shadows of the room, but his gaze bore into her even at this distance. His eyes weren’t bright and charming like Mr. Brice’s, nor were they warm and endearing like Mr. St. James’s. They were cold. His icy glare pierced through her, sending a shiver down her spine. Who was he? Perhaps they’d met last season and he was still at odds over not getting a place on her dance card. But wouldn’t she recall an introduction to such a tall, dark-haired, and rather ominous-looking fellow? His sharp features alone…

She couldn’t imagine forgetting him.

“If intent is the way you want to put it,” Victoria replied. “I was going to advise we move to a different part of the ballroom and hope he doesn’t follow us.”

“I don’t know,” Isabelle murmured, searching for some explanation for his stare. “Perhaps it’s only the rarity of seeing twin ladies. We do get looks of curiosity on occasion.” Yet this man’s wasn’t that sort of expression. It was a stare that fairly screamed danger. Why was he staring so intently in their direction?

“Isabelle, I don’t think he has any interest in the rarity of twin ladies,” her sister warned. “We should move.”

“Perhaps he’s some distant relation we don’t recall.” Isabelle shifted to look at Victoria. “Or he could be an old friend of Father’s. Father did have a rather different set of acquaintances before he inherited the title.”

“I suppose that could be true.”

Isabelle glanced back toward the main door to the ballroom but caught sight of only the back of the man’s dark head as he disappeared into the crowd. She’d stood staring after him for just a moment when she saw St. James dart after him, both of them disappearing into the night.

“A piratical battle in the moonlight,” she gasped.

“What?” Victoria asked.

“It could be an exchange of jewels with pistols drawn, or the retrieval of a stolen treasure map!”

“Or the thankful departure of a man looking at you with lecherous thoughts on his mind,” her sister countered.

“We should follow after them. Pirates fighting in the street, Victoria! Can you imagine it?”

“Them? To whom are you referring?” Victoria asked, ignoring the notion of pirates as she did most of Isabelle’s ideas.

“The intent man from the shadows and Mr. St. James,” Isabelle supplied.

Her sister’s eyes narrowed on her. “How do you know St. James?”

“How do you know him?” Isabelle countered.

“Everyone knows St. James…everyone with an interest in the good card games in town and wagers on race horses anyway.”

“You told me you stopped wagering with gentlemen. If Father learns—” Isabelle broke off, her fan dropping to her side in defeat.

“I’ve done nothing of any significance in ages. I learned of him last year,” Victoria said, but her gaze didn’t meet Isabelle’s.

Isabelle chose to ignore Victoria’s most unladylike inclination to gamble for the moment, her attention circling back to the man who had just slipped from the room. “You met St. James…last season. Then he’s often in London?”

“We haven’t been officially introduced, but I’m certain he has a home here. He’s a well-known gentleman around town, in certain circles anyway,” Victoria hedged, signaling a footman for another glass of champagne.

“That’s disappointing. I thought him a pirate.”

When Victoria turned back with a glass in hand, there was a look of resigned concern in her eyes. “Isabelle, someday your dreams are going to lead you into trouble.”

Isabelle didn’t want to cause her sister to worry over her, but Victoria was rather quick in her judgment of people. People in London were primarily good at heart, probably even that intent man who’d left the ball a moment ago. If she’d only spoken with him, she was certain she would have discovered the reason for his scowl. Perhaps he simply needed to practice his heartfelt smile as well. Isabelle grinned at the memory of Mr. St. James’s tense attempt at a happy face before relaxing back into what was clearly his normal look—watchful consideration.

“There’s no need to worry. If I ever find trouble, I’ll be rescued by my true love.” Isabelle smiled at her sister, knowing how such statements annoyed Victoria and enjoying every second of her torment.

Victoria raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Mr. Brice?”

Isabelle said nothing in response.

Yes, Mr. Brice.