Rhys was dancing with a debutante, contriving an excuse, any excuse, to break free. She fluttered her gauze-draped arms repeatedly and asked him to guess her costume.

“A moth? No. A windmill?”

Her smile collapsed. “A butterfly. Oh, I told Mama that yellow was a horrid color on me.”

“It’s quite appealing,” he lied. How he missed his nubile ballerina, who always had something clever to say and never demanded flattery. He also missed his normal gentleman’s attire. He kept tripping on his gown and detested the black ringlets that dangled from his wig.

“I’m lucky to have won you before another lady did,” the debutante said, stepping on his skirts.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t you know? You’re one of the raffle prizes.”

“Am I? No one said a word.”

She giggled as he fluffed his curls beneath the pearl circlet that cut the flow of blood to his brain. “Who are you supposed to be? The duchess?”

“Actually, the character Viola from Twelfth Night.”

“Who? Oh. It’s remarkable how closely you and your sister resemble each other.”

“Isn’t it?” he mumbled. “I’ve heard that twins tend to look alike. When does this dance end? I probably should turn myself in for the raffle.”

The dance didn’t end. The band launched immediately into another set. The vigorous music of a pianoforte and trio of violoncellos throbbed in his head. He could have shouted with relief when the clock struck ten and silence fell as the majordomo arrived to announce the winner of the hour.

He hastily excused himself from his dancing partner only to bump into a footman. “Do excuse my clumsiness,” the servant said with a bow. Then, “I’ve been instructed to bring you this.” He pressed a folded note into Rhys’ hand.

“Thank you,” Rhys said uncertainly.

“Your grace is welcome.” It was dark where Rhys stood, and he had to battle his way to a standing candelabrum against the wall to read the missive. It said: Meet me outside the Pavilion of Love and all will be forgiven.

“What in heaven’s name?” he muttered, wondering who he had offended and why he needed forgiveness for a sin he couldn’t even remember he’d committed. It struck him how faintly sinister this invitation sounded. Was it similar to the one that Simon had received at Grayson’s party?

Answering that enigmatic invite had not been the best idea. It also occurred to him that he might not have been the note’s intended recipient. The ballroom was packed like a minnow pond and not well-lit. Rhys could have been mistaken for Ravenna from a distance. The footman had assumed he was “her grace.”

Damnation. Was a guest trying to lure his married sister into a tryst? This was an insult he could not ignore, although Simon might prefer to do the honor and confront the offender himself. On deeper reflection Rhys decided his brother-in-law deserved a spell of peace. He could do Simon a favor.

“Dear me,” a familiar male voice said archly from the other side of the candelabrum. “Rhys? Is that you under that waterfall of hair?”

He looked up blankly from the note into Heath’s sardonic face. “Where is Simon?”

“I spoke with him not long ago in the hall,” Heath said. “Fetching costume. I adore the curls. You misled me for a moment.”

“Have you seen Ravenna?”

“The last time I saw her, you were at the bottom of the stairs together. I take it the pair of you are switching places for the night?”

“You’re sure she hasn’t gone out into the garden?”

“Not by herself, surely. I wouldn’t think she’d repeat that mistake.” Heath’s gaze dropped to the note that Rhys held. “That’s not another portentous message?”

“Would you care to investigate?”

“Do you need to ask? Oh, good. Simon has entered the room. Shall we join forces?”

“Have you ever visited the Pavilion of Love?” Jane asked Ravenna as they strolled arm-in-arm toward the ballroom.

“I’ve never even heard of it,” Ravenna said, craning her neck to peer above the line of guests waiting to enter the ballroom. “It sounds quite intriguing. Was that Simon who walked straight past us?”

“I wasn’t paying attention. Do come outside. The pavilion holds a fond memory for me. Grayson kissed me in one of the private chambers -- and uttered the famous words, ‘There is a time to be wise and a time to be wicked. Which do you suppose it is, Jane?’”

“Not to sound rude, but it’s obvious that you did not choose wisdom that day.”

Jane gave a frank laugh. “How did you guess? Still, as I look back on my life, I don’t think it was unwise to succumb to Grayson. Ours has been a happy union.”

“It’s more of a dynasty than a marriage,” Ravenna said.

“As yours will be.” Jane slowed her pace. “Shall we pay the pavilion a visit? For nostalgia’s sake?”

“Is that wise?” Ravenna asked.

“We shall ask Weed to accompany us, of course.”

Weed was not only Jane and Grayson’s senior footman, he was also a long-time family retainer and faithful servant. He accompanied Jane nearly everywhere and was indeed within hailing distance at the end of the hall.

“It shall take an hour to wend our way outside,” Ravenna said.

“There are detours,” Jane replied. “As a duchess, you must perfect the art of evasion as well as enticement.”

Simon gazed across the garden at the isolated pavilion. The four slender white turrets of the whimsical structure seemed to touch the moon.

The replica of a fairy-tale castle was one of the ton’s most elite trysting places. Tonight, with guards at its entrance to turn away the paying public, it was more of a curiosity than a romantic destination. Any guest who had been hoping for a stolen interlude inside its upper chambers would meet disappointment.

As would the man foolish enough to issue a clandestine invitation to his wife. Simon had accompanied Rhys and Heath halfway across the chamomile slope to the pavilion before he came to a halt. His face hardened as he recognized the masked figure who had crossed the walkway. Sir David. The bastard dared to wait in the dark for Ravenna.

“There he is,” he said in a cold disgust.

Rhys studied the unfamiliar landscape. “Where?”

He gestured to the right. “He’s the strolling minstrel lurking in the rhododendrons. I should have hunted down the little grub the day we read the ballad he sent Ravenna. It had to have been him.”

Sir David turned unexpectedly in their direction. Heath dragged Simon behind one of the tables that had been set up for tomorrow’s al fresco breakfast. “He’s noticed Rhys,” he said. “Don’t let him see us yet. I believe he’s drunk. He’s weaving through the flowers like a Maypole dancer.”

Simon edged forward. “He has to be drunk if he doesn’t find it odd that Ravenna has grown several inches. Or that her hair looks the hedgerow.”

“Rhys is standing in the shadows,” Heath said.

“Was standing,” Simon corrected him, inching back around the table. “While we’ve been doddering here having a leisurely chat, my brother-in-law has arrived at the scene of the ‘rendezvous.’”

Heath shrugged in resignation. “We gave a solemn oath to behave, but a higher duty forces us to give Rhys -- Viola, Sebastian, or Ravenna, as she is, a hand.”

“I’ll give David more than that.” Simon started down the incline, his boots crushing the lawn. He was fiercely glad he had held out against a costume. He would have felt like a proper fool charging into a fight dressed as a wizard in a flowing cloak and false beard.

“There’s no chance of avoiding a physical altercation, I expect,” Heath said, fast on his shadow.

The distinctive crunch of a fist striking bone rent the tranquility of the rhododendron garden. Simon and Heath paused momentarily to take stock of the scene. Rhys, his ringlets askew, leapt up in a pugilist’s pose with his fists raised. Sir David appeared to have staggered to his knees.

“No chance at all,” Simon said with a dark smile, climbing the chamomile in huge strides.

Sir David lumbered to his feet and swung his lyre at Rhys’ head, an assault Rhys dodged and countered with a jab to David’s chin. “Conniving bastard,” he said from the side of his mouth. “You aren’t Ravenna. You aren’t even a woman.”

“I think it’s been established that you aren’t much of a man, either,” Rhys retorted, wrenching the lyre from David’s lax grip and tossing it into the greenery.

David launched at him, his fingers curved like talons. “I wanted to speak to your sister.”

Rhys unfastened the hands that closed around his throat, then butted his head against David’s nose. The wig slid off, down Rhys’ face, and momentarily blinded both men. He ripped the ringlets away and blinked to clear his vision. In a blur he saw Simon twirl David around like a top and punch him in the jaw. He held himself back to grant Simon the privilege of avenging his wife’s honor. The next thing Rhys knew, Simon was carrying the upper half of Sir David’s body into the bushes and Heath had taken a firm grip of his thrashing feet.

“What do you mean to do with me?” David asked in panic, the rhododendrons slapping his face like hands in a line of insulted ladies.

Rhys strolled alongside them, strumming the broken lyre he’d recovered. “You swore you were leaving town. This time we’ll make sure you have a very bon voyage.”

“To where?” David demanded, recklessly for a man being carted off like an old carpet.

Simon dropped him head and shoulders into the leafy foliage. “How does the bottom of the Thames sound?”

“Not enough distance.” Heath relinquished his hold on David’s feet. “He should settle in the Swiss Alps. Or in Germany. You speak German, don’t you, Sir David?”

“Not a word.” David scrambled back to his feet, trapped in a triangle of three unforgiving gentlemen. “I only meant to apologize to Ravenna.”

“By jumping out at her in the dark?” Rhys said in affront. “You tried to kiss me, you disgusting maggot.”

“Perhaps he should enlist in the Bengal Army,” Heath said. “There’s an opportunity to advance in India.”

Sir David straightened, looking abruptly sober. “I don’t do well in the sunlight.”

Simon regarded him without a glimmer of compassion. “You don’t do well in the dark, either. Perhaps you need to be kept indoors. As in a gaol cell. You cannot assault a person you believed to be my wife and crawl off only to strike again. I gave you a chance when I should have thrashed your hide. Doubtless that is what I should do now.”

David raised his hands in surrender. “I shall leave England voluntarily. How long am I to stay away?”

“Seven years is a good start,” Simon said. “However, I think I might prefer the satisfaction of a challenge.”

“I won’t accept.”

“Coward.”

“I’m the one he assaulted with a kiss,” Rhys said, unlacing his bodice to take a breath. “It seems that I should be involved in this matter.”

Heath extended his arm to intercept Rhys’ blow. Simon’s own hands clenched in rage. Didn’t he have the duty to defend his wife? An obligation, in truth?

“Stop it,” Heath said in a controlled voice. “We have been spotted.”

As if to verify his observation, a loud gasp came from the direction of the pavilion. The four men turned in unison, their aggressive tendencies arrested.

Simon’s anger temporarily dissipated. He knew that gasp. It was the one sound in the world that never failed to undo him. He thought of the times Ravenna had caught her breath beneath him in abandon, in innocent trust.

This utterance, obviously, was not an expression of delight. It was one of shock, swiftly followed by the whispers of another lady coming up the path. Of course it would have to be the ever-observant and inescapable Jane.

Wherever Jane wandered, as Simon had learned, others followed. In effect, it was a repeat if reverse performance of the Park Lane incident that had brought Simon and Ravenna together.

A crowd gathered. Grayson forged through its epicenter with his host, the Duke of Wenderfield. Where in this costumed group of partygoers was Ravenna? Had Simon misheard? Surely it wasn’t Jane’s gasp that had quickened his blood. That wasn’t right. It could not be.

By this time several astute guests had taken note of Sir David’s disheveled costume, the blood on his shirt, and Lord Rhys, strumming a lyre, wigless in a woman’s dress. Understandably, questions circulated through the garden like dandelion puffs blowing in the wind.

Heath, as the calmest gentlemen present, rose to the occasion. “We are enjoying a stroll around the garden,” he said to Simon and Rhys. “Sir David is out of chances. I’ll make arrangements for him to pack and book his passage to India. He has a long future to anticipate as a servant of the Empire -- in a remote outpost where one hopes he will cause no harm to anyone except himself.”

Simon opened his mouth to offer his thoughts, as did Rhys. Heath quieted them again. “I assured Julia that no one would start a controversy or commit murder tonight. I will not upset my expectant wife or allow anyone else to do so. Is that understood?”