As it happened, Dr. Holmes was unable to come that afternoon because he was attending to another patient in the next county.

Lady Serena was concerned, but Sophia was convinced that it was only a sprain, and once she’d been helped to her bedchamber by two sturdy footmen, she allowed her maid to tuck her into bed with ice for her ankle and agreed to rest.

“I know you must be disappointed about missing Mr. Morgan’s ball this evening,” Ivy said, from where she perched on Sophia’s bedside. “Of all of us, you’re the lady most likely to be found dancing the night away.”

She, Daphne, and Gemma had come to check on her after luncheon. Only the sisters, Sophia and Gemma, had known one another before their arrival at Beauchamp House. But since then, the four ladies had built strong friendships. They each had expertise in separate disciplines, but they all appreciated the difficulties of being a female in the arts and academe, so offered one another support not only as friends, but also as fellow pioneers. And when both Ivy and Daphne had found themselves in danger thanks to tasks given them by their benefactor, Lady Celeste Beauchamp, they’d grown even closer.

Sophia frowned at her offending ankle. “I’d forgotten about the Morgan Ball,” she said.

She’d been looking forward to the entertainment at the industrialist’s newly finished mansion. It would be the neighborhood’s first chance to see what was purported to be one of the most expensive houses ever built in Sussex. According to local gossip, Morgan had chosen the south coast for his country home because he claimed to have a fondness for history and the location was near to Hastings—where William the Conqueror had claimed victory.

No one quite knew what to make of the self-made man. By all accounts he was brash and a bit rough, but Sophia wasn’t really concerned with his manners. She would really like to discuss his textile mills in the North, the conditions of which she’d learned about thanks to a letter from her Aunt Dahlia, an activist in Manchester. The notion of women and children losing limbs and dying of lung diseases because the owner cared more about profits than human lives was abhorrent. And if her aunt was right, Morgan had political ambitions. The local seat in the House of Commons had recently come available and, according to Aunt Dahlia, he had moved to the coast in the hopes of taking it. She’d promised her aunt to learn all she could about the man, but if she had to miss his first entertainment, she’d lose her chance.

“I feel sure that as soon as your usual group of suitors learns of your accident the house will be flooded with bouquets,” Gemma assured her with a pat on the arm. Then with sisterly affection, she added, “Though I can’t imagine why they are so taken with you. You’ve always got paint in your hair.”

“At least I don’t have dust from dirty old stones under my fingernails,” Sophia retorted with a smirk. “And besides, my gentleman callers can hear about my accident from me. I’m going to the ball.”

All three of her companions gasped.

“You can’t!” Gemma said, her mouth agape.

“Sophia,” Ivy said with a sigh, “I don’t see how, unless you wish to bring Thomas and Walter in the carriage with us so that they might carry you around on a litter like a pasha.”

“You won’t be able to dance,” Daphne said, looking puzzled. “What would be the point?”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Sophia said with a wave of her hand. “I will simply use the walking stick we found in the attic during our initial explorations of the house. I’m sure with the sturdy arm of some strong gentlemen and the walking stick, I’ll be able to hobble along quite nicely.”

“I never met a more stubborn person in my life,” Gemma said with a shake of her head. “You’re worse than Aunt Dahlia.”

“It’s because of Aunt Dahlia I must go,” Sophia said. Then she explained what her aunt had told her about Mr. Peter Morgan and his possible political aspirations. “So, you see, I need to find out what he’s about. And what better place to do that than his first large entertainment in the neighborhood. How a man entertains says a lot about him.”

“Why didn’t Aunt ask me to look into Morgan?” Gemma asked with a frown. “I care about women and children.”

How to explain that one’s sister was a bit of a scatterbrain? To one’s sister?

Daphne, who was not known for either her tact or having a propensity for biting her tongue, saved her the trouble. “Gemma, you’d never be able to concentrate long enough. You’d start daydreaming about one of your fossils and would lose track of the conversation.”

Gemma looked offended and turned to Ivy, then Sophia for support. “Am I really that bad?” she asked when they only gave pained shrugs in response to her questioning look. “I’m not that bad.”

“Dearest, you were so lost in thought about some issue with your research,” Sophia said not unkindly, “that you tried to put on a hat while you were already wearing a hat.”

“That was one time!” Gemma protested. “And it was a very thorny issue.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Ivy assured her with a kind smile. “You’re very dedicated to your work. It’s quite admirable. But even you must admit that you aren’t precisely interested in anything quite as much as fossils and the possibility that giant lizards once roamed about the countryside.”

Gemma shook her head, her light brown hair a little frizzy as it escaped its pins. “I don’t mean to do it. It’s just that I’ll start thinking about something and then everything disappears.”

“It’s the same for me and maths,” Daphne said with a nod of agreement.

“We all do it,” Sophia assured her. “I fell from the chalk cliff because I was so absorbed in my work, for heaven’s sake.”

That diverted everyone.

“I thought you tripped walking on the shore,” Gemma said with a frown. “You didn’t tell me you fell from the cliff. Sophia, you might have been killed.” She gave her sister an impulsive hug. “Thank goodness you weren’t hurt worse.”

“How did you come to fall?” Daphne asked. “If you stay far enough from the edge, it’s safe enough.”

Quickly Sophia explained how she’d been startled by a man’s voice behind her, and how Lord Benedick had come upon her.

“Who was it you heard?” Ivy asked. “That’s Beauchamp House land. If there are trespassers we should let Kerr and Maitland know.” The Marquess of Kerr and the Duke of Maitland were nephews of the bluestockings’ benefactor, and perhaps more significantly, the husbands of Ivy and Daphne.

Sophia frowned. It hadn’t occurred to her that the men they’d overheard were trespassing. But it was also possible that one or both of them had some association with Beauchamp House. The idea gave her a chill.

Mistaking her shiver for a more general fear, Ivy tried to reassure her. “Since both Daphne and I were accosted here, Kerr is quite firm about ensuring the safety of the house. He and Mr. Greaves have made sure that all the footmen are trustworthy, and there are new locks on all the doors. Even if someone were to wander onto Beauchamp House land, there’s no way he could get into the house without someone knowing.”

Sophia nodded. She had to tell Lord Benedick about her new insight into the quarreling men. He hadn’t sent round a note, which she assumed meant he hadn’t found anything in the copse. But she could speak to him tonight at the ball.

To Ivy she said, “I trust Kerr. Whoever this unknown man was, I don’t think he meant me any harm. He was speaking with someone else, and they were far too involved in their own conversation to notice anything else.”

“I’m just glad that Lord Benedick happened to be walking on the beach when you fell.” Ivy’s eyes behind her spectacles were wide with concern. “You might have been stranded there for hours.”

“I wish I’d been there to see him carrying you from the shore up the sea stairs,” Gemma said with a wink. “It must have been quite romantic.”

“I was far too busy trying not to cry out every time my ankle was jolted,” Sophia said wryly. Though she had noticed just how very muscular the vicar was on their journey. And she’d been tempted to snuggle her face into his neck more than once. But she wouldn’t admit that now.

“Then how on earth will you manage to go to the ball?” Ivy asked. “You’re being stubborn to the point of lunacy, Sophia.”

“I will manage,” Sophia assured them with a calm she didn’t feel. She was still determined to go. Though she wasn’t quite as sanguine about her ability to withstand hours on her feet as she let on. But Aunt Dahlia needed her. And she’d made a promise.

“Now, you should all go and let me rest so I can look my best.”

When Daphne and Ivy had gone, Gemma came and sat beside her sister on the bed.

“You weren’t too distracted to notice the vicar’s strong arms,” she said with a sly look. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. He’s the only unmarried man in the village who doesn’t dance to your tune. And you like that.”

“He’s a handsome man,” Sophia said blithely. “I’d hardly be human if I failed to notice. And between us, he’s quite strong.”

“You do like him,” Gemma said with a grin.

“Of course I like him.” Sophia refused to be baited. Whatever attraction she might feel for the vicar was not nearly as important as finding the identities of the men they’d overheard. And there was the matter of Peter Morgan and his political ambitions. She had plenty to keep her occupied without adding a tendre to the list.

“Now, please go find some old rocks to examine so that I may rest.”

Gemma gave her a disappointed look, but took herself off.

* * *

Benedick had been unable to find anything in his search of the little wooded area where their mysterious arguers had been hidden. He had quite easily found Miss Hastings’s easel, canvas, and supplies. The painting was still a little wet, and promised to be intriguing when it was finished. The way she’d captured the light and colors of the sunrise on the sea was impressive. He’d never been particularly artistic himself, but seeing work like this made him wish he had that sort of talent.

He reflected on the matter that evening as he drove his gig to the mansion of Mr. Peter Morgan, where the industrialist was set to hold his first public entertainment in the neighborhood. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask Miss Hastings if she’d planned on attending, but given the state of her injury, he had little doubt that she’d have to send her regrets. Which was a shame. He’d enjoyed her company, and had hoped to reassure her that she shouldn’t worry overmuch about what they’d overhead. But that could wait until later.

The line of carriages in the gently curving drive of Morgan House was impressive. Clearly the rest of the residents of Little Seaford were just as curious to see the inside of the mansion as he was. Having handed over the reins, he was greeted by a few parishioners as he made his way to the receiving line.

“Good evening, Vicar,” said Mr. Josiah Almond, a member of the local gentry, whose estate was just on the other side of Beauchamp House. He was a widower of middle years, whose children were grown, and a regular churchgoer. He was also a bit of a gossip. In a lower voice, he said with a wink, “I take it you’ve come to see what this Morgan fellow is about just as the rest of us have. I don’t mind telling you I hope his refreshments live up to the promise of his taste in building materials.”

Almond gestured to the marble beneath their feet. And if Benedick’s memory served from when his mother had been refurbishing the Pemberton ducal residence, the gilt molding and fabric-lined walls of the Morgan entry hall were quite expensive.

“I have a feeling you won’t be disappointed, Almond,” Benedick assured the older man. If his assessment was correct, Morgan was intent upon impressing his neighbors. Everything about his home seemed to promote the idea that Peter Morgan was a rich, successful businessman. Was it a bit over the top? For Benedick’s tastes, yes. But then, he’d grown up in a ducal household that was built for similar purposes, and had long ago come to see the finery for what it was: a show of power. He had no need for such flummery. But the powerful did. And it would be hypocritical to take his father’s show of wealth as a given while criticizing Morgan for doing the same thing.

Further discussion was stalled when they reached the place where Morgan and his wife and sons stood greeting their guests. Morgan himself was a large man, whose large belly was as much a show of wealth as any bit of gold in his home. His wife, on the other hand, was rail thin. She was pretty enough, with guinea gold hair that was still unmarred with gray. While Morgan greeted Mr. Almond, Benedick took Mrs. Morgan’s hand.

“Thank you so much for the invitation, ma’am,” he told her sincerely. “I am always grateful for the chance to get out in the evening.”

Mrs. Morgan smiled at him. “You are quite welcome, my lord. I’m sure our little home isn’t what you’re used to, but I hope you will be comfortable.”

The description of what must be a mansion with thirty rooms at the least as a “little home” might have had Benedick spraying his beverage, if he’d been unlucky enough to be drinking at that moment. As it was, he had to tamp down his natural response and maintain the easygoing expression he’d perfected over the years of being the recipient of odd confidences from his flock. “I’m quite sure I will be most comfortable, Mrs. Morgan. But let us discuss the most important thing. I hope you’ll reserve a set for me?”

The bit of flirtation did the trick and she blushed. “You rogue,” she said without heat as she batted him on the arm with her fan. “You know I’m past the age for dancing. But if I were not, you may be assured I would not be able to turn down the most handsome man in the village. Aside from my Peter, of course.”

“What’s this?” said the man himself as he turned from Mr. Almond, who was moving along the line to greet the younger Morgans. “I hope you’re not trying to lure my wife away, Vicar.”

There was no menace in the man’s tone, but Benedick could hear a slight thread of pique, as if he didn’t take the matter seriously but couldn’t help but be a little annoyed. Whether because Benedick was younger or higher born, he couldn’t say.

“Of course not, Mr. Morgan,” said Benedick smoothly. “Only inquiring if your dear wife was dancing this evening. But alas, she has informed me that she is not.”

“She would make all the young ladies green with envy if she did,” Morgan said, putting a proprietary arm around his wife. “I don’t blame you a bit for asking.”

Then, obviously considering that matter behind them, he changed the subject. “What do you think of Morgan Manor, eh? I don’t mind telling you I’m quite proud of it. Designed the place m’self, did you know that? From the ceilings to the floors. No expense spared, I can tell you. I wanted it to be a jewel on the coast, and so it is.”

Benedick blinked at the boast. “It’s quite a sight to see,” he said truthfully. “And I can tell that you put a lot of thought into every detail.”

Morgan beamed. “I knew you’d understand. I’ll bet it rivals your father’s place in the country, eh? Of course it does. His place must be a hundred years old at least. And has none of the modern conveniences we’ve got here.”

The Duke of Pemberton had actually had modern plumbing installed several years ago, but Benedick wasn’t about to get into a competition with Morgan over whose home was better. “It is indeed over a hundred years old,” he said. “And nowhere near as modern as this. You are to be congratulated.”

Before Morgan could use the pause to add more comparisons to his father, Benedick continued, “I was just telling Mrs. Morgan how thankful I was for the invitation. I’m looking forward to this evening’s entertainment. Thank you, sir.”

The industrialist looked a bit frustrated at being unable to continue his explanation of how he had bested the Duke of Pemberton, but the person behind Benedick diverted his attention then, and with an overhearty handshake, he sent the vicar on his way.

After exchanging greetings with the Morgan sons, who were typical young men, with shirt points and hair that were higher than advisable, Benedick stepped into the ballroom, which was already teeming with guests.

To his surprise, however, his eye was captured by a familiar head of auburn-hinted dark hair among the chaperones and wallflowers.

He couldn’t see her face as she was at the moment surrounded by a circle of young men who appeared to be hanging on something she was saying, but it was most certainly Miss Sophia Hastings, holding court. No doubt she had taken to the side of the ballroom thanks to her ankle injury, but she was here at the Morgan ball nonetheless.

“Evening, Vicar,” said a male voice from beside him. He looked up and the Duke of Maitland handed Benedick a cup of watery-looking punch. So much for Mr. Almond’s hopes for lavish food and drink, he thought wryly. “It tastes better than it looks.”

Since Benedick had performed the duke’s marriage ceremony not long after his arrival in Little Seaford, he and the other man had become friendly.

“Why aren’t you dancing with your bride?” Benedick asked, taking the cup and sipping. It did indeed taste better than it looked. Perhaps Mr. Almond wasn’t to be disappointed after all.

“She’s over there lecturing the schoolmaster, Mr. Pinter, about something having to do with maths,” Maitland said with a shrug. “I don’t pretend to understand half of what she says about all that business. But it makes her happy, and that’s enough for me.”

Benedick had known as soon as he met the couple that they were fond of one another, despite the circumstances that had led to their hasty marriage. And though they seemed on the surface to be a mismatch, given that the duchess was one of the most gifted mathematicians in the nation and the duke . . . was not, they made it work. And Maitland had even agreed to live the rest of the year in Little Seaford, away from his own properties, so that his wife might fulfill the requirements of her inheritance at Beauchamp House. Of course, the duke was also the nephew of the former owner of the home, Lady Celeste Beauchamp, so he already felt at home in Little Seaford. But Benedick didn’t know many men who would adjust their lives in such a way simply to please their wives. And considering that Maitland’s cousin the Marquess of Kerr had done the same thing, it was clear that the men in that family doted on their wives.

Benedick looked across the room to where the blond duchess did indeed seem to be explaining something to Pinter, using her hands to sketch figures in the air. “Pinter looks a bit nonplussed,” he said to the duke.

“Probably because she knows more about the subject than he’ll ever forget,” Maitland said with a shrug. “But he’ll be all right. He likes her. And he’s far better at accepting a woman as his superior in an academic subject than most men in his position would be. He’s a good fellow, Pinter.”

The two men were quiet for a moment as the musicians began warming up, and the buzz of conversation around them picked up. It was unusual for Benedick to remain unmolested by the female population for so long, but he supposed it was because they were slightly afraid of the duchess, and he was currently standing next to her husband.

“Heard you rescued Miss Hastings from the shore this morning,” Maitland said, turning to give Benedick a curious look. “I didn’t know you were in the business of rescuing damsels in distress. Though I suppose being a vicar and all, it’s part of the job.”

Benedick felt his ears redden at the other man’s teasing tone. “I’m sure if anyone else had come upon Miss Hastings, he, too, would have done what he could to help her.”

“But how many men would have carried her a quarter of a mile—up treacherous sea stairs no less—to help her?” Maitland asked. “I’m quite fond of the chit, but I don’t even think I’d have tried it.”

“I couldn’t leave her there,” Benedick tried to explain. He didn’t add that they’d just overheard a man threatening murder, so leaving Sophia on the shore would have been dangerous in more ways than one. “And it wasn’t as difficult as all that.”

His aching biceps told him differently, but he wasn’t going to admit to it here and now. The less emphasis he put on the physical exertion it had taken to get Sophia from the shore to the house, the better. He didn’t want the duke or anyone else at Beauchamp House thinking he’d helped her only because of some sort of tendre. As lovely as Miss Hastings was, she was not the sort of lady he should be associating with. When the time came, he would need to marry someone who would make a good vicar’s wife. Nothing he’d seen of Miss Hastings had indicated that she was so disposed.

“You do know there’s a secret passageway from the shore that leads into the house, don’t you?” Maitland asked with a raised brow. “I should have thought Sophia would have told you. It has stairs as well, but it’s a damned sight shorter than all the way up the outer stairs, across the lawn, and through the garden.”

Benedick blinked, not sure what he was hearing. “Are you telling me Miss Hastings might have saved my back by telling me of a shorter route? Why didn’t she tell me?” He thought back to the long trek from the beach to the house. He had a sudden inclination to give Miss Hastings a lecture—complete with gesticulations rivaling those of the Duchess of Maitland.

“I daresay she was too overset by pain to remember it,” Maitland said thoughtfully. “She’s not the sort to keep something like that to herself on purpose. She’s a good ’un is Sophia.”

Good ’un or not, Benedick thought with a frown, he was going to have a word with her about it. If for no other reason than to assure himself that he’d not been hoodwinked into helping her. The ladies of the village had tried all sorts of machinations to get close to him. He had difficulty believing someone like Sophia, who obviously had her own ambitions, would do such a thing. But who was he to claim knowledge of the female brain?

He was about to excuse himself to go speak to her, when Peter Morgan stepped onto a small dais at the front of the room, which Benedick hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t unusual for a host to say a few words at the opening of a ball. But something about this felt different.

With a gesture to the musicians, indicating they should be silent, their host began to speak.

* * *

From her seat at the side of the ballroom, Sophia wished for the hundredth time that she’d listened to her sister and stayed home. Her ankle was throbbing, and the circle of young men around her, rather than distracting her from her pain, were only annoying her with their competition to see who was willing to do more for her. She could only drink so many cups of punch, and she flatly refused to let them carry her about the room like a pasha. It had been lowering enough to hobble into the room with her walking stick.

She’d had visions of holding court from her perch with the matrons and wallflowers, but hadn’t actually thought through the grueling process of getting from the carriage to said perch.

Fortunately, the sound of the musicians warming up signaled that her suitors would have to go soon and dance with those young ladies who hadn’t fallen from the cliffside that morning. Her injury could be counted a benefit in that instance at least.

“Your attention, ladies and gentlemen,” came the sound of their host from the front of the ballroom. And fortunately, Sophia’s young gentlemen had the sense to move so that she could see where Peter Morgan had taken a position at the dais situated near the musicians.

Sophia wondered, a little thrill of electricity running down her spine, if as Aunt Dahlia had predicted, Peter Morgan was going to announce his intention to run for the vacant seat in the Commons.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” said Morgan with a broad smile, which he made sure to beam over everyone in attendance. At least the ones in the ballroom at the moment. “It is with great pride that my wife, Millie, and I welcome you into our new home away from home. Our little jewel on the coast. As most of you know, I’ve made my home for most of my life in Manchester, but since our arrival in Little Seaford, we’ve been most cordially welcomed by you and the rest of the villagers. I’ve met with Mr. Givens, the mayor, and have listened to his concerns. And I’ve made it my business to become involved in local activities, like the upcoming Art Exhibition, the board of which I am now a member. I mean to make it clear to you, the residents of Little Seaford, that I will put as much effort and energy into the well-being of our village as I have done with my businesses.”

There was a smattering of applause from the room at large, but from one side of the room, where the two Morgan sons and their friends had gathered, came a raucous cheering. Obviously, the man had brought his own audience, which could be counted on to cheer in the right spots.

Sophia glanced around the room and noticed that, with the exception of the cheering lads, the rest of the guests looked puzzled. And in some cases, troubled.

When the cheering had died down—at the behest of Morgan, who gave a gesture in his sons’ direction—he continued. “It is my great pleasure to announce that I intend to run for the vacant seat in this district for the House of Commons. And I hope all of you will give me your support!”

Once again, the cheering group erupted into huzzahs. And there was a bit more applause from the main room. It was more polite, however, than genuinely enthusiastic.

Since she’d been forewarned by her aunt, Sophia wasn’t surprised, but she was puzzled at Morgan’s decision to make the announcement at what was ostensibly an entertainment for the upper echelon of Little Seaford society. If he had wished for a large cheering crowd, surely a more public celebration would have been far more conducive to that.

“Now, without further ado, I shall allow you to get on with what you’ve come for,” Morgan said, beaming out over the room. “Let there be dancing.”

He gestured to the musicians, and they began playing, and Morgan, looking as pleased as if he’d just delivered a New Year’s infant, led his rail-thin wife, Millicent, out onto the dance floor in the first dance.

“I suppose that is what Aunt Dahlia was speaking of,” said Gemma from where she’d come to stand beside Sophia’s chair.

“Indeed,” Sophia said. “Only I didn’t expect him to make the announcement tonight.”

“I’m not sure anyone did,” Gemma said with a nod to the guests, who were slowly making their way onto the dance floor. But there were several small groups of gentlemen who seemed to be in deep conversation. “It seems to have set some of the local tongues wagging, that’s certain.”

One thing their host had mentioned, however, had caught Sophia’s attention and it was far more personal for her than her aunt’s request to keep an eye on Morgan. “What do you suppose he intends, getting himself a seat on the Art Exhibition board?” she asked her sister. “What can he possibly know about art?”

But Gemma gave her a speaking look. “What does anyone in this village know about art, excepting you and the Primbles with their group of artists at Primrose Green? Isn’t the owner of the livery stable on the board?”

“Yes, but Mr. Essex has a very keen eye,” Sophia said. The man had chosen very complimentary colors for the exterior of his establishment, after all. “And besides, I know that all of the board members—Mr. Morgan excepted—have the best interests of the village at heart. And they will judge impartially. We don’t know what sort of motives Mr. Morgan has for affiliating himself with the Art Exhibition board.”

“One would imagine he simply wishes to ingratiate himself with the local populace,” Gemma said. “Though it is difficult to know what any man will do. They are fickle creatures, to be sure.”

Sophia supposed her sister was close to the truth. Still, since she intended to enter the exhibition this year, she was concerned that the entry of Morgan onto the board of directors would affect her chances of having her pieces shown. “You’re likely right. He will simply sit on the board and let the others take charge. It is no doubt his intention to use the meetings to solicit support from the other business owners in the group.”

“Are you afraid that he will try to keep you out of the show?” Gemma asked, her eyes narrowing. “Sophia, your work can be a bit controversial, but no one in Little Seaford is the least bit interested in censoring you. This is hardly the wilds of Yorkshire. Most of the gentry hereabouts spend their springs in London and summers on the road between here and Brighton. They are quite sophisticated.”

But Sophia wasn’t sure that Morgan had the purest of motives. Her aunt had seemed to think he was going to run his campaign with a view toward capitalizing on the populism that had grown stronger in the years since the Peterloo massacre, where at least fifteen people were assumed to have been killed when cavalrymen stormed into a crowd demanding parliamentary reform in St. Peter’s Fields, Manchester. For many years now, a growing contingent of the population had been protesting the inequities of the voting system, the cutting—by industrialists like Morgan—of wages when the market shifted, and the Corn Laws, which imposed a tariff on foreign grain, which meant the people were forced to buy more expensive British grain. It was quite canny actually, Sophia thought, for Morgan to choose to run for his seat in Sussex, where he was relatively unknown, as opposed to in Manchester, where his reputation as a factory owner would hardly do him any good.

“He could make quite a name for himself as a reformer if he were to come out against the scandalous paintings of an upstart young lady who would do better to stay at home embroidering,” Sophia told her sister. “It’s what I’d do if I were in his position.”

“Well, I think you’re being far too suspicious,” Gemma said with a shake of her head. “You’re seeing plots where none are there.”

Before Sophia could respond, she spotted a couple of her usual cadre of admirers headed their way.

“Don’t go,” she hissed to Gemma, as her sister gave her a pat on the arm, then hurried away to where Daphne was speaking to the local schoolmaster.

But it was too late.

“Ah, Mr. Walsh . . . Mr. Ellis,” she said with more enthusiasm than she felt. “What a delight to see you again.”