He sat back against the desk. “I am as ignorant as the next man. Unless, of course, the next man is Colin Gray.” He crossed his arms. “What have you two been up to?”

She met his gaze for a long moment. Then she sat down in the office’s single chair and draped a hand airily over her brow. “I cannot tell you. If I did, then I would have to kill you and that would ruin my gown, bloodstains being what they are.”

He tsked. “It is far too lovely a gown for such abuse, s’truth.”

She dropped her hand, her face now devoid of play. “Wyn, I was concerned about you. I am still concerned. You have been so little in touch with us for too long, even when you are here in town. And even with Leam. Will you remain in London for a time?”

His friends imagined him hell-bent on self-destruction, and perhaps he had been when last he’d seen them. But no longer.

“Colin is about to dismiss me from the club, you know.”

“I don’t think so. When you did not return immediately he would not send anyone to find you. He said you would appear when you wished and that I should trust you. He has great faith in you.”

“He did not send anyone after me because he wishes to discover whether Lady Justice truly knows my identity.”

“You heard about that already?”

“I have been back in town at least three hours, my dear.”

She shrugged. “Believe what you will about Colin’s motives. But I know you will believe that this past fortnight since Leam came to town he has been in a perfect stew. I think it’s about you, but he won’t say.”

“The poet is all dramatic anguish when he wishes to impose his notions of rectitude upon another.”

Her laughter filled the little room with music. Then abruptly her amusement faded.

“Why were you gone so long, Wyn? Is Leam displeased with you for a particular reason?”

“If you wish to know your cousin’s feelings on the matter, I recommend you apply to him, my dear. Now, as much as I am delighted to again be in your company, I have a task to accomplish this afternoon and few hours in which to do so.”

She stood and came to his side, bringing with her the scent of white roses. Her bosom brushed his sleeve. “I am happy to see you,” she said softly.

“Constance, your sweet seduction will not stir me into unwarranted disclosures,” he said without looking at her. “I am better at this game than you.” With all but one dimpled girl. His friends did not recognize him because he had become, in fact, unrecognizable, guided by his mind as always but now no longer ruled by it. And . . . he liked it this way.

“You are heartless.” Constance leaned her cheek upon his shoulder. “I adore you.”

“I am eternally yours.”

“You never were,” she said sweetly. “And now I think you never shall be.”

He swiveled to her. “What precisely am I intended to gather from that?” he drawled while the heart he supposedly lacked beat a quick tempo.

“Only that Colin has a letter for you to read. But I shall leave that to him.” She went to the door. “If you depart from London again without telling me, I vow I will send someone after you. Or perhaps I will simply follow you myself. Colin has confined my work to town, but if you cross me again in this manner I will become a wandering hunter like you, and like my cousin and Jin used to be. I vow it.”

“Your vow is my bond. Now, leave, dearest lady.”

The door clicked shut. He drew the bolt and returned to the file resting atop the drawer. At the top a clerk had scrawled Davina Lucas Carlyle, Baroness. He opened the file and read.

“You made it all up?” Diantha sat behind a potted plant in a corner of an enormous ballroom bursting with guests from its cascading entry stairs to its beveled terrace doors. An orchestra’s bright notes leaped into the air, the murmurs and laughter of conversation mingling with the wafting aromas of perfumes and colognes, champagne and melting beeswax.

Teresa sat beside her on another embroidered gilt chair, her short, flaming curls sparkling with tiny pearls laced into a white net that matched her snowy white gown. She nodded somberly.

Diantha shook her head. “I imagined some of it embellishment.” And she had discovered that some of it was enormous understatement. “But . . . everything?”

Teresa’s eyes were pretty round lily pads. “Not everything,” she allowed. “Annie told me stories of her amorous escapades with footmen and stable hands.” Her fingers tangled together on her lap. “I merely told those escapades to you as though they had happened to me.”

Diantha felt astoundingly ill. Regret had nothing to do with it. “But why would you do such a thing?”

“Why didn’t you write and tell me where you were?” Teresa retorted. “After Annie returned to Brennon Manor, I suffered an agony of guilt for having assisted you in leaving. I would have sent my brothers searching for you but they went off hunting with Papa. I could not tell Mama, of course. She would have gone into an instant decline. But more importantly, I knew you would never speak to me again if I revealed you. You’d made me promise not to!”

Diantha peered at her friend.

“I would not have easily forgiven you for betraying me, it’s true.” She reached for Teresa’s hand. “I’m sorry I did not write. I was . . . busy.” Busy throwing herself at a man who had lied to her all along, as her mother had for years, and as Teresa had too. But perhaps she was overly primed to see such lies as betrayal.

Teresa’s eyes welled with tears. “I think I may weep with relief. Di, I am so very glad you are well.”

“Dear T, don’t cry here. And forgive me, please,” she whispered, knowing she should be begging forgiveness of another person as well, a man who had worried over her just as Teresa had.

“You are here, safe and sound. You are forgiven.” Teresa’s lips wobbled into a smile. “Now will you tell me of your adventure? You did not go to Calais, I must assume, for your mother is not restored to your family.”

“I did not go to Calais. I went . . . Oh, it’s too long a story to tell now. Let’s save it for later.” Or never. How could she tell Teresa this? “Now you must tell me about your time in town so far. Has it been wonderful?”

“All my mother speaks of night and day is finding me a husband as quickly as may be.” Her brow pleated. “But in the three days since she and Aunt Hortensia have been taking me about, I have yet to be introduced to even one gentleman with whom I should be inspired to do the sorts of things Annie does with the blacksmith’s son.”

Diantha’s cheeks warmed. They never had before when Teresa told stories. But now she knew what it was to share that sort of intimacy with a man. Everything had changed.

“Actually,” Teresa whispered, “I kissed one gentleman.”

“You did? After I left Brennon Manor?”

Teresa nodded. “He came to visit my brothers before they went off hunting and I felt so guilty that I’d lied to you about all that, so I let him kiss me.”

“How did you find it?” Thrilling. Delicious.

“Unpleasant.” Teresa’s brow creased beneath her coppery locks. “His mouth was wet and he said I had a very large bosom.”

“You do have a very large bosom.”

“He said he liked that about me the best and that he wanted to touch it.”

“He sounds like a nincompoop.” The sensation of Wyn’s touch was indelibly fixed on Diantha’s skin. She could not forget it, no matter how tangled her feelings about him. “But now you know he is no gentleman and you should not allow him to court you.” She was a thorough hypocrite. But Wyn was a gentleman. He was also a man, and he had said he needed her body.

Teresa sighed.

“There now.” Diantha patted her hand. “We will arrange an introduction to the most handsome gentleman here tonight and your bosom will charm him instead.”

Teresa’s sigh became a giggle, which was Diantha’s intent. She glanced beyond thick palm fronds to the ballroom bubbling with elegant ladies and gentlemen. “There must be any number of eligible bachelors here.”

“It is the ball of the season. Aunt Hortensia says that Lady Beaufetheringstone decorated everything with gold to celebrate the new king, and black since we are still mourning the old. But rumor has it that the black swags are not really for the old king but for the travesty of a trial that our new king has imposed upon the queen for infidelity. Of course everybody says Her Majesty is innocent.”

“Oh. Yes.” She hadn’t heard. Or if she had, she hadn’t paid attention. Every day it grew increasingly difficult to attend to gossip. A fortnight had passed and still Wyn did not come to London. Either he had lied to her about intending to marry her, or Mr. Eads had gotten him. Her stomach churned.

“Di, you don’t look well.” Teresa tugged her to her feet. “Let’s find a glass of lemonade for you.” She stepped out from behind the plant and Diantha slammed into her back.

“Oh!” Diantha caught her balance. “I beg your—” She looked over Teresa’s shoulder and her lungs folded up and placed themselves before her windpipe like a door. She choked.

Teresa’s eyes were round. “It is him.” This said in a weak tone that suggested awe for a deity.

But the man standing alone by the French windows, gaze fixed on Teresa, was not a deity. He was a bulky Highlander with suspicious blue eyes and a penchant for tossing ladies about when he wished them to do his bidding.

Diantha hadn’t imagined Mr. Eads could clean up so well. His long dark hair was pulled back in a queue, and he wore evening finery atop with a plaid kilt, stockings, and shining shoes below. But he was still very large, he was still an assassin, and . . . if he was in London, Wyn might be too. The notion was a combined joy and agony.

“T, come away,” she whispered, but the music drowned her voice and Teresa wasn’t listening. She and Mr. Eads stared at one another as though there were not four hundred other people in the place. But his gaze was not now suspicious. It was as wondering as Teresa’s. Then with the neatest movement, as though he were indeed a gentleman, he bowed. Teresa swayed forward.

Diantha grabbed her arm and propelled her through clusters of guests into the depths of the crowd.

“What on earth do you mean, ‘It is him’?” She drew her friend to a halt at the edge of the dance floor.

“What?” Teresa blinked ginger lashes.

“You said, ‘It is him,’ Are you acquainted with that man?”

“He bowed to me.” She looked dazed. “He must like my bosom.”

“Don’t be silly. All men like bosoms.”

The sense came back into Teresa’s face. “Now wait just a moment. You said that I would meet a handsome gentleman tonight who admired my bosom.” She craned her neck to look back toward the terrace doors. Mr. Eads was still staring at her. She released a little breath of pleasure.

“A gentleman.” Not an assassin. Diantha twisted her fingers in her skirt. “You see— Oh, good heavens.” Her heart raced. She could not lie again, especially not in these circumstances. Never again. “T, I must warn you—”

“Di, if you seek to turn me away from him, you will fail.” Teresa’s face looked perfectly calm now.

“Turn you away from him? But, you have only just seen him. You’ve looked at him once.”

“Now wait another moment. You go off on an epic adventure to save your mother but I am not permitted to like a gentleman that catches my eye?” Teresa folded her gloved hands before her. “You are a thorough hypocrite, Diantha Lucas.”

“I am.”

“You admit it?”

“Of course I admit it. But, T, you really mustn’t consider that gentleman. You see, I am acquainted with him. Slightly. And I don’t think—”

“Oh!” Teresa’s eyes grew filmy again. “Do introduce me to him!”

“Introduce you to whom, dear gel?” Much like the ceiling and walls, the lady who approached wore cascading yards of tulle. Upon her head perched a turban topped with a gilded ostrich feather and a large bejeweled pin, and between a thumb and forefinger encased in peacock-colored gloves she wielded an Oriental fan painted with a gentleman’s portrait.

“Now, to whom do you wish an introduction, child? That lanky pole over there isn’t worth your shortened breaths—my fourth cousin thrice removed and an inveterate gambler. But any other gentleman present tonight would be worth the adoration of a girl of such ample charms.”

Teresa peered around Lady B. “He is standing by those doors, my lady. A very”—her breath hitched—“tall, large man with long hair.”

Their hostess clucked her tongue. “That, dear gel, is the Earl of Eads and a penniless heathen. He’s barely been in society since he returned from the East Indies some seven years ago. I wonder that he’s here tonight unless it is to scout out husbands for his countless sisters. Half sisters. Must be at least seven of them, the poor man. But he does have remarkably fine legs.”