Caroline shot her a knowing look. “Yes, a soldier. That is, a former soldier. He should be intriguing, don’t you think?”

“I have no doubt of it.” Frances’s throat felt dust-dry. “At any rate, he won’t be one of your tame puppies.”

“All the better.” Caroline adjusted the heavy jonquil silk of her skirts with a practiced hand. “They’re so much more fun when they don’t simply roll over, aren’t they?”

Frances coughed. “I can’t really say. I haven’t rolled over since I was widowed, you know.”

Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Maybe it’s time you changed that.”

“Believe me, I’ve thought of it.”

Caroline chuckled, though Frances’s smile hung a little crooked. Any reference to her brief, tempestuous marriage that ended six years before still trickled guilt down her spine. Which was probably why she hadn’t rolled over in so long.

“How do I look?” Caroline murmured. “Satisfactory enough?”

Frances smoothed the dark blue crape of her own gown, then cast an eye over Caroline. With quick fingers, she tugged one of the countess’s blond curls into a deliberate tousle, then nodded. “You’ll do very well, though I think you’ve lost a few of your jeweled hairpins.”

Caroline pulled a droll face. “Tonight’s casualties: one fan, an undetermined number of hairpins. I don’t suppose a soldier would regard those as worthwhile, but I rather liked them all.”

“They were lovely,” Frances agreed. “I saw Lady Halliwell hunting the same hairpins on Bond Street after you last wore them five weeks ago.”

“Oh, horrors.” Caroline frowned. “She’ll remember that I’ve worn these before.”

“If she does, it won’t matter, because she admires you greatly. Besides, she wasn’t able to get any for herself. I’d already put the remaining stock on your account.”

Caroline looked impressed. “You do think of everything, don’t you?”

“I do. I really do.” Frances permitted herself a moment of pride before adding, “But if Lord Wadsworth calls on you again, he’d better bring you a new fan.”

“And himself some new manners,” murmured Caroline. “Oh, look, I see Emily now.”

Frances squinted, picking out Caroline’s good friend Lady Tallant pushing through the crowd. The countess wore a grin on her face and her husband on one arm. A tall, fair-haired man followed a step behind. The war-hero brother, no doubt; his taut posture was military-perfect, his handsome face a calm cipher.

Caroline lifted her—well, Frances’s—fan as soon as the trio were within a polite distance. “Emily! You look beautiful, as usual. How do you keep your silks from getting creased in the crowd?”

Lady Tallant did a quick pirouette to show off her indigo ball gown. “Jemmy uses his elbows to keep the crowd away. Isn’t he a wonder?”

“Elbows, Caroline,” muttered Frances, “would work much better than your fan the next time Wadsworth becomes too free with his hands.”

Her cousin gave a short cough of laughter. “Ah—yes, he is indeed a wonder. Jem, never let it be said there’s no place for chivalry these days.”

“I won’t,” said the earl gravely. “After all, I sacrifice the tailoring of my coat each time I drive out an elbow.”

His wife rolled her eyes, then inclined her head to the man at her side. “Caro, Mrs. Whittier. We’re here to make an introduction.”

Frances could have sworn Caroline wiggled a little, though she managed to keep her face calm. “Oh? To a friend of yours?”

“Much better than that.” The earl bowed. “To my brother, Henry Middlebrook. He’s quite a war hero. Perhaps you’ve heard of his adventures on the Continent?”

The fair-haired man shot his brother a look so filthy that Frances made a little ha of surprise. He cut his eyes toward Frances and quickly composed his expression.

Lady Tallant must have noticed her brother-in-law’s glare, because she swatted her husband with her fan. “Jemmy,” she hissed.

Lord Tallant blinked. “Er, ah, forgive me. Er, Hal has been recently traveling on the Continent. For, ah, personal enrichment.”

Another filthy look from the brother, another swat from the wife’s fan. Lord Tallant looked positively discombobulated now. Next to Frances, Caroline was beginning to shake with suppressed giggles.

Frances grinned. The cipher of a soldier was actually rather entertaining. Interest crackled through her body, the fatigue of the long evening seeping away.

“What, Emily?” said the earl in a beleaguered voice. “God’s teeth, stop hitting me. You’ll mar my coat if you keep that up.”

“Well, you’ll mar my fan,” retorted his wife. “Never mind, Jemmy. You are hopeless. Caro, here is Henry. He is positively salivating to meet you. You too, Mrs. Whittier.”

The man stepped forward with a wry smile. This close, he proved to be just as tall and well made as he had appeared from a distance. His eyes crinkled with good humor; his hair glinted as gold as Caroline’s under the hot light of the chandeliers.

“Do forgive my salivation,” he said. “Having been away from London, I suppose I’ve forgotten the proper manners.”

Caroline shrugged. “Have you? Well, if you’re living with Emily, you won’t need manners.”

Lady Tallant smirked. “And if he spends more than a minute with you, Caro, he’ll need smelling salts.”

“I doubt that,” Mr. Middlebrook said smoothly into the middle of this friendly volley. “I rarely get the vapors.”

“Nor do I.” Caroline gifted him with a sunlit smile and extended her hand. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Middlebrook. Perhaps we shall be good friends.”

He returned the smile and bowed over her hand with impeccable military bearing.

And his right arm swung down, down, loose as the limb of a puppet.

When he straightened, his face pale, Frances noticed what she had failed to see before: his right arm hung stiff and wasted within its sleeve, facing painfully backward.

Two

Damn it.

Henry straightened as quickly as he could. He had forgotten again. This gentleman’s uniform he wore tonight, the finely tailored black coat and breeches, made him look and feel like his old self again. When really, he was the only broken-winged blackbird in the flock.

Lady Stratton—a guinea-gold vision, as painfully beautiful as Emily had told him—simply stared, dumbstruck.

The woman at her side recovered first. Dark-haired and olive-skinned, she had a roguish look as she extended her left hand to shake his. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir. I am Lady Stratton’s cousin and companion, Mrs. Whittier, and I am generally thought to be terrifying.”

For an instant, warm fingers clasped his. Henry looked at his left hand as it released hers, feeling as though it belonged to someone else. “Thank you, Mrs. Whittier.” His shoulders unknotted a bit. “I am accustomed to obeying my superiors. I shall do my utmost to be terrified.”

“You shall be, Hal,” interjected Jem in a relieved babble. “God help me, the woman never forgets a thing. She can tell me what I wore to a ball, say, last summer. Me or anyone else.”

“That is no trick, my lord, as you always wear black,” Mrs. Whittier said. “As for any other feats of memory, I can assure you, they are grossly exaggerated. I am well aware that a too-good memory is unforgivable in a friend.”

Lady Stratton had recovered her aplomb, and she dimpled. “It is far worse in an enemy, Frannie, which is why we keep you as a friend. Mr. Middlebrook, would you care to sit with us, or do you intend to dance?”

Now it was Henry’s turn to stare. “I’m not precisely suited to dancing, but I’d be glad to sit with you.”

“I’ll fetch lemonades all around, shall I?” Jem was already poised to battle through the crowd again.

“Two for yourself,” Henry said, knowing his brother’s love of sweets.

“Wine for me, Jemmy, if you can find it,” Emily said, shoving a nearby chair into position next to her friend, then another. “Lemonade will give me the vapors.”

Jem dropped a quick kiss on her forehead and set off.

“Use those elbows!” Emily waved at Jem, beaming when he shook his head at her before disappearing into the crowd.

She plumped down into one of the light giltwood chairs with a sigh. “It is rather fun discombobulating Jemmy, isn’t it?”

“I’ve always thought so,” Henry agreed, taking the other empty seat.

A silence fell as they all smiled at each other. Henry’s thoughts unrolled swiftly:

I cannot stand it if they speak of it. But I cannot bear it if they don’t.

Surely Lady Stratton must want a man who is whole.

But after living through the hell of Quatre Bras, surely I’ve earned the right to pursue whatever—whomever—I desire.

Surely no four people have ever sat in silence this long within a full-crammed ballroom.

After an endless few seconds, Lady Stratton spoke. “As you are a soldier, I must thank you for your service, Mr. Middlebrook. All London has been celebrating because of men like you. To have Napoleon vanquished at last—can it really be true?”

She waved her fan as she spoke, a fluttering gesture that drew his eye to the clean lines of her gloved fingers, her arm. The effect was rather marvelous. She could sit for a painting, just as she was.

Henry gathered his stiff right arm into his left hand, wishing it could paint that picture. “It can indeed be true. But please don’t credit me with any significant contribution.”

Too bleak. He summoned The Grin, a blithe expression that had eased his way through society in former years. “Though I thank you for your kind sentiments. It’s very good to be back in London, and this is where I intend to make my mark. Emily and Jem are allowing me to stay with them as long as I care to, even though I have already ruined Emily’s favorite carpet.”

His soldiering had done him some good; he was adept at parrying and shielding, even in conversation.

Lady Stratton nodded her fair head and accepted this new topic. “You’ve made a mark on London already, then. That is admirably quick work. I’ve been trying for years to ruin Emily’s carpets, as I am terribly jealous of their fineness. Were you roughhousing with the boys?”

Jem and Emily had two young sons, good-natured boys who were abominably full of energy.

“If only it had been that,” Emily sighed. “No, he spilled paint on it. But he did also help me ruin a table I hate, and he came with Jemmy and me tonight. So I suppose I’ll forgive him eventually.”

“Spilled paint? You are an artist, then?” Mrs. Whittier’s tilted hazel eyes grew bright, lending her features a glow.

Henry nodded. “I was, once. I hope to be again. Though today’s effort was, shall we say, not sufficient to get me into the National Gallery.”

Lady Stratton shrugged. “I’ve never had a painting accepted there, either, so that is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Do you paint?” He felt a quick flash of yearning.

She shook her head, smiling. “No, I don’t. But that is nothing to be ashamed of either.”

It took him a moment to sift her words; then he laughed. Flirtation. Just as in the old days, before he had left.

He settled into his too-small chair and regarded this widowed countess, this friend of Emily’s who seemed to have wrapped all London society into a ball and put it in her pocket. “I wonder, Lady Stratton, if you consider anything worth being ashamed of.”

She tilted her chin down and fixed Henry with the full force of her blue-green eyes. “Oh yes. But nothing that I’d admit to such a recent acquaintance.” Her mouth curved in a secret half smile. “If you wish, you may call me Caro, and perhaps I’ll tell you more.”

“Outrageous, isn’t she?” Emily murmured in Henry’s ear. Mrs. Whittier covered a grin with one hand.

Henry rather suspected Lady Stratton was less so than she seemed, that she had carefully honed her act on all the suitors who had come before. When one had wit and wealth enough, the edge of propriety could prove astonishingly flexible.

He was more than willing to tread that flexible line with her. With such a woman at his side, he could walk anywhere—and eventually, the ton would follow along.

It was time to employ a little strategy; he would set the pace. “You do me a great honor, my lady,” he said, “but as I cannot yet be Caro to you, I shall not ask that you be so to me.” Not yet Caro; not yet dear. Someday, though. Maybe.