He trailed off beneath Justin's glower, realizing that Emily was grinning like a Cheshire cat.


"You might be a bit more inconspicuous if the Winthrop crest weren't emblazoned on your carriage

door," she said, brushing a stray twig from the shoulder of Justin's greatcoat. "I'd suggest you pay

Bentley Chalmers whatever it takes to keep him in your employ. The two of you make rotten detectives."


With those words she marched away, disappearing into the brougham with a twitch of her sassy little bustle.


Justin muttered, "I'd like to put my foot-"


The coachman twisted on his bench, craning his neck.


Shaking his head in disgust, Justin threw himself into the carriage. As they drove into the night, the dark figure at the window of the house across the street lifted his glass in a mocking toast.


* * *


Emily's behavior in the next week was beyond reproach. Each expedition she made was chaperoned by the duchess or one of Justin's sisters. When her newfound popularity showed no sign of abating, even Cecille and her diminutive mama deigned to woo her affections. Justin heard not even a whisper of impropriety as she became the toast of London. He heard other things, though. How she had leaped out of a moving carriage to rescue a terrified puppy darting among the congested traffic of the Strand. How she had tossed the silk purse containing her entire allowance to a shivering beggar child on the street.

How she had shamed Cecille and her fast set out of going to Bedlam to poke fun at the lunatics.


Justin could find no fault with her. To complain would have been the worst sort of hypocrisy. She was the kind of daughter every father dreamed of having. But Justin wasn't a father. And he suspected the ways he dreamed of having her were not only immoral, but possibly illegal.


The whirl of activity left little time for him. At each soiree and ball her dance card was filled minutes

after arriving. At each luncheon and card party the seat next to hers was taken by some fawning young toff who hung on her every word as if it might be her last. Justin was relegated to the position of

watchful uncle even though he knew none of the eager young men were the threat to her virtue that

he was.


He tripped down the stairs late one afternoon, struggling to knot his tie for the opera that evening.

Penfeld had a way of disappearing whenever Emily was preparing for a night out, leaving Justin to struggle with the damnable scrap of silk alone.


Two strange young men were hovering in the foyer.


"Excuse me," he said, brushing past them.


"Your Grace, may I have a word with you?" The one with the flaming red hair trotted after him. Justin took the freckled hand he offered and he pumped eagerly. "Claiborne, sir. Richard Claiborne. My

friends call me Dick."


Justin looked him up and down from his yellow boots to his checkered jacket. "I dare say they do."


The other man rushed forward, clutching a stovepipe hat. His slicked-back hair reeked of bear's grease. "Henry Simpkins, Your Grace. At your humble service."


"Yes, well, that's very nice," Justin said vaguely. His tie curled like a serpent around his Adam's apple.

He tugged at it and started to walk away. "If the two of you are seeking employment, I suggest you

make an appointment with my offices."


Dick Claiborne flushed to the roots of his hair. "I wish to speak to you about a very private matter."


"Bite your tongue, Dick. That's not fair. I was here first!" Henry cried.


Claiborne whirled around and stabbed Henry's chest with his forefinger. "Sod off, Henry. I saw

her first."


A horrified suspicion grew in Justin's mind. Leaving the irate young gentlemen nose to nose, he lifted a lace curtain and peered out the window. Two more carriages had drawn up to block the drive. One of their occupants was hanging out his window, shouting insults at the man emerging from the other carriage. As Justin watched, the young swell thrust up his shirt-sleeves and launched himself past a stoic footman into the window of his taunter's brougham. The brougham rocked wildly. The driver grabbed the lamp

to keep his seat.


Justin groaned to find his mansion under siege. The snarls from behind him were becoming more rabid. He marched back to Simpkins and Claiborne, dragged them apart by their collars, and shook them like limp puppies.


"Cease this nonsense," he snapped. "I'll tolerate blood on my grass, but I won't tolerate it on my marble tiles."


He shoved them toward the door without loosening his grip.


Claiborne dragged his heels. "But, sir, I'd make a very good husband. Truly I would!"


"Thank you, Dick, but you're not my sort. Simpkins is looking for a mate. Perhaps the two of you can come to an arrangement."


He thrust them out the door. As they went tumbling down the shallow steps, a dead silence fell over the waiting carriages.


Justin waved cheerfully. "Do call again. I'd love to tell you more about my years with the cannibals. Charming tribe, the Maori. They've been known to pluck out the eyes of any man who offends them

and eat them whole."


Dusting off his hands, he marched back into the house. The frantic jingle of harnesses and bridles was followed by the gratifying clatter of galloping hooves. Justin leaned his back against the door, blowing

out a slow breath.


"A pity we're not living in the days when maidens were locked in stone towers."


Justin slowly lifted his eyes to find Emily sitting like an elf on the balcony above, her stockinged legs dangling through the balusters. It was obvious she had witnessed the entire spectacle.


His gaze traced the curve of her thighs as they straddled the thick post. A hoarse note touched his voice. "It wouldn't do me any good. I'd still have a key."


At that moment Lily and Millicent entered from the parlor, chattering about their opera dresses. When Justin looked up again, the balcony was empty.


* * *

For those seeking the drama of the bards, the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane was the favored choice, but those craving the loftier charms of opera flocked to the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. The theater

had been a glowing jewel in the crown of London since the first majestic strains of Handel's Rinaldo had graced its stage over a century before. As a small boy clinging to his father's trouser leg, Justin had believed its elegance a taste of heaven itself, and the busty diva one of God's own angels.


A touch of the old magic brushed him as he ushered Lily and Millicent into the Winthrop box. They settled into the red plush seats behind him as the orchestra began to tune their instruments. Penfeld hovered in the narrow aisle beside them, holding Justin's perfectly draped opera cloak over his arm. Knowing how the valet loved fine music, Justin had invited him as a guest, but he was obviously more comfortable in his role as human cloak stand.


An expectant murmur raced through the audience, accompanied by the rustle of satin and broadcloth.

The private boxes and seats below started to fill. Justin's own awe was dampened by apprehension. Naturally, Emily had been too busy to attend with the family. Against his better judgment he had

allowed her to accompany Cecille, leaving only the delicate countess to chaperone them.


He leaned forward and scanned the rows of boxes with his opera glasses. The gaslight from the crystal chandeliers shimmered off diamond chokers and gold Albert watch chains. The women clustered like multicolored blooms planted in window boxes next to their black-garbed escorts. Their fans fluttered

like delicate petals in the wind.


Justin finally spotted Emily in a box on the tier below. She was on the same side as they were, but much farther from the stage. His worst fears were founded. The box was packed to overflowing with rowdy young swells and milling girls. He glimpsed the countess dozing in her ruffles in the back of the box.


"Sir," Penfeld said, tugging on his coat. "The performance is beginning."


Justin lowered the opera glasses and settled irritably back in his seat. There were two empty seats beside him, since his mother and Edith had begged off with throbbing megrims, refusing to admit they both detested the opera.


"Why don't you sit down, man?" he asked Penfeld, indicating the vacant chairs.


"Oh, no, sir." The valet stared stoically ahead as if even glancing at the stage might be considered a breach of duty. "It wouldn't be proper."


The first notes of the overture began, and the massive curtain rose. Lily tapped his shoulder. "May I borrow your opera glasses?"


"No," he snapped.


She leaned back in her seat with a wounded sniff.


The chandeliers dimmed and stage arcs flooded the brilliant backdrop with light. Justin was deaf to the musical charms of Bizet's La Jolie Fille de Perth. He was too obsessed by another jolie fille.


Using the opera glasses, he turned his gaze away from the stage and back to Emily. She was wearing

the soft shade of rose so complimentary to her coloring; her curls had been caught up in a loose topknot.


Justin adjusted the glasses. A furious breath escaped him as a blazing shock of red hair came into focus. Who else could that be but Richard "Dick" Claiborne slobbering all over her bared shoulder? Someone passed in front of them. He leaned over the balcony, craning his neck. A fat eyeball filled his vision.


He slowly lowered the glasses. The gentleman in the next box was glaring at him. "The stage is that

way," he said gruffly, pointing.


Nodding a curt apology, Justin ducked back into his seat. The door to the box opened, sweeping in the unmistakable scent of lavender.


Suzanne's husky whisper raked over him. "Do you mind if my husband and I share your box? It seems ours has been seized by my visiting cousin and his family."


Without waiting for an invitation, his ex-fiancée claimed the seat next to his while her husband settled in the back of the box. "Deplorable stuff, opera," he grumbled. "Don't know what the women see in it."


Justin grunted an agreement, too distracted to defend his fondest passion. Within minutes the dapper

little man was snoring. Justin cast Suzanne a wry glance, wondering if she was remembering their last disastrous night at the opera when she'd called him a foolish bastard for turning his back on his inheritance.


He shifted in his seat. Studied his program. Drummed his fingernails against the balcony railing. When

he could no longer resist, he jerked up the opera glasses and trained them on Emily's box. Suzanne

leaned curiously over his shoulder, enveloping him in her perfume. Justin found himself staring down

the twin barrels of another pair of opera glasses.


He started. Emily was watching him. As she realized she'd been caught, she dropped the glasses in her

lap and stared fixedly at the stage as if entranced by the trilling vibrato of the plump prima donna. Justin lowered his own glasses, feeling a slow smile spread across his face. He leaned back and dropped a

casual arm over the back of Suzanne's chair.


"I can't see," Millicent whined.


"It's opera, Millie," he said. "You don't have to see. Just listen."


He dared a glance from the corner of his eye. Emily was watching them again. He tilted his head toward Suzanne as if sharing the most intimate of confidences.


As act one approached its majestic climax, there was a stir in Emily's box. Justin snatched up the glasses. Several of the young people were sneaking past the drowsing countess, probably off to seek the more invigorating and forbidden entertainment of the music halls. Emily and Claiborne were left quite alone