‘You should have told me. We might have baited a trap!’ exclaimed Fanshawe.

‘We did spring the trap,’ Hazelmere answered with a fleeting grin. ‘Dorothea went out on to the terrace at midnight and I was in the shadows behind her. A voice, which neither of us recognised, called her towards the steps down on to the path. But then some others in the ballroom opened another door on to the terrace and whoever it was took fright. I wasn’t about to give chase and leave Dorothea alone on the terrace.’

‘And you saw nobody?’ asked Ferdie. Hazelmere shook his head, going back to studying the second letter.

‘Very likely she’d have gone to that gate if Ferdie’d remembered to give her the note,’ said Fanshawe.

‘No. She won’t be caught by that ruse again,’ said Hazelmere. ‘But what puzzles me most is who the writer of these missives could be.’

‘Got to be someone acquainted with you,’ put in Ferdie.

‘Yes,’ agreed Hazelmere. ‘That’s what is particularly worrisome. I’d thought it was one of those abduction plots at first.’

‘Shouldn’t have thought the Darent girls were sufficiently rich to attract that sort of attention,’ said Fanshawe.

‘They aren’t. I am,’ replied the Marquis.

‘Oh. Hadn’t thought of that.’

All three men continued to study the letters, hoping that some clue to their writer’s identity could be wrung from them. Fanshawe broke the silence to ask Ferdie, ‘Why do you say whoever it is must know Marc?’

‘Writing’s not his, but the style is. Just the sort of thing he would say,’ replied the knowledgeable Ferdie.

‘Can’t know you all that well. You never drive young ladies around, let alone behind your greys,’ his lordship pointed out.

‘With one notable exception,’ corrected Hazelmere. ‘To whit, Miss Darent.’

‘Oh,’ said Fanshawe, finally convinced.

‘Precisely,’ continued Hazelmere. ‘It’s someone who at least knows me well enough to write a letter in a style that could pass for mine. Someone who also knows I have driven Miss Darent behind the greys, who knows I’m very particular about keeping my horses standing and who knew I was out of town and not expected to attend the Bressington masquerade.’

‘Therefore,’ concluded Ferdie, ‘one of us. Of the ton, I mean. At least as an accomplice.’

‘That would appear the inescapable conclusion,’ agreed Hazelmere. He continued to stare at the letters.

‘What’re we going to do?’ asked Fanshawe.

‘Can’t call in Bow Street,’ said Ferdie, decisively. ‘Very heavy-footed. Create all sorts of rumpus. Lady Merion wouldn’t like it; Dorothea wouldn’t like it.’

‘I wouldn’t like it either,’ put in Hazelmere.

‘Quite so,’ agreed Ferdie, glad to have this point settled.

‘As far as I can see, the only thing we can do is keep a very careful watch over Dorothea,’ said Hazelmere. ‘She won’t be taken in with any messages, but, as we don’t know who’s behind this, we’ll have to ensure no one who could possibly be involved is given any chance to approach her alone.’

‘Just us three?’ Fanshawe enquired.

Hazelmere considered the question, the hazel gaze abstracted. ‘For the moment,’ he eventually replied. ‘We can call in reinforcements if necessary.’

‘What are they doing now?’ asked Fanshawe.

‘Resting,’ replied Ferdie. Seeing their surprise, he explained. ‘Went to the theatre last night with your parents, dear boy. Result-Cecily’s exhausted.’

‘Ah,’ said Hazelmere with an understanding grin. Fanshawe frowned.

‘Going riding with them this afternoon,’ continued Ferdie, ‘then the Diplomatic Ball at Carlton House this evening. That’s easy-we’ll all be there.’

‘Well, Ferdie, m’lad,’ said Fanshawe as he rose to leave, ‘you’ll just have to keep us informed of where Miss Darent means to be and then make sure at least one of us is there. Shouldn’t be too hard. They can’t be gallivanting all over town still, can they?’

Ferdie reflected that their lordships, normally engrossed in their own pursuits, had very little idea of just how crowded a young lady’s calendar could be. He sincerely hoped they would not have to keep up their surveillance for long.

Moments later, as he descended the steps in their company, arriving on the pavement ahead of them, he gave voice to an idea that had been rolling around in his head for some time. ‘Actually, as far as I can see, the easiest way to solve all these problems is for you two to hurry up and marry the chits! Then Marc could spend his entire day with Dorothea, if necessary, and Cecily wouldn’t be moping around, and I could go back to living a quiet life again.’

Seeing that their receipt of this advice was not favourable, he hurriedly waved at them. ‘No? I’m off! See you tonight at the ball.’

The Diplomatic Ball at Carlton House was so named because all the diplomatic corps and delegations stationed in London attended. Sponsored by the Prince Regent, attendance by all those invited was virtually obligatory. These included all the year’s débutantes, the majority of the peers present in London and the élite of society. It amused the Prince to think that for one night in the Season they all danced attendance on him. While the cream of the ton considered this function supremely boring, the necessity of being present when the Prince arrived ensured that all summoned came early.

Knowing his Prince, Hazelmere realised that, while it was hardly likely that Dorothea would be kidnapped from the ball, both she and Cecily could face a threat from a different source. After discussing the possibilities, he and Fanshawe called at Merion House when they knew the sisters were riding with Ferdie. They found Lady Merion at home and, having outlined the perceived problem, it was agreed that both of them would accompany the Merion party to Carlton House, using the large Hazelmere town carriage.

Ferdie was taken aback at finding them in attendance when he called at Merion House that evening. A quick word from Hazelmere brought comprehension to his eyes. ‘Good heavens! Never thought of that!’

‘Never thought of what, Ferdie?’ asked Dorothea. She had witnessed the exchange and, her curiosity aroused, had come to see if she could surprise from him some explanation for the appearance of their lordships.

Ferdie could never think quickly in such situations. He could find no glib words to answer her. Dorothea knew that if she waited long enough he was bound to say something helpful. She had reckoned without Hazelmere, who calmly stepped in with a blatant lie. ‘Ferdie, I believe Lady Merion has been trying to catch your eye these minutes past.’

‘What? Oh, yes! Got to see your grandmama.’ With this explanatory aside to Dorothea, he crossed the room to her ladyship’s side with the alacrity of a rabbit escaping a snare.

Dorothea looked at Hazelmere in disgust. ‘Spoil-sport,’ she said.

‘It’s hardly fair to try to trip Ferdie up. He’s definitely not in your class. You can attempt to get the story out of me if you like.’

‘As you obviously have no intention of telling me, it would be wasted effort, I fear,’ she replied, adding, ‘In such matters, I am, after all, definitely not in your class.’

‘True,’ returned Hazelmere, taking the wind out of her sails. The emerald glance he received in reply spoke volumes.

With Ferdie come, there was nothing more to delay their departure and soon they were settled in the carriage and on their way. The Hazelmere town coach was a luxurious affair and easily sat the six of them, despite the voluminous ball-gowns peculiar to this affair. To some extent, the Diplomatic Ball had temporarily replaced the more formal presentations of previous years. Due to the problems besetting the royal family, these had been suspended. But the tradition of all-white, waisted, full-skirted ballgowns for the débutantes, worn with white ostrich plumes in their hair, had transferred to the Prince Regent’s Diplomatic Ball.

The all-white ensemble made Cecily look ethereal. Dorothea, with her dark hair and green eyes contrasting with the white, looked divine. As usual, Celestine had taken full advantage of Dorothea’s age and figure and the bodice was cut low, while the waistline had been subtly altered to emphasise her tiny waist and the swell of her hips. On entering the Merion House drawing-room, Hazelmere, setting eyes on her, knew he was justified in anticipating trouble at Carlton House.

It took no more than ten minutes to drive the short distance to the Prince Regent’s London residence, but, owing to the crowds, it was nearly an hour before they reached the head of the stairs and heard their names announced as they entered the ballroom. As His Highness was convinced that he had a particular susceptibility to colds and chills, the rooms were already overheated. Dorothea was glad she had not brought a shawl. Hazelmere, glancing down at her as she walked by his side, uncharacteristically wished she had.

With Fanshawe escorting Cecily and Lady Merion on Ferdie’s arm, they strolled down the ballroom, stopping to chat to acquaintances and friends. They had agreed that the safest place for the Misses Darent to make their curtsy to the Prince Regent was where the élite of the ton usually congregated. Lady Jersey and the other patronesses of Almack’s would be there, as would most of their lordships’ close acquaintances. In such august company, the chances of His Highness issuing one of his unwelcome commands was considerably reduced.

They had reached this position and were busy greeting their friends when a general stir running through the crowd announced the entrance of the Prince Regent. As the now portly Prince, accompanied by two of his confidants, strolled down the ballroom the assembled ranks of gentlemen bowed and the ladies sank into the deepest of curtsies. This movement passed like a wave down the long room, arrested every now and again as His Highness paused to exchange a word with one of the favoured or, more frequently, to ogle a beautiful woman. Viewing this behaviour as her Prince approached, Dorothea thought it hardly appropriate for one of his years and position. In this, the majority of those around her agreed.

As the wave of curtsying ladies reached her, and the débutante to her left sank down, Dorothea did likewise, bowing her head as she had been taught. She was supposed to maintain this pose until His Highness had passed. While she waited, frozen into immobility, she realised that his feet, the only part of him within her range of vision, gaudily clad in bright red ballroom pumps with huge gold buckles, had stopped a short distance away. Risking an upward glance through her lashes, she discovered the Prince’s protuberant pale blue eyes fixed on her. He smiled archly and came to take her hand and raise her to her feet.

As the others around her abandoned their obsequious stances she was aware of Hazelmere close behind her in the crush, a little way to her right, his hand now resting lightly at her waist. Mrs Drummond-Burrell moved slightly on her left. This movement, almost imperceptible though it was, distracted the Prince, who then became aware of those around her. She watched as the distinctly lecherous look faded, and then disappeared altogether, as His Highness’s gaze met Hazelmere’s over her right shoulder.

The Prince inwardly cursed. He had been informed that the most attractive débutante this year was Miss Darent, but that to suggest she might like to entertain him in private would be unwise, as she was considered by the ton to be virtually affianced to the Marquis of Hazelmere. While there were some among the peers he could ignore, Hazelmere was not one of them. But, seeing the luscious dark-haired beauty curtsying to him, he had entirely forgotten the warning until recalled to his surroundings by the censorious eyes of Mrs Drummond-Burrell and then Hazelmere’s cool gaze. So, instead of what he had been going to say, he smiled in quite a different way, almost charmingly, and said, ‘You are really very beautiful, my dear.’ With a nod, he released her hand and, still smiling, moved on.

Dorothea sensed the almost palpable relief around her. As the Prince continued along the ballroom and the ranks of his subjects broke up she turned to Hazelmere and, not knowing how to phrase the question, raised her enquiring eyes to his.

‘Yes, that was it,’ he assented, smiling as he drew her hand through his arm. ‘You did very well, my love.’

Ignoring provocation she knew to be deliberate, she asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me he could be so…well, like that?’

‘Because one can never tell if he will be.’

‘Is that why I was with you and not with Grandmama?’

‘His Highness is occasionally misguided enough to make…suggestions, which in your case would be totally inappropriate.’