But the irritation was worth the price. As he'd known she would when he'd called upon her last week, Mrs. Nordfield had spread the positive light he'd purposely cast upon Miss Briggeham's abduction faster than fire-burned paper, his cause aided by the article that had appeared in The Times just that morning. After exclaiming over Miss Briggeham's bravery, he had informed Mrs. Nordfield that while he'd received numerous invitations to parties hosted in Miss Briggeham's honor-invitations he'd sadly been unable to accept due to prior engagements-he'd been surprised to note that she, the foremost hostess in the area, had yet to invite him to a party. He would certainly clear his engagements to attend her soiree-and be granted the honor of dancing with her one remaining unmarried daughter.

He'd received an invitation to her gathering two days later.

The ever-vigilant Arthur Timstone had already reported that rather than being shunned or immersed in scandal after her abduction, Miss Briggeham was the toast of the village. Still, Eric knew that Mrs. Nordfield's stamp of approval was necessary to ensure that Miss Briggeham didn't suffer socially from her encounter with the Bride Thief-an encounter he'd been unable to erase from his mind.

Once he'd realized that Miss Briggeham had provided the authorities with little new information regarding the Bride Thief, Eric had assumed he'd forget all about her.

He'd assumed incorrectly.

Her words, uttered in that wistful tone, had embedded themselves in his mind. This has been a grand adventure… I've always wanted one, you see. He could well imagine a young woman such as Miss Briggeham-an on-the-shelf-spinster bluestocking who'd spent her entire life in Tunbridge Wells-yearning for adventure.

I'm often lonely myself. Her poignant statement had touched him deep inside. He sensed a kindred spirit in her, and God knew he understood loneliness. The isolation brought on by the secret life he led sometimes threatened to strangle him. Even when he was surrounded by people, he still felt alone.

Training his gaze on the house, he noted that all the French windows leading into the crowded ballroom stood open to capture the cool evening breezes. In the garden, crickets chirped a nocturnal chorus, competing with the strains of violin music, the hum of conversation, and the tinkling of crystal glasses drifting toward him from the house. Sweet scents floated from the rose trellis, surrounding him in a cape of flowery fragrance.

The soiree was in full swing. But where was Miss Briggeham? Remaining hidden in the shadows, he craned his neck, searching the crowded room. When he finally caught sight of her, his heart performed an odd leap.

Yes, indeed, his machinations had clearly succeeded, for it certainly appeared that Miss Briggeham was faring well, just as Arthur had reported. She currently stood in the midst of half a dozen ladies, who surrounded her in a way that reminded him of vultures circling carrion. Two gentlemen joined the throng, each jostling the other to hand Miss Briggeham a glass of pale yellow punch.

Positioning himself more comfortably against the rough stone exterior, he extracted his gold cigar case from his waistcoat, then withdrew a cheroot. After lighting it, he inhaled the fragrant smoke and observed the woman he'd been unable to dismiss from his thoughts.

Her chestnut hair was arranged in a simple chignon at her nape. Although her pale blue muslin gown was modest.

It couldn't completely hide her feminine curves. She stood straight, her head held high, but even with perfect posture she remained petite in stature.

Another gentleman bearing punch joined the group surrounding her, and Eric marveled that she could stand to drink one more glassful. His gaze fastened on her lips, which spread in a smile of thanks to the newcomer. Even at a distance there was no mistaking the beguiling fullness of her mouth. The newcomer made her a bow, eyeing her with an expression of unmistakable interest. Annoyance pulled down Eric's brows, an inexplicable reaction that irked him further.

He observed her for a quarter hour. Gentlemen and ladies alike buzzed around her like bees to a hive. At first he thought she was enjoying herself, but after several minutes' observation, he realized that her smile seemed forced. And it appeared she was gritting her teeth. Curious reactions, surely.

But even more unusual were the unmistakable twinges of sadness he detected shadowing her eyes. Clearly she tried to hide her unhappiness, but by watching her closely, he was sure he wasn't mistaken. The instant she believed her audience wasn't looking, her smile vanished, her shoulders slumped, and she gazed toward the windows leading outdoors with unmistakable longing.

Guilt, along with sympathy, tugged at his heart. Why was she unhappy? Was her encounter with the Bride Thief somehow responsible?

With a brisk nod and tight smile, she extricated herself from the group surrounding her, making her way around the perimeter of the room. A tall, fair-haired gentleman Eric recognized as Viscount Carsdale waylaid her, quite close to the French windows near where he stood. While he couldn't hear their conversation, he clearly saw Carsdale lift her gloved hand to his lips for a kiss that lingered far longer than proper, while the bastard treated himself to a prolonged leer down Miss Briggeham's bodice.

Bloody hell. Outrage pumped through Eric. Was Carsdale treating her with so little respect because of her encounter with the Bride Thief? Was this the source of her unhappiness? Were other men treating her the same way? Damn it, perhaps her reputation had suffered. He recalled the feel of her enticing curves pressed against him, and his jaw tightened. He wouldn't allow anyone to disrespect her-especially as a result of the situation he'd unwittingly thrust her into.

Tossing his half-smoked cheroot on the ground, he extinguished the glowing tip beneath his heel, intent upon rescuing Miss Briggeham from that bastard Carsdale. The instant he entered the room from the terrace, however, Lydia Nordfield plastered herself to his side.

"I see you've finished your cigar, my lord," she cooed, commandeering his arm in her steely grip.

He offered her a polite bow, while deciding the best way to shake her off. Miss Briggeham, however, managed to escape from Carsdale on her own, so he spent a few more moments with his hostess. Accepting a glass of champagne, he responded to her banal chatter, all the while keeping one eye trained on the petite, chestnut-haired woman making her way across the room. Two gentlemen he recognized as Misters Babcock and Whitmore-both sons of local wealthy men-intercepted her. Eric's fingers tightened around his champagne flute when Babcock kissed her hand.

He was about to stride across the room, when Miss Briggeham pointed out the French windows toward the terrace. The instant Misters Babcock and Whitmore turned to look outside, she dashed across the parquet floor and secreted herself behind a copse of palms. Eric bit back a smile and nodded absently at whatever Mrs. Nordfield was saying. Hmmm… Those palms looked very similar to the ones he kept in his conservatory-a coincidence that definitely warranted further investigation.


Sammie pushed her spectacles higher on her nose and cautiously peered through the dense foliage provided by Mrs. Nordfield's potted palms and ferns.

Good heavens, there they were-Alfred Babcock and Henry Whitmore. They remained near the French windows, confusion stamped on their faces as they clearly wondered where she'd nipped off to.

Sammie heaved a sigh. Never in her life had she encountered two more tiresome individuals. Worse, it was nearly impossible to maintain a serious countenance in their company, as Mister Babcock's excessive, bristly facial hair lent him an unfortunate resemblance to a hedgehog, while Mister Whitmore's black hair, close-set eyes, and beak-like nose put Sammie firmly in mind of a crow. She'd listened to them extol the methods of tying the perfect cravat until she'd wanted to strangle them with their own neckwear. In desperation she'd pointed toward the darkened garden and exclaimed, "Look! A herd of deer!" The instant they turned their heads, she'd sprinted toward sanctuary as if pursued by a pack of rabid dogs. She was safe for now… but how long could she hope to remain undiscovered?

"La, Sammie, whatever are you doing hiding amongst Mrs. Nordfield's plants? Are you all right?"

Sammie barely stifled a groan. Clearly not as long as she'd hoped. She turned to face Hermione. Her beautiful sister, whose eyes filled with gentle concern, flapped open her delicate lace fan and joined her behind the palm fronds.

"I'm fine, but please keep your voice down," Sammie implored, peeking through the leaves.

"Sorry," Hermione whispered. "Who are you avoiding? Mama?"

"Not at this particular moment, but that is an excellent suggestion. Right now I'm trying to escape the dandies standing by the French windows."

Hermione craned her neck. "Misters Babcock and Whitmore? They seem like perfectly nice gentlemen to me."

"They're lovely, if you like cabbage-headed nincompoops."

"Oh dear. Have they been unkind to you?"

Hermione looked ready to do battle in her defense, and a rush of gratitude warmed Sammie. Forcing a smile, she said, "No. Even worse. They both wish to dance with me."

Hermione's fierce expression relaxed. "Which is why you've taken up residence behind the palm trees."

"Exactly."

"What are you two doing back here?" The loud whisper close to her ear nearly startled Sammie out of her skin. Turning, she watched her sister Emily jostle herself into position next to Hermione.

"You're always involved in the most unusual pursuits, Sammie," Emily said, adjusting her cream-colored muslin gown, her green eyes alight with interest. "Upon whom are we spying?"

Before Sammie could reply, Hermione reported in a loud whisper, "She's not spying. She's hiding from Misters Babcock and Whitmore."

An inelegant snort completely at odds with her ethereal beauty escaped Emily. "The Hedgehog and the Beady-eyed Crow? Wise decision, Sammie. Those two could bore the paint from the walls."

"Precisely," Sammie agreed in an undertone. "Which is why both of you must return to the party. Someone is bound to notice the three of us standing back here. In fact-"

"Whatever are the three of you doing there behind the palms?"

Lucille's high-pitched voice all but echoed off the wallpaper. Reaching out, Sammie grabbed her sister's gloved hand and unceremoniously yanked her behind the foliage, setting the leaves in motion.

"Please keep your voice down, Lucille," Sammie begged. Good heavens, her quest for peace was turning into a complete debacle. A very crowded debacle. She knew her sisters meant well, but the potted plants barely provided enough hiding space for two people. Four was simply out of the question.

Pressing tighter into the corner, Sammie barely suppressed a gasp when Hermione's heel pressed down on her toe. "You must all leave," she said in a desperate whisper. "Shoo!" She waved her arms at her siblings as best she could manage in the tight quarters.

"Stop elbowing me, Lucille," Emily said in a heated undertone, ignoring Sammie's plea.

"Then stop bumping me with your hips," Lucille shot back. "And keep your ostrich feathers to yourself," she added, flicking the plume adorning Emily's headband.

"Who is nudging my back?" Hermione asked, trying to look behind her. "I was here first-"

"Actually, I was here first," Sammie muttered, yanking her abused toes from under Hermione's heel.

While her three siblings argued about who was jabbing whom, Sammie separated the palm fronds and peered across the room, praying no one noticed the activity occurring behind the palms.

Her prayers were in vain.

Misters Babcock and Whitmore, among others, were casting curious glances toward the copse of potted trees. But worse, Mama was approaching the foliage, eyeing the quivering leaves with clear suspicion.

"Mama is coming this way," Sammie said, flapping her hands at her trio of sisters. "If she finds me, she'll parade me all around the room again and I'll be a candidate for Bedlam. Please, help me!"

The mention of their mother immediately silenced her sisters, then set them into action. Hermione laid a comforting hand on Sammie's shoulder and whispered brusquely, "Lucille, you take Mama on the right, Emily, the left. I'll bring up the rear."

Employing the military-like flanking procedure they'd used for years to divert their mother's attention, Hermione, Lucille, and Emily emerged from behind the palms in a rainbow-hued flurry of muslin, feathers, and ribbons. Peeking through the leaves, Sammie watched them intercept Mama and adroitly turn her around. Mama glanced over her shoulder toward the trees and frowned.