Author: Anne Stuart

“I was invited, my lord.”

“Of course you were. I saw to it.”

He’d managed to surprise her. She’d suspected as much, but not that he’d admit it. “Why?”

His smile was secretive. “I’ll tell you when you answer my question. Who brought you here, a man or a woman?”

“Why should it matter?”

“Because if you came with another man I’d have to have him killed.” The words were spoken with the lightest touch, accompanied by a faint smile, and she wondered why she wanted to shiver.

“I believe the crown frowns on dueling.”

“Oh, I rarely duel. I’m not light enough on my feet. I’d have him set upon by Mohocks and stabbed. It would be expensive, but, fortunately, easy enough to arrange.”

“Really? If I gave you a name could you see to it?”

“I believe Christopher St. John is no longer in England, or I’d be more than happy to have him killed for you.”

She froze. She should have known he’d be aware of all the intimate details of her fall from grace and the man who engineered it. “Too bad,” she said calmly. “That would have suited my amour propre very well.”

“Who brought you?” There was steel in his persistent question beneath the pleasant smile, and she was tempted to lie, just to see what would happen.

“My dearest friend Jane and I came together. We thought no one would recognize us in our dominos and masks, and Jane is about to be trapped into an unpleasant marriage. She wanted to enjoy herself before that happened.”

“I knew you the instant I saw you, Lady Miranda. But, pray tell me, isn’t that how you got into such trouble in the first place? Indulging in one last evening of harmless fun?”

She looked at him. “How is that you’re so intimately aware of the details of my downfall?”

“The entire ton knows the details of your downfall, child. Could you doubt it?”

“A gentleman wouldn’t mention that.”

“I’m not particularly a gentleman.”

She didn’t bother arguing. “If Jane causes a scandal and her husband-to-be cries off then it would be all to the good. She’d be better living life as a spinster than marrying someone she doesn’t love.”

“You’re still so young,” he murmured fondly. “Tell me this man’s name and I’ll get rid of him.”

“Why are you so bloodthirsty tonight?”

“I wasn’t going to have him killed, Miranda.” This time his voice faintly caressed her name without the title. “I was just going to throw a roadblock in the way of this marriage, since you seem so set against it.”

“Jane thinks she wants it.”

“And you think Jane’s wrong. I trust your judgment. What’s his name?”

She finally laughed. He was being absurd and charming, and he hadn’t forgotten her after all. “George Bothwell, but you’re not to do anything about it. Jane would never forgive me.”

“Jane need never know.” He rose, towering over her, leaning on his cane. In the shadows his scars were barely discernible. “Come with me, Lady Miranda. You need to admire her grace’s extraordinarily vulgar jewels. You need to get some fresh air. You need to stop hiding in the shadows like some kind of leper. Not that I don’t prefer you with me, but you need to be back out there dancing as your friend is. You looked … luminous.” He nodded as Jane waltzed by, too busy to notice anyone around her. Miranda wondered how he happened to recognize her friend, but she decided not to ask.

“Are you asking me to dance?”

His smile was twisted. “Hardly. You would find the effect quite gruesome. But I could find you any number of eligible partners who know better than to presume. Or we could simply go for a walk. Carrimore House is huge and possessed of mile upon mile of hallways. We could find someplace quiet to sit and talk.”

“You haven’t made any effort at all to talk with me in the last week.” It came out unexpectedly, and she could have bit her tongue.

“Did you miss me? I thought you would prefer not to be besieged. Had I known you were pining for me, I would have sought you out sooner.”

“I was hardly pining for you!” she snapped.

“Of course not, my child.” He held out his arm. “Shall we walk?”

And like a fool she rose and threaded her arm through his.

6

In fact, Jane was not having a particularly good time. She should have known better than to badger Miranda into coming to this ball. She hadn’t really expected to have fun, but Miranda had been isolated for so long she thought it would do her good, with no risk of anyone giving her the cut direct.

And indeed, things had started out well enough. Miranda had danced, and even as Jane suffered the clumsy feet of her slightly inebriated partner she could see Miranda’s joy as she’d moved across the dance floor, and Jane had put on the appearance of having a grand time while she was tossed around like a sack of potatoes. But, in truth, balls were excruciating. She was shy; there was no way around it, and to make conversation with strangers while trying to remember the intricate steps of a country dance was her idea of hell.

It was her fault they were there, of course. She had a very bad tendency to try to fix things, Jane thought, and she’d always felt guilty that she’d let Miranda go out that night so long ago and not run screaming to her brothers. Because she’d kept quiet Miranda’s life had been ruined, and there’d been nothing Jane could do to make up for it.

Miranda would have laughed at her if she knew how guilty she felt. No, she wouldn’t—Miranda never laughed at her megrims. She was the best, dearest friend a girl could have, and Jane just wished she could give back even a tiny portion of all Miranda had given her.

She’d made her brave when she wanted to cower. She’d made her laugh when she wanted to weep. She made her dance when she wanted to sit in the corner, and now Jane had finally been able to do the same thing for Miranda.

Until she’d disappeared.

It took some doing to extricate herself from the dance floor. With the mask covering her plain, unremarkable face she suddenly had limitless partners, and she was exhausted from trying to sound like someone she wasn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t like to dance. She loved to, with the right partner, but she seldom found anyone willing to stand up with her and to put the right attention and energy into the production. Mr. Bothwell was stiff as a board, and disliked dancing, and as an engaged woman she could scarcely stand up with anyone else. She’d hoped to have a lovely time even as she helped Miranda, but the anonymous dancing had been unsatisfactory, and if Miranda had decided to hide out then Jane was more than ready to leave. She simply had to find her first.

Escaping from the ballroom was her first task, and easier said than done. When she tried the open doors someone would catch her arm and spin her back onto the dance floor, and her demurrals were swallowed up by the noise of the crowd and the vigor of the orchestra. Eventually she gave up, moving instead toward the back of the massive ballroom. If Carrimore House were anything like the houses she grew up in, there was most likely a hidden door near the back to allow the servants to come and go.

She slipped into a corner near the back of the room, waiting, and eventually her patience was rewarded when a door opened in the wall. She darted through, startling the servant who’d opened it, and found herself in one of the back hallways, clearly meant only for the staff. No rugs on the floor, no pictures on the grim walls, and she panicked, looking for a way back. There must be a trick to the door, because it wouldn’t move. She looked to her right and to her left, but she had no idea which would be the best way to go, and she was frozen with indecision. She thought the grand staircase was to the left, and she headed in that direction. Not that she could actually leave—she had to find Miranda first. God willing, she might be there waiting for her.

Jane was dying from the heat. She slipped off the enveloping domino and mask, draping both over one arm as she made her way down the narrow hallway as swiftly as she could. If she were home she’d take the dancing slippers off her aching feet, as well. But she could hardly do that in the Carrimore’s house, so she persevered, until she came to the end of the hallway, with no obvious way out.

She stared around her for a moment, then recognized the outline of a door beside her. She pushed, and it opened, silently, into a dark, deserted room.

At least, she thought it was deserted. She heard the noise first, a quiet, scratching sound, and a faint light was coming from across the room. As her eyes adjusted, she could just determine the outlines of a huge bed, and she flushed with embarrassment, reaching behind her for the door to make her escape before whoever was in there realized their privacy had been breached. But the door had already swung closed again, and she turned, desperately trying to find the edge of it. Her fingers finally caught the slight rim, and she had just managed to pry it open when something loomed up behind her, and the door was pushed shut again.

Jane wasn’t the kind of girl who screamed, though she couldn’t help a smothered yelp of surprise. Smothered, because whoever had come up behind her had hauled her away from the door, back against a hard male body and one hand was clamped across her mouth.

They stood that way for a long moment, while she struggled to catch her breath. Her heart was beating wildly, there was no way she could disguise it. It was a far cry from the man behind her. His heartbeat was slow and steady, completely calm, as if sneaking up on young ladies and imprisoning them was something he did every day.

“Now what in the world is a lass like you doing wandering around the bedrooms, alone?” The voice in her ear was low, faintly amused. It wasn’t the voice of an aristocrat, but she knew a servant would never dare put his hands on her. “If I move my hand are you going to scream?”

She shook her head, as much as his imprisoning hand would allow. As he pulled it away he murmured, “Good girl.”