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Thorpe deserved nothing less than a salmon , Adam thought, then shook himself mentally for the preposterous direction of his reflections.

Cats did not disguise themselves. Cats could not conceive the meanings of drawings, much less identify their creators.

Cats were incapable of fidelity or vengeance.

“Same as happened to ‘Hobbling’ Hatfill,” Alvanley said solemnly. “He told us all it was a tussle with a rosebush at the time, but we knew different. Wonder if that cat was marmalade too? Ought to ask him.”

“Or the Wilton Witch!” Another Brummel disciple commented.

“Really, Alvanley,” Adam said with a laugh and a scornful look that made the other offender skulk off into the crowd. “That occurred years ago. If a man were to make such inquiries of me, I would have serious doubts as to his intelligence.”

Alvanley frowned. “Hadn’t thought of that. Hatfill’s cat would be a toothless old tom, by now, wouldn’t it? Have to fly, promised for a dance y’know.”

The two men watched as Alvanley crossed the room to make his bows to his partner.

As if he were seated in the famous window of White’s, Brummel banished his other sycophants with a raised brow signifying dismissal.

Once the last of them had reluctantly departed earshot, Brummel indicating a vacated chair beside him.

“Well, you may have nullified Alvanley, Adam,” Brummel began.

“But I suspect that he will not be the only one to draw a parallel between Gillray and Hatfill, once the story gets round.”

“There is no shortage of fools,” Adam said.

“Especially in Mayfair,” Brummel agreed, slowly twirling the stem of his empty glass between his fingers.

“I put no more credence in the tales about the Wodesby witches than I do in the stories that my old nanny spun by the fireside. But there are many here who are less than sanguine on the subject. Pity that the chit will be the one to suffer for her peculiar family.”

“Unless you put a good face on it,” Adam began.

“Why should I?” Brummel asked, his expression growing childishly petulant. “Neither the Wodesbys or their kin have been particularly friendly to me.”

“That does not signify, George,” Adam said, with an assumed air of nonchalance.

“However, if you condemn her, you will do naught but promote Gillray’s sales.

It would seem to me that you would be wise to back Miss Wilton, if only for your own sake.

To do otherwise would cause you to appear mean- spirited.

Moreover, a cut might imply that you place some credit in witchery and its prognostications. ”

Brummel gave him a shrewd look. “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? Very well, I shall shower my praises upon her, because I rather like her and because you request it, Adam. But ‘tis doubtful that even my consequence can pull her from this pit.”

There was an audible stir as Lady Enderby and Miss Wilton were announced.

Once more, Lady Wodesby’s daughter was attired in green, the color of a newly unfurled leaf.

To Adam, she seemed the embodiment of spring.

Her hair was piled high upon her head, the wheaten tresses held in place by glittering emerald combs.

Matching emeralds hung from her ears and the emerald pendant that she always wore was suspended in the hollow of her throat

What in the world could her mother have been thinking? Adam wondered. To allow her daughter to appear thus in public! Every male eye in the room was fixed upon Miss Wilton.

“Her modiste has outdone herself,” Brummel said.

“Outrageous,” Adam murmured, abandoning any hope that Miss Wilton might somehow pass unnoticed.

“Why would you say so?” Brummel noted archly. “Modesty is fully observed. The décolletage is demure enough for a miss fresh from the schoolroom. The fabric is not damped and not the least bit transparent.”

“Yet that gown appears as if it is defying the laws of gravity,” Adam said.

“And seems about to succumb to the earth’s pull at the slightest movement,” Brummel agreed, observing Lord Brand with growing amusement.

“You look as if you have gone a round with Gentleman Jackson. Shall we take a closer look, dear boy and begin our effort at rescue while their mouths are still agape with envy and lust?”

. . .

Miranda’s eyes swept the room, meeting their stares defiantly.

Her great-grandmama Wodesby had gone to the stake with her spine stiff and her head held high, she reminded herself.

Though the circumstances differed, as Merlin’s descendant, she could do no less than endure with dignity.

These men and women could do her no physical harm, but they had caused her great pain in the past. She was older now, and mayhap a bit wiser.

By Hecate, they would not have the satisfaction of seeing her cringe this time.

As she and Lady Enderby made their greetings, Miranda felt a presence behind her.

Suddenly, the room grew warmer, the candles seemed to shine with a brighter glow.

There was no need to turn to know that Lord Brand had arrived.

She turned to find him looking at her and, unbelievable as it might seem, a smiling Brummel was with him.

“I hope that you will recall the dance that I was promised,” Brummel pretended to remind her as he gave his greeting.

“Of course, Mr. Brummel,” Miranda said, deeply touched, knowing full well no such promise had occurred.

It was too much to hope that he had not yet seen that scurrilous caricature of himself in Humphrey’s window.

The Beau was perverse enough to put the blame on a fellow victim, and coupled with his antipathy toward her family, his magnanimity was wholly unexpected.

“Brazen it out, my girl,” Brummel whispered as he made his bow. “‘Tis the only course.”

Lord Brand bowed and Miranda forced herself to smile, aware that every eye in the room was upon them. “Good evening, Miss Wilton,” he said, a shade too loudly.

His brown eyes were as hard as the earth in winter and Miranda felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

No doubt, Lord Brand had seen the drawing and resented being drawn into the sphere of ridicule.

“Well met, milord.” Miranda modulated her next words carefully so that they were inaudible beneath the strains of music.

“I am sorry, milord. My mother is quite distressed that you have met with such malice due to your association with our family.”

“I take it that you have heard?” Lord Brand asked.

“And seen. There are those who dare to name themselves as friends who were quick to purchase copies and send them round.” Miranda inclined her head graciously and smiled as if she had been told something particularly pleasant.

“I think that your friend Brummel gives good advice, milord. There is no choice but to put the best face on things.”

“Perhaps you ought to curtail your social activities until your Mama is on her feet once again, or until your brother returns?” Lord Brand asked, inclining his head significantly toward Lady Enderby, who had gone off to titter in a corner with one of her cronies.

“That woman is worse than no support at all.”

“I will not run and hide as I did when I was a green girl, Lord Brand,” Miranda said, taking the arm that he offered, her chin lifting as the hum swelled beneath the music. “After all, I am told that it is no longer fashionable to burn witches, so what do I have to fear?”

“But you are not a witch, Miss Wilton,” Adam said, observing her reaction carefully. There was a glitter in the corner of her eye that was suspiciously like a tear and when she spoke there was a definite catch in her throat.

“Do you often go about reminding people of their infirmities?” she said with forced brightness.

Uncle Lawrie had obviously been close to the mark.

“I am sorry if I have pained you in any way,” Adam said honestly.

“But as far as I can see, you lack nothing other than common sense. There are no witches, any more than there are elves or fairies or demons.” He felt her stiffen.

“Remember Miss Wilton, we tread the boards tonight. Act as if you are enjoying yourself and I shall pretend that I am utterly enchanted.”

“‘Enchanted’ is a dangerous term, under the circumstances,” Miss Wilton said, molding her lips into an expression of pleasure as he walked her onto the floor.

It took no special magical sense to realize that every gaze was fixed upon them.

“I hope that you will not have to strain your acting abilities too much to feign enjoyment of my company.”

“A poor turn of phrase on my part,” Adam apologized, looking into the depths of her eyes and seeing the pain that she was trying so desperately to hide. “As long as I keep my sights on you, Miss Wilton, the pleasure is entirely mine and quite real.”

Her short laugh was one of disbelief. “Well while your sights are trained, milord, would you be kind enough to inform me if you see any signs of coal dust upon me? I had thought that I removed all the traces and I asked Lady Enderby, but I would not put it past her to deny seeing anything only to laugh about it behind my back.”

“Coal dust?” Adam inquired.

“For some reason, Thorpe took it in his head to roll in the ash bin. He was in quite a pother this evening, put dirty paw prints all over the Aubusson rug. It was wholly unlike him, but then he was rather upset.” Miss Wilton said.

“I nearly did not recognize him. Why he would do such a thing, I cannot fathom.”

“Perhaps he needed a disguise?” Adam bit his tongue, but not before the words had slipped out.

“A cat? In disguise? How droll, milord,” Miss Wilton could not resist the opportunity to tweak him. “Why not a little false beard? Or mayhap a wig?”