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S he’d forgotten how energetic a country dance could be, Lucy thought as she was escorted off the ballroom floor by one of the Duke and Duchess of Maitland’s younger sons, Lord Anthony Maitland. Her determination to refuse all dancing in order to ward off fortune hunters had been a somewhat effective deterrent, but she had to admit she’d missed it.

“I am pleased you chose to dance this evening, Miss Penhallow,” said Lord Anthony before bowing over her hand to take his leave of her.

She had to admit he was a handsome young man, with his father’s laughing eyes and his mother’s honey-colored hair. “I am too, my lord.”

Lucy was about to add that she was especially happy to take the floor with such a skilled dancer when as if from out of the clouds painted on the ballroom ceiling, Will appeared.

Perhaps reading the viscount’s grim expression as jealousy, Lord Anthony made a swift retreat.

“My dance, I believe.” Having barely given her a perfunctory greeting, he then led Lucy onto the floor. His movements were, as always, elegant, but his haste irritated Lucy.

“What has left you in such a mood?” she asked as the musicians played the opening notes of a popular Strauss waltz. Despite her pique, having Will’s strong arms around her sent a little thrill through her.

A thrill she hadn’t experienced with any of her other partners that evening.

As if he’d needed the rhythm of the dance to calm his mind, Will finally relaxed and looked down at her sheepishly. “I’ve wanted to speak to you all evening, but every time I tried to make my way to your side, you were dragged off for another dance with some other man.”

Lucy bit back a smile at his aggrieved tone. But his next words pleased her in a different way.

“I also spoke to Adrian and Woodward about Christopher Hamilton.”

Her pulse picked up. “What did they say?”

Quickly he told her what his friends had found out about Hamilton.

“Married?” Lucy was shocked despite never having heard of the man until that morning. “But why would he pen a letter pleading with Vera not to end their betrothal if he was already married?”

“It’s as confounding to me as it is to you,” Will said, sweeping her into a turn. “What we do know is that he arrived long before Miss Blackwood was abducted, so it’s likely he was responsible.”

“It makes no sense,” Lucy protested. “It’s not as if he can force Vera into marriage. He’d be guilty of bigamy.”

They were silent then, and while she enjoyed the intimacy of the dance her grandmother’s generation had thought scandalous, Lucy puzzled over the conundrum of Christopher Hamilton.

She’d intended to take the news to Meg and Elise, but as the dance drew to a close, Lucy was approached by an uncomfortable-looking footman.

“I was asked to bring you this, miss,” the young man said, handing her a scrap of paper.

There was no way to conceal the interaction from Will even if she’d wished to, Lucy thought with frustration as she searched for somewhere she might read the note out of view of the other guests.

As if guessing her thoughts, Will steered her to an alcove shielded by a pair of ornamental orange trees. Once there, Lucy unfolded the page and read it before handing the note to Will.

I know who has taken Vera Blackwood. Meet me at the fountain during the supper dance. Come alone.

When he was finished Will made a noise of disgust. “As if I’d let you go meet some unidentified note writer without an escort.”

Setting aside the fact that he wasn’t in any position to “let” her do something or not, Lucy still objected to Will’s statement. “This might be our only way of learning where they’ve taken Vera. I cannot simply ignore that.”

“And you can’t simply ignore the fact that someone attempted to harm you earlier today,” he said tightly. “Whoever this person is, they’ll need to find some other way of giving you the information.”

She saw at once that one reason for his autocratic words was fear for her safety, and she softened a little. “I’ll hardly be in danger in full view of a ballroom full of people.”

“The fountain isn’t visible from the ballroom,” he argued, looking determined. “Though that was a clever attempt on your part.”

“The supper dance is about to begin,” Lucy said, ignoring his faint praise. “And I’m going to find out whatever this person wants me to know. If you won’t let me go alone, then you’d better make yourself invisible.”

Not waiting to see what Will’s response would be, she slipped out from behind the trees and wended her way along the perimeter of the ballroom toward the bank of four sets of French doors leading out into the opulent gardens of the Maitland townhouse.

Without looking back to see, she instinctively knew Will was not far behind her as she lifted her full skirts so she might navigate the shallow steps leading down to a torchlit sunken garden.

Though she did not wish to call attention to herself, Lucy felt the urge to run through the carefully cultivated trees and flowerbeds laid out in neat rows, fearful the note writer would leave before she had a chance to reach the appointed meeting spot. It took self-control to keep to a sedate pace, so that she might appear to be taking in the admittedly beautiful landscape.

She’d nearly reached the edge of the garden’s most magnificent feature, a large stone fountain, when she felt someone step up beside her. She thought it was Will, at first, but the newcomer’s patchouli scent alerted her that it was someone else.

“Will you walk with me, Miss Penhallow?” asked the handsome Sir Charles Fleetwood as he threaded her arm through his. “I believe we have much to discuss.”

Wondering where Will had gone, and if he would remain out of sight so that she might speak uninterrupted with Sir Charles—who must have written the note—Lucy walked alongside the baronet as he led her to an iron bench on the far side of the fountain.

Politely handing her down so that she might sit, Sir Charles appeared too agitated to sit. As if he needed to calm his thoughts before he could speak, he paced before her in silence for more than a minute.

Finally, when Lucy had been about to press him to say something, he stopped before her and said, “I had hopes of marrying her, you know.”

She didn’t doubt that it was Vera to whom he referred. Her friend had never mentioned any sort of understanding with Sir Charles, but then again, Vera hadn’t said anything about Christopher Hamilton, either. Perhaps their friendship hadn’t been as close as Lucy had thought.

Fleetwood, a slenderly built and elegant man, didn’t present a particularly formidable impression, but there was something unsettling about the intensity of his gaze.

“I didn’t know,” Lucy told him in a placating tone. “You must be worried sick since her abduction.”

At the mention of Vera’s abduction, Fleetwood made a choked sound and turned his face away.

Though she could understand Vera’s father reacting to her absence with high emotion, Fleetwood’s dramatic actions seemed a bit much given that he’d only known Vera for a few weeks.

When the man turned back toward her, Lucy saw that there were tears in his eyes.

“Come now,” she said to him in a soothing voice. “We are all worried about her, but you must not let yourself succumb to despair.”

She wished she could glance about to see if Will had indeed followed her into the deepest part of the garden where the fountain lay. Fleetwood was entitled to his feelings about Vera’s abduction, but he’d said in his note that he knew where she’d been taken. So far, he’d done nothing but emote.

“You have some idea of what has happened to her?” she prodded gently.

At her question, he turned to face Lucy and she was startled by the coldness in his face. “Yes, I do have some idea, Miss Penhallow. Because I am the one responsible.”