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M ay I fetch you some punch, Miss Penhallow? You must be parched after such a vigorous country dance.”

Sir Alton Moncrieff, who was fifty if he was a day, smiled hopefully at Lucy once he’d returned her to a spot at the side of the Leighton-Childes’ gaily decorated ballroom.

An aging widower with a dozen children, Sir Alton had already run through the dowries of two wives, both of whom had died presenting him with the aforementioned children. And, to Lucy’s frustration, he was impervious to every attempt on her part to dissuade him from pursuing her for the role of the third Lady Moncrieff. Though it was her usual custom to decline all dancing to avoid prolonged exposure to the empty blandishments of gentlemen more interested in her fortune than in herself, Lucy had been unable to say no to the soft-spoken Mr. Barnes.

“I suppose you will do so whether I wish it or not, Sir Alton,” she said tartly, wondering how far the man would go to ingratiate himself with her. If she were a different sort of person, she’d have asked him to fetch four glasses, one for herself and then three more for her friends. But despite her annoyance with the man, she was not cruel. “Thank you,” she added despite her wish for him to leave her alone.

Once he had disappeared into the crowd, she watched as Meg came toward her on the arm of the handsome Lord Catesby, who was one of her most assiduous admirers, though Lucy was certain neither of them was particularly serious about the other.

Bowing over Meg’s hand, Catesby greeted Lucy, then went to search out his next partner.

“I am surprised to find you alone,” Meg said with a raised brow as she glanced pointedly at the conversations going on among the ball-goers around them, but none of which included Lucy. “Has even Sir Alton deserted you?”

“Punch.” Lucy tilted her head toward where they could see the baronet waiting for a chance to procure her beverage. “But never fear, he will be here again soon enough.”

Before they could continue, Elise, Mrs. Clevedon, approached, her cheeks pink from exertion, and looking more elegant than Lucy could ever hope to.

“Here you all are,” the widow said with a warm smile. Some five years older than Lucy and ages more worldly, Elise was the sort of lady Lucy would never have imagined would find something like their book club interesting. But from the first meeting she’d attended, the young widow had proved to be clever and witty, and she was now one of Lucy and Meg’s dearest friends. “I searched you out when I arrived, but in this crush it was impossible. I did see Vera, however.”

Relaxing slightly, Lucy realized she’d been concerned about Vera since that afternoon, when the usually sunny young woman had seemed worried over something. “I wonder where she is now,” she said now, scanning the dance floor, then the assembled guests on the edges of it, but there was no sign of Miss Blackwood’s bright red hair.

“She’ll turn up,” said Meg, as if sensing Lucy’s disquiet. “Though she usually finds us before the dancing begins. I hope she hasn’t been cornered by Lord Exley again.”

Lord Exley, a harmless, but persistent gentleman of middle years, was well known for his tendency to corner unmarried young ladies to expound on whichever topic he was obsessed with at the moment. This season it was the dangers of reading on the female constitution, which, for obvious reasons was particularly noisome to the Ems.

“Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Lord Exley tonight either.” Elise frowned. “If they are together…” While they were all confident that they’d be able to escape from Lord Exley’s verbal clutches sooner or later, because of her American plain speaking, Vera was liable to give the man a set-down in such a way that might harm her own social standing.

Lord Exley was married to one of the most influential ladies of the ton , unfortunately. And without her approval, a lady in search of a well-born husband—as Vera was—would find it impossible to secure the necessary invitations. Her father might be meeting with impoverished aristocrats through his business dealings, but unless he wished for his wife to be socially ostracized, any potential husbands would not dare marry where Lady Exley did not give her blessing.

Now they were all on alert.

“Why don’t we split up and see if we can find her,” Lucy said, unable to get the memory of Vera’s troubled expression that afternoon out of her mind. “Meg, you check the retiring room. She could be ill, or resting a twisted ankle—”

“Or having a torn hem stitched up,” Meg finished for her.

“Or at the mercy of a gentleman who cannot take no for an answer,” Elise added, saying what they were all thinking.

Though they’d begun concerned about Lord Exley’s conversational traps, all three ladies were well aware of the dangers posed by other sorts of ballroom pests.

“I’ll check the card room and the likely alcoves where an unwanted suitor might take one,” Elise, a beautiful widow with experience of such machinations, offered.

“I’ll take the library and the terrace,” Lucy offered, knowing that any one of them might be found in the library if they went missing at a ball. Especially a library rumored to be as magnificent as this one.

The three friends nodded in agreement, and Lucy continued, “Let’s all meet back here after we’ve searched, whether we find her or not. By then we’ll know what other steps we’ll need to take.”

As she threaded her way through the crowd gathered at the edges of the dance floor, she exchanged greetings with those she knew and asked those with whom she was certain Vera had some acquaintance whether they had seen her that evening. No one had.

She passed a couple of maids and a gentleman whose name she couldn’t recall as she went from the ballroom to the corridor, her dancing slippers silent once she reached the thick carpets lining the hallway floor.

Opening door after door, she found only empty rooms. The one exception was a small parlor where a feverishly embracing couple didn’t even hear the door open.

Startled, she shut it hurriedly, and feeling telltale heat creeping over her cheeks, she tried to look innocent as she continued down the hall.

When she reached the library door, which is where she’d expect to find Vera if she had indeed sought refuge from the crowded ballroom, she breathed a sigh of relief as she saw lamplight beaming from the partially open door.

Pushing it open, she was fully expecting to find Vera inside, a novel in her hands as she sat with her feet curled beneath her on an obliging sofa.

It was, instead, the last person she’d been expecting.

Lucy could only stare as the man lifted his glass of what looked like brandy to her.

“Miss Penhallow,” said Viscount Gilford. “So we meet again.”