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“ A fter that delicious dinner, I’m inclined to be indolent,” Captain Richard Chilberlain said, studying the play of candlelight on his cut crystal wine goblet.

The Earl of Soothcoor smirked, then nodded in agreement. He raised his wineglass in salute at his host. “Never had much use for frogs, but if I had half your money, Stefton, I’d hire Gascoullet away from you.”

The Marquis smiled cynically at his two friends. “And I thought it was my company that drew you two so often to my table. My conceit, it seems, knows no bounds. I should fire Gascoullet and seek repentance.”

“Ha! You’d have to have a bit o’ conscience first,” the Earl advised.

He reached for the port bottle in the middle of the table.

“I’ve a mind to forgo Lady Oakley’s ball this evenin’.

Bound to be a squeeze. I don’t mind tellin’ you.

I’m not ready to stomach this Season’s crop of marriage-minded purse-hunters.

” He shook his head dolefully. “What do you say to us staying here, drinking more of your excellent port, and trying to take your money in a few rounds of cards? "

"Ordinarily, I’d willingly fall in with such an admirable plan. But not tonight, my friends. Not tonight,” the Marquis repeated softly, a ghost of a smile pulling up one corner of his finely-chiseled mouth and burnishing his gray eyes to a silver glitter.

“Eh—what’s this, Stefton?” the Earl exclaimed, straightening in his chair. A shock of lank black-and-gray hair fell over his pale blue eyes. He pushed the offending locks back with an impatient movement while his gaze rested on his host and close friend.

“A woman, no doubt,” the Captain hazarded.

“I trust you're not still sniffing after that Panthea bitch’s tail.”

Stefton raised a quelling eyebrow at his friends. “Gentlemen, you talk as if I were some quivering stud eager to mount.”

“Hardly,” countered Captain Chilberlain. “More like the devil out to collect more souls.”

“Ah, Chilberlain, your understanding almost pleases me. In this instance, however, I believe I shall be more in light of a fairy godfather,” he urbanely proposed.

“You, Stefton, a fairy godfather? Get on with you. I’d as lief believe you’d entered the clergy,” declared Soothcoor.

The Marquis smiled. “Take comfort in the knowledge my Cinderella does not wish to go to the ball, whereas Perrault’s did.”

“Damn it, Stefton, you’re too bloody obscure,” protested the Earl.

“No, wait, Soothcoor, I think I have it. Your Cinderella has no use for princes or devils, perhaps?” hazarded Captain Chilberlain, leaning back in his chair and propping a well-shod foot on the cream-colored silk seat of an empty chair.

“It seems implausible, does it not?”

“And so your interest is piqued. And perhaps pride offended?”

“My dear Chilberlain, now you are like the gossipmongers who speculate, then spread speculations as truth,” Stefton drawled darkly. “Careful lest I feel obliged to cut your acquaintance.”

Chilberlain feigned dismay, and the Earl laughed. “To friendship!” he toasted. “And women.”

“Amen!” said the Captain.

Soothcoor and Stefton laughed, clinking glasses with the Captain like the three musketeers.

The Earl never took his eyes off Stefton as he downed his wine.

He wondered what exactly was the nature of the madcap mischief Stefton proposed.

He shook his head. Society thought they knew the Marquis of Stefton, with his formal, urbane manner, his dry cutting wit, his unremitting boredom.

They were deceived. Soothcoor had followed in his trail for too many years to be lulled into accepting his social persona.

Followed him through high and low adventures.

Stefton was an able dissembler, that was true. But most of all, he was consistent. He did not play with innocents. He ignored them. That’s why the Earl was worried.

“Well, then, how are we to know Cinderella?” Chilberlain asked after downing his glass.

Stefton shook his head, mockingly disappointed in the Captain. “By her rags, of course. How else?”

The Captain nodded, a wry smile twisting his handsome features into deep amusement that lit his brown eyes, crinkling their corners into fans on his tanned face. “And what magic spell is yours to cast?”

“My spell is to make her the belle of the ball, despite appearances. To have Society dance at her feet without knowing why. It should make for a most amusing evening.”

“Sounds like a mass of bacon-brained nonsense to me,” complained the Captain good-naturedly.

“And definitely the work of the devil in you. But what about your fair victim?” asked Soothcoor, a frisson of unease crossing his thin countenance. It was not like Stefton to seek voluntarily to harm an innocent.

“What about her?”

“Are you being fair to her? To thrust her so into the light?”

A feral grin spread across the Marquis’s features. “I believe she will enjoy it. She is one woman who will not succumb to fits of vapors or tears. She will be more inclined to want me to ignore her, as she will strive to ignore me. And that is what will make it all the more amusing.”

Captain Chilberlain swung his feet to the floor and looked across the table at the Earl. “Soothcoor, I fear our evening fate is sealed. And it might prove to be interesting,” he finished, casting a glance Stefton’s way.

Soothcoor turned to contemplate the Marquis. His friend was behaving strangely. Did he realize it? It might be that Stefton had finally met his defeat. In all events, Chilberlain was correct. It would prove vastly amusing.

Catherine followed her aunt and cousins up the steps before the Oakley townhouse.

Lady Oakley’s ball would be her first appearance in Society.

Now the game began again in earnest, and she felt disquieted at the notion.

Her gown and appearance were everything she could have wished for her masquerade, yet she did not feel satisfied.

She was restless, ill at ease, and faintly disappointed.

In the entrance hall, she was slow to release the fastenings of her cloak, hesitant to unveil the girlish creation her aunt deemed appropriate: a plain white muslin gown under a white gauze overdress trimmed sparsely with white rosettes joined by silk ribbons in a garland effect.

It was a pretty enough dress for a young girl with china doll looks.

On Catherine, though, the gown's stark whiteness made her countenance sallow in appearance, and the dress’s youthful design was a painful comedy on her nearly two-and-twenty years.

She was a figure of fun. Unfortunately, it did not augur well for sinking into the background and not calling attention to herself for good or bad.

Susannah looked at her anxiously. Catherine returned a wry smile as she finally consigned the cloak to the footman’s keeping.

She straightened her shoulders and indicated with a sweep of her hand that her cousin should go before her in the procession they made up the grand stairway to the ballroom above.

Catherine knew that her dear sweet cousin was also having doubts as to this masquerade of hers.

Susannah worried for her in what Catherine considered an endearing fashion.

She was touched, but her resolve remained firm.

Catherine pulled her lips back into a studied smile without warmth touching her eyes and concentrated on her surroundings.

The stairs they slowly climbed behind others waiting to be announced hinted at opulent grandeur in the rooms above.

The railings were gilt, the walls painted with peacock feather designs in bold blues and greens with touches of gold and purple.

Wall sconces were intricate brass designs of snarling animals.

The little effigies amused Catherine, and soon she found herself relaxing and smiling easily at their whimsical construction.

She did not know how her natural smile lit her face, compelling those around to look at her closely.

There was intelligence and animation in her visage that outshone the poorly-chosen gown she wore.

When she entered the Oakleys’ ornate ballroom, its rose and gold decor and Chinese dragon chandeliers enchanted her. She stared at them in fascination.

“Catherine!” Aunt Alicia said sharply.

“Yes, ma’am,” Catherine responded with alacrity.

Lady Harth scowled, then raised an eyebrow at her niece. “This, Sarah, is my niece Catherine Shreveton, poor Ralph’s daughter. Catherine, Lady Oakley.

Catherine curtsied, then looked up into the face of her hostess.

A tall, slender woman beamed back at her.

“Ralph’s daughter? I do remember him—handsome, lighthearted fellow.

Always one for a good joke. Went up north and married, didn’t he?

So you’re his daughter, are you? Don’t look like him, but I’d wager you have his sense of the ridiculous,” she concluded, casting her eye over Catherine’s attire.

Catherine reddened and cast her eyes down for a moment.

Lady Oakley clucked her tongue. “Pretty blush. Alicia, you’ve deplorable taste in clothes.

Run along now and enjoy the ball. We’ll talk at supper or some such time.

Gracious, the line’s all the way to the door.

A squeeze!” she crowed delightedly. “My ball is a squeeze,” she said, grabbing Catherine’s arm impulsively just as Catherine turned to go, “and so early in the Season. Couldn’t be better. ”

Lady Oakley dropped Catherine’s arm and blinked owlishly at her through her wire-rimmed glasses. “What are you standing there for? Get on with you now. Shoo, shoo.”

Lady Harth sniffed disdainfully at Lady Oakley’s eccentric manner, then gathered her nieces to lead them into the ballroom.

Bemused, Catherine followed. Never had she met a person quite like Lady Oakley in dress or manner. It occurred to her that it was the heretofore unknown existence of people like Lady Oakley that had prompted her family to claim she’d led a sheltered existence.