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Penelope had never been more surprised than when Seaverness brought the Marquis and Sir Eugene to talk to her.

She’d had her suspicions about Catherine on the night of her arrival.

Never could she have conceived the magnitude of the error she and Alicia had made in their assumptions concerning their fourth and eldest niece.

The Catherine that Sir Eugene described was a far cry from the Catherine she’d met, save perhaps for that gleam of challenge she’d seen in her niece’s eyes as she looked at Alicia.

She pitied Sir Eugene. He was a man torn asunder.

He had pride in Catherine and expected her to be the Belle of London.

He was thoroughly shaken to learn of the masquerade Catherine had adopted, doubly so when he learned of his wife’s participation.

He felt grievously hurt, though he adopted a masquerade himself, one of cold anger.

Once Penelope learned the entire story, she was quick to understand Catherine’s motivation.

Together with the Marquis and Seaverness, she worked to convince the unhappy man that Catherine was not wholly to blame.

She tried to place the brunt of the blame on herself and Alicia, but he would have none of that.

He would blame himself for allowing Catherine too much independence, for encouraging her to fly in the face of convention by donning male attire, and for treating her as a son rather than a niece.

The Marquis broke the emotional tension by languidly disclaiming against these errors on Sir Eugene’s part. He said his only fault was not one he could control. Catherine inherited, full score, all the famous Burke stubbornness that had missed her mother.

Happily, then, while talking of inherited traits, they spoke of Ralph Shreveton and his role in beginning the masquerade by allowing his relatives to believe, without ever telling them the truth, that his bride was a young woman of a poor yet genteel family.

It was the type of grand joke Ralph enjoyed, and if he were alive, he’d likely applaud Catherine’s masquerade as another facet of the joke.

That notion drew a smile from Sir Eugene, for he had to agree.

To calm Sir Eugene and keep him from hying down to London had been the first step.

To devise a solution for rectifying the situation--for he refused to consider that Catherine go on in the same manner--was a ticklish matter, and no conclusions were drawn.

Seaverness diplomatically suggested that he and Penelope would be better able to devise solutions when they were in London, and could observe the current situation at first hand.

This did not totally appease Sir Eugene, but he promised to place his trust in them.

The thing that still bothered Penelope, but she could think of no way to broach the subject, was the circumstance of the Marquis’s involvement.

It was so out of character for him to take any notice of, let alone interest in, any of the debutantes that yearly flocked to London.

Penelope gleefully wondered if she smelled a romance.

That was another situation that merited investigation and perhaps careful nurturing.

Now, however, she had a book to finish—time enough tomorrow to pick up the knotted skein of her niece’s life and begin untangling it.

An hour later, Lady Orrick sighed and dabbed a lace-edged handkerchief to her misting eyes.

She’d just read a most heartrending confrontation and reconciliation scene at the close of the novel.

Smiling, she ruefully considered it fortunate real-life bore little resemblance to the occurrences between the covers of a romance, for she would be a perpetual watering pot.

Hearing the distant thumping of her door knocker, she looked up, setting the finished novel beside her.

She’d returned to London a few hours ago.

A brief frown of annoyance at the prospect of being disturbed pulled at the corners of her pale lips.

She’d anticipated at least a day’s recovery from the exigencies of travel.

It was not fair that she be disturbed so soon.

She placed her ratafia glass on the table.

Annoyance quickly gave way to curiosity when her butler entered the drawing room and made an elaborate show of closing the double doors softly behind him.

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon, but the Countess of Seaverness is below, desirous of seeing you.” He stooped down to move a large blue Ming vase from the floor by the doorway to a more remote corner of the room.

"Alicia? Here?” Penelope asked, casting aside the paisley shawl and rising swiftly to her feet. She glanced around her drawing room in dismay. “Dare I ask her mood?” she inquired, picking up several of the china dogs from the table by the daybed and moving them to the mantelpiece.

“Begging your ladyship’s pardon, I do not believe it is within me to venture an assumption as to the countess’s mood; however,” Smythford removed precious china pieces from the small tables which dotted the room and placed them in more out-of-the-way places.

“However, I did note her ladyship’s color to be a trifle high, and she did set herself to pacing the front salon immediately upon my conducting her there. ”

“Oh, dear,” Penelope said with amused exasperation.

Thankfully her sister seldom visited her, preferring that Penelope come to her home.

Occasionally, however, something would transpire, and without warning, Alicia would appear on her doorstep.

The last visit she had enjoyed from her sister had cost her three figurines and a darling little Sevres vase her husband, Sir Harold Orrick, had procured for her in France.

This time it was the strong desire of Lady Orrick and Smythford to save all her pieces from chance destruction.

Working together, it took but a moment to move the rest of the delicate porcelain statues to safety.

When they had finished, the mantel looked as cluttered as a tinker’s cart, but the fragile porcelains were safe.

Penelope patted another stray lock of hair back into place and nodded to Smythford.

“I suppose I really should have anticipated this. It would have been better if I’d gone directly to Harth House on my arrival in town, but what’s done is done,” she said, shrugging philosophically.

“Show my sister up before she works herself into a rage.”

“Very good, milady.” Smythford bowed his way out of the room, bestowing a quick last glance around as he did so to assure himself all of her ladyship’s fragile treasures were safe.

Moments later, like a ship in full sail, her sister blew into the room, her skirts swishing violently by the very spot where Penelope’s Ming vase had stood. The countess tossed her heavy reticule and brown kid gloves onto a nearby table and turned to glare at her younger sister.

“All these weeks I have harbored a viper in my house!” she said shrilly.

Penelope winced. “Please, Alicia,” she said soothingly, “sit down and tell me what has you in such a pelter.”

Alicia opened her mouth to speak, then shut it abruptly, glaring at Smythford still standing by the drawing room door.

Penelope’s mouth twitched, though she gravely requested suitable refreshments be prepared and advised she would ring when they wished to be served.

Then, dismissing her butler with a wave of her hand, she turned toward her elder sister, dispassionately noting how her high color clashed with her burnt-orange gown.

The Countess perched herself on the edge of one of the delicate green-and-gold chairs. “I should be abed. I injured my back last night, but?—”

“Oh, Alicia, what happened?”

Her sister scowled at her, not prepared to confide the nature of the accident.

“It does not matter. I am merely trying to convey to you the seriousness of the situation.” She paused and took a deep breath.

“That—that creature has been deceiving all of us, just as her mother did before her. It’s unheard of!

I have never been more shocked in my entire life! ”

Penelope sighed. It appeared her sister was now aware of Catherine’s actual position and not pleased to have been made to look the fool by treating her niece as a poor relation.

This was not a contingency any of her fellow conspirators anticipated.

It might be just as well that they had not formulated any set plans.

It certainly wouldn’t do to allow Alicia to know she was conversant with Catherine’s situation. That would fan the flames of her sister’s wrath. This might also be an opportunity to fill in the gaps in her knowledge about Catherine.

Penelope schooled her features to look at her sister in vague bewilderment. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I don’t understand. Then how? No, wait,” her hand reached for the bell beside her. “I feel I am going to require some sustenance to fortify me before you begin.”

Alicia inclined her head in acknowledgment, her eyes overly bright, her face flushed. Penelope wished to settle her sister before she worked herself into apoplexy. Also, unless she calmed her sister, Penelope wryly doubted she’d get any information she could understand.

As Smythford carefully passed biscuits to each, Lady Alicia did relax in her chair, though it was evident from the restlessly drumming fingertips on the silk chair arms that her thoughts had not settled.

Pointedly ignoring Smythford’s ministrations, Alicia looked about the room. “Really, my dear, must you keep such tawdry items as those cluttering up your mantel?”

Penelope and Smythford exchanged covert glances.

“All they do is gather dust. They’re not even pretty, all jumbled up like that,” Alicia complained petulantly.

“Ah, but it keeps the servants busy,” Penelope confided blithely.

Her sister, an arrested expression in her eyes, nodded. Penelope, her eyes dancing, held her handkerchief to her lips and feigned a cough to hide a smile.