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S imon’s hands curled into fists again. “ Nacton is courting her?”

One cold December at the winter camp in Frenada, he and Nacton had vied for the attentions of the fair Margarita. Percy had won her and then spent the rest of the winter in bed—with a thorough dose of the clap.

Percy Nacton won’t have Nancy.

“I recall that you were a dab hand at charming ladies when we were younger,” George said.

Simon had been a favorite of the widows around the regiment, and he’d looked forward to a few years of fun as a duke before choosing a wife and begetting an heir. But since Lady Chilcombe’s ball, he’d abstained from females of any sort.

“She couldn’t do better than a duke,” Fitz said. “In fact, it would be rather nice to have a duke in the family.”

“And we know your character,” George said. “I saw right away when I visited you that Lady Chilcombe’s ball was a one-time faux pas.”

“Brought on by the shock of gaining the title,” Fitz said.

“And an excess of spirits,” George added.

Fitz nodded. “As I said. Shock and the spirits.”

“I’m astonished. I have your permission to court her?”

Both brothers nodded.

“If you’re sincere,” George said. “The Simon I knew wouldn’t toy with a young girl’s heart, at least, not on purpose.”

His head swam like he was suffering an excess of spirits now. So, George’s visit to Marston Green had been a kind of interview. He and Fitz had brushed aside his insult to Nancy and were willing to welcome him back to the family on an even more intimate level.

Fitz lifted the brandy bottle. “One more to clear your head?” he asked.

“No.” He’d best get his wits about him and stay as sober as possible, at least until he’d secured Nancy’s forgiveness. “Court Nancy,” he mused instead. “Will she forgive me?”

“Nancy’s always been in love with you,” Fitz said. “Which is probably why she’s so angry. She’ll come around.”

George looked doubtful. “Nancy has depths of stubbornness I never saw before.”

“Yes.” Fitz chuckled. “She and Mother had quite the row two weeks ago about visiting her friend Sally in Birmingham. Mrs. Simpkins’ daughter.”

“The actress?” Simon cried. “Nancy was at school with an actress?”

“With her daughter,” Fitz said. “Don’t look so shocked.

The mother is a respectable thespian and opera singer, and the daughter, as far as we know, is not treading the boards.

Mrs. Simpkins is said to take great pains over her own reputation, and that of her daughter.

The mother is leaving in a few weeks for a tour of France and Italy, taking her daughter along.

Nancy’s visit wouldn’t be lengthy. Still, Mother didn’t care to chaperone her, and didn’t think it wise to send her into Mrs. Simpkins’ care, given the size of her new dowry. ”

“There’s no risk of Nancy treading the boards either,” George said, “though she does relish our amateur theatricals.”

Shy Nancy acting in plays? He’d like to see that for himself.

George leaned back in his chair and frowned. “It would ease matters if you cared for her, Simon.”

George had confided that his Sophie’s first husband, the Earl of Glanford, had married her only for her dowry, and then promptly squandered the money on gambling and mistresses.

“I… I remember her fondly as a gentle soul,” Simon said. Gentle souls had never really appealed to him.

He thought of the way her thin summer gown had clung to her legs and the shapely figure beneath. Gentle or not, it wouldn’t be difficult to bed her.

Surely Nancy, after an apology on his part, would come around. He was fit and handsome enough, and he was a duke.

“Fondness,” Fitz said. “That’s a start, as Mother would say.”

“Speaking of Mother,” George said, “You must get her on your side, Simon, and you’ll be battling uphill there.”

He’d done that before: battled uphill, downhill, across bloody fields and rivers. The French had been much more of a challenge than reviving Nancy’s childhood tendre and winning her forgiveness and her hand could possibly be. And Lady Loughton had always been kindness itself.

“That’s settled,” Fitz said. “Now, Cassandra has plagued me with her scheme of employing A Midsummer Night’s Dream for this party.

It’s to be a masquerade costume ball. We won’t have all the characters, of course, unless we can find someone willing to wear that fellow’s donkey ears… what is the character’s name?”

“Bottom,” George said.

“Yes. Bottom’s donkey ears.” Fitz grinned. “Cass has already claimed the queen and king of the fairies for herself and Saulsfield, but you, my friend, will be Lysander to Nancy’s Hermia.”

“Refresh my memory of the play,” Simon said.

“Lysander loves Hermia, and Hermia loves him.”

Now he remembered. “Nancy is willing?” he asked.

“She doesn’t know. Cass will tell her.”

Simon rubbed his jaw. “Perhaps I should wear the donkey’s ears. I’ve been enough of an ass. Or, I could play Puck.”

“James will play Puck,” Fitz said.

George chuckled. “We’re in for it then. Schoolboy tricks and hijinks. Beware.”

“What of the other couple,” Simon asked, “the star-crossed lovers—she loves him, he loves Hermia?”

“Demetrius and Helena.” Fitz gazed at the fire, a small smile forming. “Why not Miss Hazelton and Sir Percy Nacton?”

He felt another spark of jealousy. “Does Nancy favor Nacton?”

Fitz laughed out loud, but it was George who spoke. “Loathes him. He was there that night as well, remember?”

If only he could.

“P ut away that letter and find a costume.”

Nancy stuck out her tongue at Cassandra and then grimaced, swiping at cobwebs descending from the rafters, careful of the fragile paper she’d unearthed from an ancient box.

While the men retired for port and conversation, Cassandra had prodded her upstairs to search out costumes.

Dusty trunks, crates, and cloth-covered furniture cluttered the attics of Loughton Manor.

Nancy had chased her younger brothers up here often enough when they were children, in the days when life was more carefree, and they’d all looked through many of the trunks, finding costumes for their family theatricals.

But they’d never made it back to this corner.

“ Ooh .” Cassandra moved her lantern closer to a maroon leather trunk with brass fittings and rummaged. “Here’s a treasure trove.”

Nancy glanced over. Rich fabrics shimmered in the light, smelling of the ancient lavender sachets buried with them.

Another time, she would have been giddy with the fun of exploring and dressing up, of a Midsummer Night’s party with family and neighbors.

After all, for the last few years, she’d been the director and sometimes playwright for the pantomimes and dramas that’d helped fight the boredom of country life.

Another time, this would have been fun, but not now, not with the Swilling Duke swanning around in his handsome arrogance.

“I’d rather not attend this party.” Nancy turned away, pulled her lantern closer and studied the spidery feminine writing of the letter she’d discovered. “Perhaps I’ll have a megrim tomorrow night.”

“I’ll never forgive you. This masquerade was my idea, you know, and if my own sister won’t support me…”

Drama and bullying. Next Cassandra would go crying to Mama; and Mama, who had seated Nancy next to him on purpose at dinner would lecture her a second time this night.

“Fine,” she said with a shooing motion, and read on.

B e careful what you wish for.

Have your revenge, if you will, little Wallflower.

Give his lordship his comeuppance if you must at the masquerade.

I’ve read the bard too and I see what’s afoot—mistaken identity, potions, malicious little fairies, and at the end…

Child, I was young once and I know that a gel who sets a trap will fall into it herself, mark my word.

C assandra squealed and held up a gauzy golden gown, cut in the old style. “This will be mine. I’m to be Titania, the fairy queen. But shh, don’t tell anyone.”

“And let me guess, Saulsfield will be Oberon, your king.”

Cass tittered gleefully. “I will not say.”

Nancy glanced at the note again. Deciphering the name inscribed would require better light, but the date listed was a century before.

Who might have sent it? And to whom? Lovelace ladies were the epitome of staid and proper. Well, except perhaps for Cassandra, who’d been a bit wild before she met Saulsfield.

“What is that?”

Nancy hastily slipped the paper into the book where she’d found it. “A journal, I believe. Whose, I don’t know. I can’t make out the execrable scrawl.”

“One of our male ancestors then.” Cassandra held up another gown. This one had a dingy white bodice and skirt sprinkled with pink flowers, with an abundance of cloth for old fashioned side hoops. There was even a beaded stomacher. “What do you think?”

It was hideous. “For me? Who am I to play?”

“You are to be Hermia. You must look the virginal young beauty who Lysander and Demetrius both adore.”

She’d rather play Puck. She rubbed her forehead.

“Eek, silly. You’ve got dirt all over yourself.” Cass poked at her with a handkerchief. “Look, I know you were crushed in London in the spring.” She bestowed a tender, patronizing smile. “‘But the duke was drunk when he tossed up his accounts. It’s what gentlemen do. He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Her jaw ached as she fought another bout of rising anger. Cassandra didn’t know what he’d done, what he’d said. She had fled to the retiring room in a panic both times until Mother came to retrieve her.

“The course of true love never did run smooth, little sister.’”

Her hand itched to deliver a smack. Pompous, arrogant, condescending; Lady Saulsfield should just shut her trap.

The rest of them ought to as well.