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“He certainly seems épris ,” Monsieur Fortin said, and his friend Beaudry, who had strolled into the room after Mrs. Haraldson, gave a sardonic smile.

Interesting, Lucinda thought, that neither of them believed wholly in Mr. Pearce’s sincerity.

Were they merely observant—or did they already know his infatuation was a ruse?

“I’d rather not be unkind to him. He seems quite desperately sincere.” Lucinda paused as if considering. “He is extremely handsome, and he does write lovely little poems. Shall I humor him for a while at least?”

“Why not? He’s harmless enough,” Lady Tollister said, which made Lucinda immediately suspicious. Did she want him to encourage Mr. Pearce, and if so, why?

“Or at least as far as one knows,” a third lady said. “No gentleman is truly harmless.”

“A true gentleman is,” Lady Alice said, “to ladies in any event. To other men, he is whatever he needs to be.”

Another lady made a wry face as Mr. Pearce reappeared with a cup of wine and a slice of seed cake. After glancing about, he left them on a table by the door and pulled a chair forward to sit next to Lucinda.

“Don’t you want your wine and cake?” Mrs. Haraldson teased.

“I need no other refreshment than the most beautiful lady in the world,” he intoned softly.

Mrs. Haraldson rolled her eyes and beckoned to a servant. “Footman! Bring this gentleman’s refreshments. He is too inflamed with love to realize that he needs ordinary sustenance.”

Mr. Pearce hardly seemed to notice the titters and teasing looks. He took no part in the conversation, merely gazing at Lucinda like a puppy dog, but at least his tongue wasn’t hanging out. He took her hand again.

She couldn’t help but notice that he was perspiring, and that he smelled more than a little rank. From neglecting to bathe…or from anxiety? It behooved her to find out, but how?

He took her hand again. Duty bound, she let him. His palms were wet with sweat. He leaned in and whispered, “Dear Miss Belair, I have a request to make of you.”

Dear God, she hoped he wasn’t about to propose marriage.

No, surely that wasn’t it—it made no sense. He didn’t love her. If Restive’s judgement was correct, Mr. Pearce was part of a dastardly plot. “What request?” she murmured.

He glanced uneasily about, and she followed his gaze. Which faces were avid with interest, and if so which sort? The prospect of juicy gossip? Or treasonous intent? “A slightly—er—improper one, I fear.”

“Dear me,” Lucinda said. “Only slightly?”

He flushed, but seemingly her jest had encouraged him. He threw himself to one knee again. “Please, oh please say you’ll play piquet with me!”

Was that all? She turned coyly away. “Alas, I am not permitted to play piquet tonight. Such a pity, for it is my favorite card game.”

“Who forbids you?” he cried. “Lady Alice, surely you don’t object! You know how perfectly proper I am. I merely wish for a tête-à-tête with the woman of my dreams.”

Lady Alice raised her brows at Lucinda. “My dear, I warned you that this might happen. Gentlemen are wont to get ideas into their heads.”

“I know, my lady, but ideas do no harm,” Lucinda said, thinking as she did so that this was a flat-out lie. Ideas were responsible for a great deal of havoc—such as what might be plotted right here, tonight. She took a breath. “As long as it’s a simple game of piquet, surely it’s not dangerous?”

“As long as you remain in sight of others, I suppose it’s safe enough.” Was Lady Alice’s reluctance real or feigned? Did she fear going against Restive’s orders? She sighed. “But I can’t say I’m happy with the notion.”

“Please, please, my lady,” Mr. Pearce begged. “I don’t mean any h-h-harm, I swear!”

“Then why the hitch in your speech?” Mrs. Haralson chuckled. “Merely by playing piquet here, you may damage the girl’s reputation—and you know it.”

“I love and adore Miss Belair,” the poet claimed. “One day, she will consent to be mine. Her reputation is precious to me, I swear.”

“Why such a fuss over a few innocent hands of cards?” Lucinda said. She knew an inkling of sympathy for Restive. How annoying, not to say perilous, to be always in danger of entrapment. “People have such vulgar minds!”

“They do, my dear child, they do,” Lady Tollister said. “But I dare swear these ladies won’t spread any gossip—will you, my dears?”

They all swore to say nothing, which Lucinda didn’t believe for an instant.

She tried to read the faces, but discerned nothing unusual—sly interest, amusement, a hint of disapproval.

She glanced at Lady Alice again, who gave the slightest shrug.

“I don’t think it’s wise. You are old enough to make your own decisions—but I fear my nephew will be annoyed with both of us. ”

“Pooh! Who cares what Restive thinks?” Lucinda said. “Just one little game, I promise, and we’ll play for farthing points. What could be more innocent than that?”

E ither Mr. Pearce was an exceedingly poor player, or he was too anxious to concentrate. However, Lucinda could hardly say so, so she did her best to play a mediocre game.

Not mediocre enough, for in the middle of a hand, he laid down his cards. “I’m so sorry, Miss Belair. I’m a dreadful player and I know it, but I couldn’t think of any other way to speak to you alone.”

Oh, dear. “How improper of you, Mr. Pearce. But now that you have me as alone as one can possibly be at a card party, what do you wish to discuss?” They were in a shadowy corner of the whist room, with only a few candles to illuminate their table, and far enough from everyone else to be unheard if they kept their voices down.

Perfect for improper wagers, just as she’d been warned.

He glanced about, then faced her again. “I wish to—to invite you to a celebration of Beltane Eve.”

Her mind sprang to attention. So apparently did her expression.

“Aha! You are pleased with my invitation!” He grabbed her hands, scattering the cards. “You will accept?”

“I am sorely tempted,” she said, pulling herself together. “I absolutely adore Beltane Eve. Will there be a bonfire at midnight? And next comes May Day, which is such fun.” Gently, she withdrew her hands. “But that doesn’t mean I may accept your invitation.”

His face fell. “Why not? You must! Oh, please say you shall!”

“First, tell me more about the celebration. Where is it to be held, and who will be invited?”

“At the estate of my aunt, Lady Delworth, in Chiswick,” he said. “Perfectly respectable, I assure you, but fun all the same. It’s a masquerade.”

Lucinda tutted and shook her head. “I am not permitted to attend masquerades. They are known for impropriety.”

“Not this one,” he pleaded, and would have grabbed her hands again if she hadn’t folded them in her lap. Instead, he twisted his own hands together. “My aunt is most awfully straight-laced. She won’t allow anything of that sort.”

“I don’t know how she can prevent it if everyone is in disguise.”

“Only the most select company will receive an invitation. My cousin the equerry will attend!” He said this with conspicuous pride.

“Your cousin is an equerry?” she asked. “To whom?”

“The Duke of Clarence,” he said. “My cousin has received permission to be absent from his royal duties for the evening.”

“How splendid,” she said, “but I shall have to see what Lady Alice says—and she must be invited as well.”

“The more the merrier!” He bent to gather up the cards. “I’ll have an invitation sent to you both, and to Mr. and Mrs. Hale. Not to Lord Restive, though. He is known for impropriety. My aunt would not approve.”

Lucinda managed a pout. “Lady Alice may refuse to come if Restive cannot escort us, and then I shan’t be able to come either! Please say you’ll invite him, too!”

He sucked in a breath. “I should like to, but I don’t quite know how. Auntie is very strict.”

Did this mean the plotters knew Restive was a government agent? Whoever they were; perhaps his aunt wasn’t one of them, but actually as proper as Mr. Pearce claimed.

“Wouldn’t Mr. Hale’s escort suffice?” he asked.

“It might,” Lucinda said, “if he agrees to go. He may not wish to bring his wife to such a function.” She bit her lip. “Please say you’ll try to invite Lord Restive.”

He covered her hand with his. “For you, my darling, I shall slay the dragon of my aunt’s prejudice.” His face fell. “Although I’m not the dragon-slaying sort, I admit, but I shall try.”

She thanked him and withdrew her hand from under his sweaty one. “I wonder what I should dress up as. A witch, celebrating the Beltane rites? No, for I loathe wearing black. I just barely got out of mourning.”

“How about a saint?” he asked eagerly. “You, my lady, are the epitome of perfection—a pure, saintly lady.”

From behind her came an evil laugh. “Saintly? I don’t think so.”

M r. Pearce had glanced at her decolletage from time to time—gentlemen often did—but Mr. Wharton ogled her with revolting hunger.

“So,” he said, “the innocent maiden who calls on Lord Restive is not so innocent after all.”

Protestations of her purity would do no good. Nor could she expect help from Mr. Pearce, who stared at Wharton, mouth agape.

“You again, Mr. Wharton?” she retorted. “You keep cropping up like a bad penny. Kindly go away. You are interrupting our game of piquet.”

“We all know what piquet stands for here. Don’t waste your time, Pearce. She’s Restive’s doxy.”

Mr. Pearce shot to his feet, almost losing his balance. “Sir, you forget yourself. Miss Belair is a respectable lady, and this is naught but a game of cards.”

“Ha! I saw her alone with him in his drawing room.”

Lucinda stood as well. “I am no man’s mistress, and you are a dead bore.” She glared, trying to shake off the feeling of being a rabbit cornered by a ravenous fox. “Stop ogling me!”

By now, others were listening. Unfortunately, all the whist players were ladies, so not much help would come from them—even if they believed her innocent, which they likely did not.