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U pon entering White’s, Harrington enquired after his quarry.

Quentin Carstairs wasn’t there, but a footman informed him that Colin Rhys-Jones was in the billiards room.

Harrington scarcely knew the man, in spite of their being around the same age, as Rhys-Jones had attended Harrow and Cambridge, whereas Harrington had been at Eton and Oxford.

But much to Harrington’s astonishment, Rhys-Jones and his friends responded enthusiastically when Harrington asked if he could join them.

Everyone wanted to hear about his experiences in Germany.

Which, in truth, had mostly consisted of sitting around in the cold for weeks, waiting for something to happen, followed by a frantic march to the sea.

But Harrington managed to come up with a couple of interesting anecdotes from the retreat, and if Rhys-Jones and his friends formed the impression that he had held back out of a becoming sense of modesty, he wasn’t about to correct them.

Two hours later, when the party was breaking up, Harrington pulled Rhys-Jones aside and mentioned the two acts Willim Windham had asked him to support. And wouldn’t you know it, Rhys-Jones nodded solemnly, clasped Harrington’s shoulder, and informed him that he would be glad to.

The following two days passed in a whirlwind.

He fenced with Stephen Chichester and played brag with Charles Sutton.

He attended the theater and assured a drunken Julian Deverill that the buxom Cressida was a fool for rejecting him.

He spent an afternoon at Tattersall’s with Henry, who agreed to work with a recalcitrant filly Anthony Leveson-Gower had recently acquired.

After that, Leveson-Gower was delighted to support the Pensions to Soldiers Act.

Not everyone said yes, of course. And he didn’t manage to track everyone down in the limited time he had. But by the time he strolled into Lord Pearson’s ball on Friday night, he had brought around nineteen of the men on his list.

He spotted one of his final targets, Bertram Newcombe, a portly man forty years his senior with whom he shared only a passing acquaintance.

Much to Harrington’s surprise, Newcombe greeted him enthusiastically and dragged him off to Lord Pearson’s study for a glass of port.

It turned out that Newcombe had been a military man himself and had served with some distinction in the War of American Independence.

Although he purported to want to hear about Harrington’s recent exploits, he spent most of the conversation waxing nostalgic about his own days with the 59 th Regiment of Foot.

Harrington couldn’t help but notice that Newcombe refilled his own glass four times in the course of an hour.

Sensing an opening, Harrington leaned forward. “Have you perchance heard about the act that’s coming up for a vote tomorrow? The Pensions to Soldiers Act?”

“Pensions to S-soldiers?” Newcombe slurred. He waved his hand sloppily. “Haven’t heard a blessed thing about it.”

“It’s a worthy cause. You see…”

Newcombe didn’t take much convincing. “Of course, they must have pensions! Of course!” he repeated, belching.

Harrington had a feeling that, in spite of his professed support, the odds that Newcombe would remember this conversation tomorrow, much less drag himself down to the Palace of Westminster in time for the vote, were slim to none.

“Perhaps I could save you the trouble of going down there and cast a vote for you as your surrogate?” Harrington suggested.

“Yes,” Newcombe said, reaching for the decanter. “That would be s-splendid.”

Harrington rifled through Lord Pearson’s desk until he found paper and pen. “I’ll write out a note for you to sign, explaining your intentions. Just so everything is clear.”

Newcombe scrawled his signature, and Harrington’s heart sang. He had actually done it! He knew it was just a bit of luck, that by some happy chance the Riflemen had become all the rage at the perfect moment, and his success was only due to the green coat gracing his shoulders.

But still, he felt bloody good about himself for once in his life.

He listened to Bertram Newcombe’s increasingly slurred stories for another fifteen minutes before the man fell asleep in his chair. Harrington slipped out, asked the footman in the hall to keep an eye on him, and went in search of the person with whom he most wanted to celebrate.

Striding into the ballroom, he almost bumped into Peter Ferguson. “Have you seen Diana?” he asked without preamble.

Peter gave him a speaking look. “ Diana , is it? It happens that I was just going to claim her for the next dance.”

“Can I have it?” Harrington asked, not bothering to act coy. “Please?”

Peter’s eyes turned sympathetic. “Of course.”

“Except…” Harrington peered across the ballroom. As usual, Marcus Latimer was looming over his sister, watching her like an immaculately dressed hawk. “You’ll have to go and fetch her.”

Peter gave him an incredulous look.

Harrington dropped his voice low. “Her brother will never let her go off with me. You go and claim her for the dance, and I’ll take your place after you’ve lined up.”

He could tell Peter was holding in a laugh, but all he said was, “All right.”

Harrington watched from the edge of the ballroom, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He couldn’t wait to tell Diana how well he had done.

He watched Peter bow over her hand. As he escorted her across the room, Peter leaned down and whispered something in her ear. He made a subtle gesture to the corner where Harrington stood, no doubt asking her if she had any objections to dancing with him instead.

Diana looked up, and her eyes found his across the ballroom.

Then, she did it.

She smiled.

It was one of those glowing, light-up-your face sorts of smiles, and it knocked him right back on his heels.

Diana Latimer rarely smiled. She wielded a stony expression as effectively as she wielded her sword, using it to keep the fortune-hunters of London from laboring under the delusion that they had wormed their way into her good graces.

But now, she was smiling like that ? Because she was going to dance with him ?

It made him feel ten feet tall.

She and Peter found places toward the bottom of the line of dancers. Harrington waited until the orchestra struck the opening notes, then he strode across the ballroom and clapped Peter on the shoulder. Peter surrendered his place at once, squeezing Harrington’s arm as he took himself off.

Then, it was just him and Diana.

Well, and fifty-some-odd other dancers.

Not that he could see any of them. He only had eyes for her.

As they circled each other, Harrington tilted his head toward her ear. “I did it.”

It was a country dance, and a quick one at that, so she didn’t have time to say anything before the steps forced them apart, but she managed to squeeze his forearm. When they came together again, she asked breathlessly. “You got the votes?”

He didn’t have time to respond, but he nodded from his spot in the opposite line of dancers. When it was time for them to dance another turn, he managed to say, “I started with Colin Rhys-Jones.”

After another ten turns, he had only managed to impart a tiny fraction of the story of how he’d brought Rhys-Jones around.

By then, they had almost reached the bottom of the line of dancers. Soon, they would have to dance their way back to the top.

To his right, the balcony doors loomed, open and inviting.

As they came together again, Harrington made a quick decision. He took Diana’s hand, but instead of dancing the expected turn, he tugged her toward the balcony doors.

She went with him without hesitation. As they ran out into the night together, the beautiful sound of her laughter washed over his ears.

Now this was more like it.

Diana had never been whisked out onto a balcony by a handsome man before. Gracious, up until recently, she had never even encountered a man whom she would want to do the whisking!

Yet, here she was, dashing out the French doors, hand-in-hand with Harrington under a sky littered with… clouds. It was probably too much to hope for a blanket of stars. This was England, after all.

Still, it felt magical . And, on the bright side, the light drizzle was keeping everyone else inside.

He drew her into a little nook in the corner, positioning her closest to the wall.

Diana knew he had done it so she would be out of the weather, but she could not help but note that it had the additional advantage of being out of view of the French doors.

He did not release her hand, and she found she did not want him to.

She was prickly by nature, freezing most of her suitors with a glare before they could get close enough to touch her. But holding hands with Harrington Astley felt natural. It felt… right .

She squeezed his fingers. “Tell me.”

The words tumbled from his lips. About how he had charmed Colin Rhys-Jones during a game of billiards and Charles Sutton over a hand of cards. About how he was now chums with Stephen Chicester and Julian Deverill and a dozen other men.

Finally, he patted his pocket. “I doubt Newcombe will have sobered up sufficiently to show up for the vote tomorrow. But he agreed to let me vote as his surrogate. I got it in writing and everything. So, that’s twenty men who have promised to support the Pensions to Soldiers Act!”

She beamed up at him. “That’s brilliant , Harrington. I knew you could do it!”

He looked so happy, and she was so delighted that she was the one he had wanted to share this moment with, she didn’t even think.

She threw her arms around his neck.

Before she had time to worry that he might not welcome the gesture, his hands came around her waist. He lifted her off her feet and spun in a circle, twirling her around and around.

Their laughter mingled together, bouncing off the balcony’s flagstones, causing her heart to swell to the point of bursting.

After a perfect eternity that was probably only a few seconds, he set her down. His smile was fond as his hand came up to frame her face. “Diana,” he whispered.

Her breath hitched. His fingers curled behind her ear, sending a shiver down her neck. Slowly, ever so slowly, he tilted his lips toward hers.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she slid her arms down across the planes of his chest.

That was when a dark voice came from the French doors. “What the hell are you doing to my sister?”