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W hat, Lucinda wondered , was the meaning of that fleeting glance between husband and wife? Probably nothing, and it would be impolite to ask. Cecil strolled away to his club to listen for gossip, and Dorothea, yawning, retreated to her bedroom for a nap.

Lucinda went into Cecil’s study, where he had given her a desk to use. She ordered tea and set to work coding a message for Sir Frederick Darsington.

She couldn’t concentrate. What if she had spoiled the plans for Beltane Eve?

It was kind of Cecil to tell her not to fret, but she couldn’t help it.

She wished she could explain to Mr. Pearce, to let him know she wasn’t trying to trap him into marriage.

And yet, if she did that, it might make matters even worse.

If he knew she wasn’t falling in love with him, if he felt unsure of her, would he find someone else to take to the masquerade?

She had to decide what to do, and then act on that decision. Then perhaps she would be able to concentrate on encoding.

The footman came into the room. “Mr. Pearce to see you, miss. Mrs. Hale is still in her bedchamber. Shall I tell him you are not receiving callers?”

Without even pausing to think, she said, “No, no, put him in the drawing room. I’ll be right there.”

Perhaps Mother had already found and spoken to him, which would be embarrassing, but at least that was one less decision to make.

She folded her papers, slid them between the pages of the book ( Fuente Ovejuna by Lope de Vega; what a pity she didn’t read Spanish better, but for the purpose of encoding it didn’t matter), and hurried to the drawing room.

Mr. Pearce bowed. Today’s waistcoat sported dazzling green vines and crimson berries. He grinned almost frantically. “I come bearing invitations to the masquerade, dear Miss Belair!”

“How very kind.” Seemingly, Mother hadn’t spoken to him yet—but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t find him soon.

Lucinda weighed her options. Should she simply warn Mr. Pearce about Mother, thus risking spoiling Restive’s plans even more?

Or...should she explain herself as much as she dared, and perhaps waken Mr. Pearce’s chivalrous side? She was almost certain he had one, and if his chivalry were awakened, so might his conscience be.

He proffered the invitation cards. “For you, Lady Alice, and Mr. and Mrs. Hale.”

“Thank you so much.” She took them, thinking furiously.

He frowned. “You don’t seem pleased.”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “Very pleased, and excited, too, but weren’t you able to acquire one for Lord Restive?”

“No, alas. My aunt fears he will take advantage of being in disguise to seduce hapless maidens.”

She suppressed a snort. Restive didn’t need a disguise to take advantage. Not only that, he could slip in easily with someone else’s invitation—such as Cecil’s.

“Fear not, you will be safe with me.” Did the poet’s voice quiver a little?

Was Restive’s reputation truly the problem, or did the plotters suspect he was a government agent? She must do her best to counter that with a lie. “Actually, I’m relieved that Lord Restive won’t be there. Mr. Hale will escort us, and he is much more gentlemanly than Restive.”

Hesitantly, gently, Mr. Pearce asked, “Has he—has Lord Restive importuned you, Miss Belair?”

“No, never. I am not to his taste, thank heavens. The thing is...” She made a decision. Whatever the poet might have been forced to do, she didn’t believe he was evil.

“Do sit down, Mr. Pearce. There is something we need to discuss.” At his sudden wariness, she smiled and motioned him to a chair, then sat nearby. “Tell me, are your parents here in town?”

Sadness crossed his face. “My father died many years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said politely. “And your mother?”

“My dear mother lives retired in Kensington,” he said, more emotion surfacing. “She takes good care of me. It is she who embroiders my waistcoats.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”

“Because...” She turned her head away, embarrassed even while playing a role. “It is mortifying to confess this, but I suppose I must. I fear my mother will call on yours, and it’s all my fault.”

“Your mother is in town? Then why are you not with her, rather than with your friend Mrs. Hale?” He paused. “Ah, I remember now. Mrs. Haraldson implied that your mother would never permit you to attend her salon.”

“That’s true, because my mother disapproves of forward-thinking females,” she said.

“But that’s only part of what is mortifying.

Mother is determined that I shall marry Lord Restive, and I am equally determined not to, and so is Lord Restive, but she is a relentless matchmaker.

She believes that because Restive drove me to London in an open curricle, I am now compromised, which is absurd. ”

“Absurd indeed,” he said. “However, she cannot force you to wed him.”

“No, but she can make a huge scandal, saying he has compromised me.” She sighed. “She thinks that will force us to wed, but she is wrong. We shan’t marry, and everyone will assume he seduced and abandoned me, and I shall be ruined. It’s so unfair.”

“Unfair indeed,” he murmured.

“If I am ruined because I am outspoken, or because I discuss forbidden topics, or because I choose to behave badly, so be it. But not because of my mother’s foolish ambition!”

“My dear Miss Belair, how very difficult this must be. But surely your father...?”

“He died last year. He was the only one who could control her. The thing is, Mr. Pearce...”

“Yes?”

“I had to stop her somehow, and I could only think of one way. I’m very sorry, but...I told her that I am going to marry you .”

His face drained. “You... what ?”

She suppressed a giggle at his appalled expression and put up a hand. “Please don’t be vexed with me! I didn’t mean it. I like you very much, Mr. Pearce, but I don’t want to marry you or anyone else. It was just a way to stave her off for a little while.”

“I see,” he said, but clearly, he didn’t. He stood and paced toward the door, then swiveled and returned. “This is...awkward, to say the least. What would you have me do?”

“You need do nothing. I merely wished to warn you that Mother will call on you, or more likely your mother, to say that she forbids the marriage. I fear she will be extremely impolite.”

Unsurprisingly, he gaped. “She would be impolite to my mother ?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say. She doesn’t care whom she offends."

“But, why? My mother will explain that I cannot wed you or anyone else. I can’t afford it.” He paused to control his emotions. “I beg your pardon, but is—is your mother not a lady?”

“By birth, yes. She is quite well connected—one of her cousins is a countess—but she is also...” Lucinda grimaced. “Convinced that what she wants is right and necessary, and determined to have her way regardless of how much she upsets or harms others.”

“How dreadful for you, Miss Belair.”

Lucinda shrugged. “I’m accustomed to her. If she calls, Mrs. Pearce should have the servants refuse her.”

“My mother would never be so impolite!” he cried, plainly anguished at the very thought. “She is the dearest, sweetest, kindest lady in the world. She would be hurt beyond words if your mother were rude or—or accusatory. Or if anyone were unkind!” He looked to be on the verge of tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Lucinda said, “but I can’t control my mother. If she calls and proves offensive, please apologize to Mrs. Pearce on my behalf.” She took a deep breath. “And don’t worry—the danger will be over in a couple of days.”

Ashen-faced now, he said, “Wh-what danger? To my mother ?”

“What’s wrong, Mr. Pearce?” she asked. Would he break down and confess?

He didn’t, so she gave him another chance. “You look frightfully upset, but you needn’t be. I wasn’t speaking of your mother, but of myself. What happens to me after the masquerade is nothing to do with you.”

He let out a breath. “But...”

“You needn’t feel responsible in any way.”

His face twisted, almost crumpled. “I—I don’t like to think of you in peril, Miss Belair. To—to what danger do you refer?”

So much for eliciting a confession. “That Mother will find a way to force me to marry Restive, or failing him, someone else. That is why I have made a plan.” She assumed a determined expression. “After the masquerade, I mean to run away to an unknown destination. In other words, to disappear.”

~ * ~

“Y ou told him what ?” Restive glared at Lucinda.

She refrained from answering this obviously rhetorical question. He’d heard every word of her explanation. So had Dorothea and Cecil, who exchanged unreadable glances. Only Mr. Davis seemed amused.

“Are you out of your mind?” Restive demanded.

“To which of my actions are you referring? If I hurt your feelings, I’m sorry, but it’s your own fault. After you fed my mother a lot of nonsense about me, what choice did I have? I didn’t really throw you over for a poet.” She bit back a giggle.

“It wasn’t nonsense. You are attractive, intelligent, well educated, and so on, and so on, ad infinitum. Your mother is a fool not to see your true value.”

She would not blush. She would not. How dare he try to discompose her?

“It was rather fun to annoy her, and since everything I said was true, including your dislike of me...” He shrugged. “It seemed a tidy way to avoid a scandal.”

She scowled down her nose at him. “I didn’t think you cared about scandal.”

“I don’t, unless it is thrust upon me,” he said. “Enough of that; we’ll deal with it later. What the devil possessed you to probe Pearce for a confession?”

“I didn’t probe him. I merely gave him an opportunity to regret his involvement and confess. I think he’s a good man at heart. I’m sure he doesn’t want to be part of whatever dreadful plot is hatching. I thought that if he confessed, he might betray the others.”

“One can only hope he didn’t realize what you were trying to do.”

“He didn’t,” she said. “He was too worried about my mother being rude to his mother. He seems very attached to her.”