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“Forgive us, Miss Hartley. We meant nothing by it. Just having a lark.” Mr. Handscombe appeared contrite enough for her to

offer a short nod and he smiled again. “You have a most forgiving and generous heart, and you’ve always been kind.”

“And fearless as well,” Bromley interjected, clapping his younger brother on the shoulder. “Do not forget, our Miss Hartley faced a highwayman, so the rumor states.”

Thea noticed a few sly gazes swivel in her direction, intrigue marking their expressions. But she also saw Lady Broadbent

across the room and knew what was at stake.

“You’ve been misinformed,” she said reluctantly, knowing she was missing an opportunity to provide a riveting firsthand account.

“It was only through a carriage window that my chaperone and I witnessed the highwayman.”

Bromley was undeterred by this fact. “I say you are still fearless. Were an ape to escape the zoological society and stroll

through those doors, I doubt even that simian could frighten you.”

Even though he winked good-naturedly to his brother, she was irritated by the thinly veiled comparison to the moniker attached

to St. James. And besides, he didn’t remotely resemble an ape. It was true that he had tremendously broad shoulders and ill-fitting

clothes, but his features were every bit striking. Some might even consider them handsome.

Not that St. James would care what she thought, of course.

So, she would put him from her mind. After all, she was on a new path this Season, looking to rekindle her creative spark

and to find a husband. As for the latter, she knew she would have to make some allowances.

With that thought in mind, she exhaled her irritation.

“Did I hear my brother mention a highwayman?” a young woman with hair the color of corn silk asked. The newly out Miss Handscombe’s

dimpled cheeks spread in a grin as she sidled up with her raven-haired friend, Miss Livet. “Oh, my head must be full of feathers.

You’re the one who saw him, are you not?”

When Thea offered a nod, Miss Livet gasped and leaned closer. “I’ve heard a few whispers here and there, but not the full story. Could you tell us, do you think? Or is it a great secret?”

The way her brown eyes danced told Thea that she would be the first to spill it if it were a secret. And it didn’t bother

her. Quite the opposite.

Though, it did make her miss her sisters and the bond they’d once shared—the teasing, the mischief, the laughter, the plays...

Thinking of plays, thoughts of Kellum intruded again. Memories spun in her mind like a zoetrope of when she’d met him at the

end of that first spring in London, and the sky seemed to open with possibility.

She just never thought the possibility was that everything she knew about herself would disappear.

Kellum hadn’t just told her that she’d lacked talent. He’d whittled away at her self-esteem, little by little, shaping her

into someone she no longer recognized.

At first, the comments were seemingly insignificant, banal even. One day, he’d frown and ask her what she’d done to her hair.

Slice. He wouldn’t elaborate. He’d simply leave the question between them for her to wonder over as he changed the topic.

There were a few times when they’d been sitting close together, poring over a script, and he’d wrinkled his nose and asked

if she’d bathed in cabbage water. Slice.

When he’d kissed her, he’d laughed and said that it was obvious she was an ingénue in every way. So she’d tried to be what

he wanted, to take his instruction. But he’d complained at every attempt. Her lips were either too firm or too soft. Her mouth

was either too broad or too narrow. And she either kissed with no passion or was overzealous. Slice, slice, slice.

After a while she’d hated the mere idea of kissing. So she’d stopped altogether. She’d shied away, making excuses that she was afraid her chaperone would discover them, even when Thea had made sure Lady Broadbent never suspected she’d been sneaking away unsupervised at all.

By the time Kellum delivered his final, soul-destroying speech to her, her sense of self had been stripped so bare, so hollowed

out, that she’d believed every word. Believed that he had the first and last word on all things regarding Althea Hartley.

Then she’d gone home to find that everything had changed and she no longer belonged anywhere.

But she was here to change that. At least, she hoped.

As her acquaintances awaited her reply, she saw St. James enter the room and cast a dark glower in her direction.

She stiffened, a piece of her old self riling at once.

What did he think, that just because he didn’t find her interesting enough to continue a conversation, no one else could?

Well, he was about to learn otherwise. Because if there was one thing she hadn’t lost, one precious thing she’d learned from

being a Hartley, it was how to captivate an audience.

And there was no time like the present.

***

Jasper swore under his breath as he watched those ice blue eyes hurl daggers at him from across the room.

She didn’t know it, but he’d had to leave. Standing that close to her and imagining those flowers— his flowers—on her bedside table had set off such a flurry of inappropriate thoughts that it took every ounce of restraint not

to reach out and touch her.

Ever since the night of Beaucastle’s fete, he’d become a stranger to himself, his usual control sorely lacking. He’d even

spoken aloud in his actual voice, twice in her presence.

She was making him forget himself.

And when her cheeks had pinkened, her eyes darkening as they skimmed down his body, it made his skin prickle beneath his clothes.

His palms and fingertips tingled to the point where the act of not touching her had caused an intense physical ache.

The only thing that stopped him from making a complete and utter fool out of himself was the two young cubs that headed in

her direction. He’d felt his hackles rise. A strange, almost primitive compulsion rose inside him that made him want to growl

at them, to warn them in no uncertain terms what would happen if they dared approach what was his.

But one last ounce of sanity must have remained in his pia mater, for it reminded him of all that was at stake, of who truly

needed his protection, and that Miss Hartley—no matter how tempted he might be—was not his to guard and never would be.

So, he’d walked away. He’d had to.

Perhaps he should have left the party altogether because that same compulsion was still humming through him as he saw the

crowd forming around her. She moved gracefully toward the zoetrope, a slew of slathering puppies, debutantes and their chaperones

following like acolytes.

“I know you wished to hear about that dreadful night, Miss Livet,” she said conspiratorially. “But it pales in comparison

to the tale that Lady Broadbent and I overheard at tea.”

“Oh, do tell us,” one of the ladies chirruped excitedly.

A sense of dread filled Jasper. Surely, she wouldn’t. And yet, even before he heard the word highwayman whispering through the crowd, he knew she would.

Bloody hell!

“Of course, it would be wrong of me to reveal the identity of this gentleman. For the sake of this tale, however, he shall be named Lord Zed, because he is not deserving of a more elevated letter of the alphabet as this terrible account will soon convey.”

Offering up a story with a secret identity was akin to handing a drunkard a bottle of whisky for safekeeping. The mystery

of it all would only whet the ton ’s appetite.

He moved deeper into the room as she began her tale about Lord Zed and his encounter with the highwayman.

“The report of a pistol rent the air.” She closed her fan with a snap. “The eerie howl of a wolf echoed off the trees...”

Damn it all! He was supposed to be elusive. A shadow. The thief that no one dared speak about out of fear. But because his

brain had turned to mush that night, he’d neglected to warn her.

Not that it would have done any good. It was painfully clear that Miss Althea Hartley didn’t react to danger in a predictable

manner.

Jasper didn’t know how he would stop her.

Oh, and she had certainly set the stage for a grand production. With the wave of her open fan, she set the zoetrope spinning,

the light of a taper casting shadows all around, inviting her audience to imagine they were on the darkened road as the carriage

picked up speed.

It was a clever trick. Too clever.

“Lord Zed thought nothing of the occupants in his carriage, but began to stuff all his valuables in the...”

Jasper saw his opportunity as the candle flame grew higher, lengthening in the draft of the fan. The light sparked in his

mind and a strategy formed.

“There must be a place deep in the forest where the highwayman waits,” she continued, weaving her spell. “He moves like a

wraith through the shadows...”

Needing to take the focus off her tales of the highwayman and turn it back to his clumsiness, he acted quickly.

First, he stepped behind Miss Hartley. And when she glanced over her shoulder, he made all appearances of contrition, earning a begrudging nod of forgiveness.

Leaning in to view the spinning bowl, he bumped her fan and caught it on fire. Gasps of alarm followed.

He assisted by grabbing a vase of flowers from the mantel.

Then he expertly tripped over his own feet. And accidentally emptied the contents of the vase onto Miss Hartley’s gown.

Objective accomplished.