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The marrow of a new play began to form during dinner.

Thea felt the first signs as she took her seat at the legion-long mahogany table—adorned with gilded goblets and golden chargers,

of course. And as she peered through the branches of a gleaming candelabra, she caught sight of St. James across from her.

He was just removing his spectacles as if to clean them when their gazes met. His eyes widened briefly. Then he lifted a shoulder

in something of an apologetic shrug, his dark brows arching sheepishly.

She didn’t know enough about St. James to hold a grudge. He might have already promised to escort another woman into the dining

room, remembered it suddenly, then left to honor his word.

Whatever the reason, he seemed to be embarrassed. So, she offered a nod of forgiveness.

Then she smiled and watched his face go blank again. Which only made her lips curve all the more, especially when he fumbled

his spectacles—one brass earpiece hooked in place, the other slipping cockeyed from his fingers.

She pressed her lips together to subdue a giggle.

When he finally pushed the spectacles up the bridge of his nose and the lenses reflected the flames of the candelabra, that

had been the moment when she felt the tightening of her scalp and the telltale tingles of inspiration.

The sensations came as such a relief that she didn’t even mind being situated between two of the most pompous gentlemen in all of England, Barons Chedworth and Timsdale.

In fact, it was actually while imagining how lovely it would be to put them in their places that she first imagined the play,

the curtains parting to reveal a stage dressed as a shadowy lane in the forest at night. Then, recalling the story Mr. Fife

had relayed the other day, she pictured Chedworth and Timsdale at the mercy of a highwayman.

The perfect beginning! She couldn’t wait to write it down.

And yet... the instant she felt the familiar itch to withdraw the miniature ledger from the pocket of her gown and take

the sturdy pencil in hand, the tingles started to fade.

Nooo! A familiar sense of doom and failure pressed in on her, squeezing the air from her lungs, her pulse harried.

If the past year had taught her anything, she knew that giving in to panic only made it worse. Was she really about to give

Nell the satisfaction of seeing her in a fit of hysterics over turtle soup?

Perish the thought.

Taking a breath, Thea quickly cast the notion of writing aside. This time, she told herself, she was going to try a different

method and let the play form in her mind’s eye instead.

At once, the tight rabbiting of her pulse slowed, the constriction around her lungs easing.

Clearly, she would have to sneak up on this reemergence of her old self, or else startle it into hiding.

Thankfully, the remainder of dinner went on without any further attacks. She couldn’t say the same for after dinner, however.

When the women retired to the opaline and gold— surprise , surprise —parlor, the viper Marchioness of Beaucastle was looking to sink her fangs into someone in order to take attention away from the fact that Miss Portia Hunnicutt was still off sulking somewhere.

As usual, Nell’s venom sought Hartley blood.

“I just heard the most delicious rumor,” she began, looping her way through the arrangement of chairs, the narrow train of

her skirts slithering over the rug. “Sir Kellum Archer has returned to London with a new play to entertain—” She stopped short,

affecting a gasp. “My apologies, Miss Hartley. This news must be rather troubling for you in particular.”

“Not at all.”

“My dear, you are among friends, and we are all aware of your... history. There’s no need to hide your association. Truly,

the dismay is written all over your face.”

The room fell silent, the hushed whispers in the corner stalling. Even the amiable chat Lady Leighton and Lady Norris were

having with the countess stopped midsentence.

The prickling heat of a dozen curious gazes centered on Thea.

She could utter a denial, but that would not guarantee Nell’s tail would uncoil from this topic. So, she took a page from

the book of Hartley dramatics and used center stage to her advantage.

Rising from the cushion of the settee, she exhaled a bereft breath as she crossed the room toward Lady Broadbent’s chair by

the hearth. Briefly, she squeezed her chaperone’s hand and shook her head. “It is no use, my lady. I must tell them.”

“Tell them?” the countess asked warily, then lowered her voice in warning. “There is nothing to tell.”

Thea’s fingers splayed over her own heart as she looked at the women who were practically salivating to hear the rest. “So

brave, even now. Even after that terrible encounter with”—she paused and closed her eyes as if gathering strength to form

the words—“the highwayman.”

So many gasps abounded through the room that she was surprised when the sudden absence of air didn’t extinguish the crackling fire or gutter the sconces.

The playwright inside her smiled.

“If I do wear dismay upon my countenance, then it is because it happened a mere fortnight ago and remains etched in my mind.

But I would never think of boring you with the details, not when we have such a... golden hostess to entertain us.”

“Indeed,” Nell muttered, her complexion decidedly green from all the unejaculated venom burning inside her. “Now then, back

to more important matters. If you’ll direct your attention to the door, you’ll see that I have a lovely surprise for all my

guests.”

As she spoke, a line of maidservants entered the parlor carrying trays of vermillion liquid in small gilded goblets.

“I fashioned this punch myself. It was to be served directly after dinner, of course. Clearly, I’ll have to speak with the

cook about her tardiness.” Nell issued a haughty laugh.

Serving red liqueur in a gold and white room was asking for disaster. But since it would be Nell’s disaster... Thea plucked

a glass from a waiting tray.

Taking a sip, she suppressed a shudder. It tasted cloyingly sweet like over-sugared berries soaked in rum and red wine, with

a peculiar aftertaste of rose petals and medicinal tonic.

She set down the glass on a wine table, careful not to spill. This was her favorite gown, after all, and one of only two she’d

coerced the modiste to sew pockets into. And these were lined in sumptuous velvet. She already planned to wear it again with

an overdress of white eyelet lace.

“You must tell us more, Miss Hartley,” Lady Leighton said, swiftly setting her own glass aside. “I will not sleep if I have

not heard the whole of it.”

After the estimable marchioness spoke, several others chorused, “Yes, tell us.”

Thea was about to offer a perfectly executed nod of resignation, then begin her tale.

But Nell stepped in front of her.

Their hostess, who claimed to know everything about the art of subtlety, spread her arms wide and raised her voice as she

rattled, “I have another surprise. My cousin will soon demonstrate her singing prowess for us in the ballroom. I have sent

a maid to fetch her. So, I believe we should all adjourn to the—”

“ Lady Beaucastle ,” the Marchioness of Leighton chided. “Miss Hartley was speaking.”

Nell’s mouth snapped shut. Then she lowered her arms and inclined her head.

It was not the time to crow, Thea told herself, but even her derogatory chorus was impressed.

“I’m so grateful to each of you for allowing me to unburden the weight that has been pressing upon my soul for so many days,”

Thea said, humbly. “Though, with the gentlemen surely joining us soon, perhaps it would be best if we adjourned to the ballroom,

where I can tell my harrowing tale without interruption.”

“Excellent notion, Miss Hartley.”

The instant Lady Leighton spoke, Thea heard a strangled squeak of indignation from Nell. It was absolutely wonderful.

***

The only reason Jasper attended the soiree that evening was because Redcliffe was punishing him for the wine.

Even though Beaucastle was considered his uncle’s friend, at least as far as society was concerned, Jasper knew the truth.

And the truth was that Redcliffe despised anyone whose wealth was comparable to his own.

So he sent the family buffoon in his stead to endure the debut of Miss Portia Hunnicutt.

Nevertheless, the obligation worked out well for Jasper. He wanted to observe Lord Abernathy, study his movements, discover

if he was quick to temper or unpredictable. Having this information was a vital component to his next course of action.

The last thing Jasper needed was another complication.

Fortunately, his objective was simple enough. After port and cigars, many gentlemen retired to the gaming tables in the drawing

room, where no one took particular notice of him as he milled along the outskirts of the room, a bystander seemingly absorbed

in card play.

“A fine piece, Chedworth.” Abernathy smirked as he weighed a gold watch in the palm of his hand. “Not as fine as those new

grays you lost to me during the last hand, but it’ll do nicely. Perhaps I’ll give this to my valet.”

Baron Chedworth tossed back the last of another whisky and shoved away from the table. Wavering on his feet, he pointed an

accusatory finger and slurred, “You, sir, have no honor.”

Leaving, he stumbled into a chair and would have fallen flat on his face if someone hadn’t steadied him. But seeing that it

was Jasper, he jerked away with a sneer. “What are you looking at, you... you simpleminded ape?”

Then he staggered off, through the gilded archway.

The trio remaining at the table—the Marquess of Beaucastle, Viscounts Torrington and Abernathy—toasted each other. They were

of Redcliffe’s ilk, ruthless men who pursued wealth, status and pleasure without conscience.

Abernathy lifted his glass. “To deep pockets, gentlemen.”

Jasper gritted his teeth. He couldn’t give a fig about Chedworth’s circumstance. But he hated that, while Abernathy was reveling