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M aeve burst into the sitting room with that unmistakable sparkle of delight which no effort of decorum could entirely subdue, and with Joy, there was no such restraint.

In one lithe movement, she swept up Camilla, held the contented creature aloft, and executed a waltz turn fit to set any Almack’s patroness nodding approval.

The kitten submitted with only a few mewls of protest. Joy felt laughter rise at the sight, but knew some news must be forthcoming to bring such delight to her friend.

“My dearest Joy,” Maeve cried, settling Camilla against her shoulder, “Thornhill is to host a ball!”

Joy arched a brow. “And perhaps,” she ventured, folding her hands, “a particular announcement is to illuminate the occasion?”

A dimple flashed in Maeve’s cheek, then permitted herself a small, irrepressible squeal. Joy felt the certainty bloom—this was no mere dance, but the herald of formal betrothal.

“The Duchess of Thornhill’s famed resistance must at last have yielded to the Duke’s wishes,” Joy remarked.

“Indeed it has! I do believe Carew and Grace may have helped in that quarter.”

Rising, Joy pressed Maeve’s free hand. “I am exceedingly pleased for you. Few couples are so handsomely matched.”

Maeve’s fingers tightened round hers. “And I wish—oh, how fervently I wish—that you should share the very happiness that is mine, Joy!”

Joy smiled—sincere, though tinged with that curious ache which attends a friend’s sudden nearness to bliss. “We must hope,” she answered lightly, even as Camilla leapt to the floor and Lord Orville pounced on his sister.

“I have been so consumed by my own prospects that I have hardly asked after yours,” Maeve said, sinking beside Joy on the brocade sofa. “Tell me everything about Colonel St. John. Thornhill swears the Colonel could scarcely remove his gaze from you through the entirety of Ascot.”

Joy traced the brocade’s faded vine with a gloved finger, marshalling composure.

“That is hardly the truth as he was scarcely in my presence! There have been no declarations, nor even the hint of one. His attentions, while flattering, have advanced no further than compliments, occasional waltzes, and more talk of bloodstock than of sentiment whilst we ride or drive.”

Maeve’s brows arched in polite astonishment. “No declarations? I am all astonishment! I thought gentlemen of the army prided themselves upon decisive action.”

“Perhaps he practises the patience of a siege,” Joy said, essaying a smile. “In which case I may still escape before the walls collapse.”

Maeve laughed, but sobered when she saw Joy’s expression. “Do you wish to escape?”

“I wish—” Joy paused, aware of the honesty Maeve’s friendship deserved. “I wish to feel certain before I am trapped into certainty. At present I like the Colonel very well, but liking is a slender thread on which to hang a lifetime.” Including her freedom.

Maeve nodded. “Then we shall abandon speculation and attend instead to affairs entirely within our command—new ball gowns!” She rose and declared that nothing short of a visit to Madame Clement would do for a diversion.

Joy could not but laugh. “Must we? The French dragon of pins?” She sighed dramatically. “Very well—provided you promise to guard my person.”

“You are the most unnatural female, Joy!”

“Yes, I am aware of the sad fact.”

“Let us find Grace. She will be the perfect one to accompany us.” Maeve clapped her hands, and Joy resigned herself to the enterprise.

Grace, freshly installed in her new role of Lady Carew, greeted the plan with approval.

Thus Joy found herself seated opposite Maeve in a deep green barouche.

The June sun had spent its warmth at noon, and a thin wind flicked the carriage steps as they halted before Madame Clement’s polished windows.

Inside, the shop bustled at the height of the Season with last minute orders.

Madame herself advanced to greet Lady Carew, then fashion plates and bolts of satin and silk were presented for their delectation.

Maeve drifted from turquoise to blush, dreaming aloud of embroidery that would dance in candlelight.

Grace examined a sober sheen of silver tissue.

Joy, after dutiful inspection, gravitated towards a bolt of water-blue crêpe, the quiet hue of which pleased her eyes.

“ Parfait pour mademoiselle ,” Madame crooned, sweeping Joy onto a small dais while her assistants descended like sparrows. Pins flashed and Joy submitted, schooling her features to indifference even as stays were tugged and seams chalk-marked.

Maeve, meanwhile, discovered a brocade the exact tint of peach at sunrise. She clutched it to her breast. “Thornhill shall expire of delight,” she predicted.

“Thornhill would adore you in a burlap sack, my dear,” Grace cooed.

Joy looked heavenward, knowing Grace’s sentiment was probably accurate.

Then Maeve called across silk-draped chairs, “Joy, you look like a cloud adrift on a June morning!”

Joy tried not to grimace at such effusion so foreign to her own nature, but she did have four elder sisters, after all.

Grace smiled, half-teasing. “When St. John sees you, you will not doubt his admiration.” Madame murmured something and tightened a sash.

Just then, Maeve stepped towards the front window. Her hand froze upon the peach brocade. “Who is that man?” she asked, her voice low but vibrating with curiosity. She inclined her head towards the street.

Joy, held fast by Madame’s insistence that she remain absolument immobile , could turn only a little, yet curiosity tugged at her.

She followed Maeve’s line of sight past the shop’s crystal panes to the pavement beyond.

Between a brewer’s dray and a gentlemen’s curricle, she caught the briefest glimpse.

A figure in a drab greatcoat, hat brim drawn so low it obscured his brow.

The afternoon light lay flat upon his shoulders.

Even at distance Joy sensed a familiarity and the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

Before she could get a closer look, a wagon lurched, blocking the view. When it rattled on, the place was empty.

Maeve turned, brows raised. “He looked as if he were watching the shop rather than passing by.”

Joy forced a laugh. “In all likelihood a servant waiting on his mistress.” She certainly hoped so, because the alternative was too disturbing.

Grace looked from one to the other. “What is it?”

“Only Maeve’s fancy,” Joy said, though her heart thumped an irregular tattoo. Maeve opened her mouth, but Joy gave an infinitesimal shake of her head and Maeve allowed the matter to drop.

Madame declared the fittings complete, dismissed Joy to dress, and promised delivery within the week.

As the sisters gathered their reticules, Joy could not resist a second look through the window.

The crowd flowed unremarked, hackneys jostled, sunlight slanted on a wet gutter stone—but no solitary watcher lingered.

It had to be a coincidence. Why would the man from Ascot be following them?

The barouche rolled back to Berkley Square, Grace praising Joy’s restraint in selecting so flattering a hue.

Joy murmured agreement, her gaze fixed on passing streets, searching every doorway.

A hundred nameless Londoners traversed Bond Street.

How could she know one shadow from another?

Her head ached faintly, and she pressed a palm to her temple.

Maeve caught the motion. “You look unwell.”

Grace laughed. “There is nothing in the world so taxing to Joy as the modiste.”

“You yourself said I was unnatural.” Joy improvised rather than confess what was concerning her. “I shall be sturdy once I have had some tea.”

Grace promised to ring for her favourite tarts.

Joy thanked her absent-mindedly and allowed the carriage to rock her into temporary calm.

Yet the question Maeve had voiced earlier—that little probe into Joy’s attachment—now intertwined with a new unease: Had the man from Ascot returned?

Was it coincidence that he had appeared or was Joy’s imagination weaving pattern from shadow?

Arriving home, Grace shepherded them into the drawing room, where her sisters were already taking tea with the Dowager.

Maeve settled onto the sofa, recounting their visit to the modiste and its cause, but Joy drifted to the window and peered into the street.

Carriages passed, but nothing stirred that bore resemblance to the stranger.

Hartley brought in more tea, and Grace pressed a plate of honey cake into Joy’s hand looking at her with concern. “Is one of your megrims coming on?”

Joy shook herself from her reverie. “’Tis nothing tea will not mend.”

She would not trouble Grace with spectres and suspicions.

“I heard Westwood mention this morning that the coronation will not be until August, so it will be longer than usual before we can retire to the country,” Faith remarked.

Joy groaned to herself.

“Whyever for?” Patience asked.

“Parliament must be kept sitting to finish the accursed Bill of Pains and Penalties,” Faith replied.

“What an odd name for a bill, though quite fitting all the same,” Patience muttered. “All because King George is behaving as obstinately as any spoilt schoolboy and must press the Lords to strip poor Caroline of Brunswick of her rank.”

“Do not let anyone else hear you say that!” the Dowager gasped.

“’Tis naught but the truth, and it will not gain him any favours with his people.”

Joy concurred. Especially not with her.

Freddy entered the coffee room at White’s to discover Montford and Rotham already entrenched upon a sofa, brandies in hand, arguing whether the Lords should pass the Pains and Penalties Bill and strip the Queen Consort of her title—or whether, as Rotham contended, the very attempt had made a heroine of the errant consort.