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J oy awakened the morning after the Thornhill ball with a mind so riotous that even the kittens surrounding her seemed to pounce in sympathetic agitation.

Frederica was curled by her head, Lord Orville decided to attack her legs, and Camilla leapt upon the counterpane to pounce on an imaginary thread.

The single thought that occupied her entire being was Freddy’s remark that he would choose her were circumstances different.

Had it been a casual jest, a friendly gambit in the face of Letty Partridge’s desperation?

Or had it been a confession he scarcely knew how to frame?

The words had been light, yet the earnestness in his eyes had left her tingling from scalp to slipper tips.

Why not? he had said. You’re my best friend and you ain’t insipid!

Joy repeated the phrase now, silently, and warmth flooded her cheeks beneath the bed curtains, knowing it was the highest compliment Freddy could have bestowed.

But then—Letty. Lady Partridge’s triumphant cooing at the ball had reached every dowager’s ear within minutes.

The Dowager claimed that she had overheard Lady Partridge announcing, “The banns are a mere formality, my dear. Mr Cunningham is as good as ours.” A formal declaration might not yet have been made, but Society’s infallible instinct for matchmaking had drawn its conclusions.

Could Freddy extricate himself without incurring the label of jilt?

Joy’s conscience pricked. Was it selfish to hope he might try?

Had she entertained Freddy’s half-avowal too eagerly?

All night the question had whirled round her head, stealing sleep and leaving her nerves humming like harp strings.

When she rose at last, she found the mirror holding an unaccustomed flush upon her cheekbones, an almost shy brightness in her own eyes.

She brushed and plaited her hair with a care she seldom expended outside the stables, and descended to breakfast determined to think clearly.

She found no tranquillity down stairs. Maeve, radiant in a wrapper embroidered with rosebuds, had commandeered the morning room and turned it into a depot of matrimonial strategy.

Sheets of parchment, detailing guest lists, overflowed the escritoire; samples of cream satin for altar cushions littered every chair; and Grace, quill poised, presided like an amiable clerk of the rolls.

“Joy,” Maeve cried, waving her into the fray, “Thornhill has secured St. George’s for the twenty-second of July! And afterwards, the wedding breakfast will be at Thornhill Place.”

Joy bestowed dutiful murmurs of pleasure while helping Camilla, who had wedged herself into a basket of thread, to freedom.

Amid Maeve’s rapture her own disturbance seemed trivial, even selfish, but Grace’s perceptive glance soon detected something amiss.

When Maeve scurried off to fetch something, Grace caught Joy’s sleeve.

“You look pale, yet flushed,” she murmured. “Does your head trouble you?”

“My head is clear,” Joy replied. “My—my thoughts less so.”

Grace opened her mouth, but the footman entered with fresh chocolate and Maeve with a sheaf of more parchment, and the question was postponed. “We will speak later.”

Joy retreated behind a cup of chocolate, searching her mind for clarity. Maeve’s happiness was pure sunlight and Joy would not cloud it with her own uncertainties.

The midday brought a calling card in Colonel St. John’s square, measured hand.

He had come to invite her to ride in the Park the next day.

Joy stared at the card. Before Freddy’s confession the invitation would have been accepted gladly, if with moderate excitement.

Now it felt like a test. If he spoke, and she was obliged to answer, what could she say?

That her heart was no longer entirely her own, yet still not pledged elsewhere?

It would sound like fickleness or folly.

Better, perhaps. to deter him gently before any declaration must be refused.

At tea she finally broached the matter with Grace, who possessed a talent for removing the emotion and examining the situation from the reverse. Grace listened and said, “If you suspect his intentions and you cannot return them, openness is kindest, but make quite certain of your own wishes first.”

“My own wishes.” She admired Colonel St. John—his courtesy, his handsomeness…

his seat. Yet when Freddy had asked if she could imagine them as partners, her spirit had flared to life in answer.

She could imagine it—laughter over curricle races, debates about horses, quiet evenings warmed by friendship deeper than words.

If only Letty Partridge did not stand like a sentinel, barring the gate.

Towards five o’clock, she resolved upon a constitutional round the square to soothe her head.

Grace, noting unusual silence, offered to accompany her, but Joy pleaded solitude and a pledge not to stray beyond the square.

The day held a promise of summer. She walked with measured step, spectacles glinting when she turned, Frederica accompanying her on a lead.

Halfway round the square, as she paused to watch a hound and its boy romp on the green, a tall figure detached itself from a side street and matched her pace along the pavement.

Out of habit she glanced. The man wore a shabby beaver pulled low, a drab greatcoat too large in the shoulders.

Heart drumming, Joy quickened. So did he.

When she turned at the north-east corner, he halted as if to examine a lamppost. There could be no mistake: he possessed the same height and stoop she had noted at Hyde Park and again outside Madame Clement’s.

Panic threatened, but resentment surged stronger. She covered the short distance to her own gate, signalled the footman, and stepped inside. From the safety of the railings she looked back. The stranger had vanished.

She did not wait for fresh doubt to creep in. She sought the library, where Westwood was reported to be. There she also found Stuart, a letter in his hand. At her arrival they rose, concern etching his brow.

“You are pale. Has something occurred?” Westwood asked.

She told him in quick, quiet sentences. His jaw tightened, and he folded the note and passed it to Westwood.

“The Runner has tailed St. John and thus far there is nothing amiss. He attends his duties at the Guards, rides in the Park, visits the Guards Club, and attended the ball. We have yet to discover a connection to your shadow.”

Joy shivered. “What can he want?”

“To learn that, we must first capture him,” Stuart suggested.

She started to protest, but he lifted a hand. “You trusted me to act—allow me to do so. Have you had any further word from St. John?”

“Only a note begging a ride in the Park tomorrow.”

“Refuse tomorrow’s ride. Remain here,” Stuart advised.

“But is that fair? If you cannot be certain the two matters are linked.”

“It is prudent all the same.” Westwood spoke, his voice was gentle but brooked no refusal.

“How better to lure him from hiding? Is that not the perfect opportunity to confront him?”

The brothers exchanged glances, and Stuart answered. “Let us discuss it further, Joy. We must have surety that we can protect you.”

Joy left them, feeling decidedly irritated that she had had little say in the discussion.

She went upstairs and fell into a restless nap.

She slept fitfully, dreams twisting between the Colonel’s steady gaze and Freddy’s knowing smile, between Letty’s languid beauty and Lady Partridge’s triumphant whisper about banns.

Faith entered, and woke her. “You are late for dinner. Tell me what is disturbing you.”

Joy gave her the whole—Freddy’s words, the lurking figure, the anonymous warning. Her sister listened in grave silence.

“St. John must be confronted,” she said at last. “But not by you alone. Let Westwood—or Ashley—do it. And we will think of something to help Freddy out of his predicament.”

Joy sighed, rubbing a temple. “Part of me wishes he would either declare or desist, so that I might be certain of one path.”

Faith’s smile was kind. “Certainty often hides behind the simplest truth. Ask your heart one question: if Freddy stood before you, free of Letty’s net, would you hesitate?”

Joy felt the answer rise swift and sure, and embarrassment tinged her cheeks. “No,” she whispered. “I would not.”

“Then we must pray he unknots that net quickly,” Faith said, kissing her brow. “Meanwhile, you shall make haste to dress for dinner and fret about St. John later.”

Joy complied. As she dressed, she wondered why it had taken years, and a single waltz, for both she and Freddy to grasp what now felt inevitable. Perhaps friendship sometimes hid love in plain sight until circumstance turned the colours just so that you could see them.

Whether St. John’s suit proved honourable or not, she knew now that her answer must be refusal.

Her heart had already chosen its companion for life’s road.

The real question now was whether Freddy could disentangle himself from Lady Partridge’s expectations—and whether he dared speak again, this time without being harassed by other concerns.

Freddy presented himself at Gresham House unusually early, the fresh dew still upon the grass and the last of the milk carts rattling away from the servants’ entrance.

His mother’s butler, long inured to her eldest son’s vagaries, greeted him.

“Her ladyship is in her sitting room, Master Frederick.”

Lady Gresham, impeccable in a dove-grey morning gown, occupied a Sheraton chair by the window with her embroidery already in hand. She glanced up as Freddy entered, and one elegant brow ascended a trifle higher than the other.

“My dear boy, you are abroad with the jackdaws,” she said, setting aside a half-finished spray of forget-me-nots. “Should I summon breakfast, or is this visit merely to kiss your mother’s cheek?”