Viscount Ravensberg did not remain without a mention. Lord Sutton regaled the company in the drawing room after dinner with an account of the viscount’s latest scandalous escapade. He had made a spectacle of himself the day before by going for a swim in the Serpentine in Hyde Park in the middle of the day between rain showers, wearing only—well, the earl did not care to elaborate on that topic in the presence of ladies. Lord Ravensberg had been laughing merrily when he got out of the water and revealed himself in all his shocking dishabille—he had not even been wearing his boots! He had sketched a deep, mocking bow to Lady Waddingthorpe and Mrs. Healy-Ryde, who had stopped, despite the mortification of being witness to such a shocking sight, to do their duty and inform him that he was a disgrace to his name and his family and the uniform he had worn until so recently. It was they who had spread the story, of course, beginning in Lady Jersey’s drawing room no more than an hour later.

The worthy young man assured Lauren with hushed solemnity that some gentlemen were not deserving of the name.

There were letters to and from home during that week, including one from Gwendoline, Lauren’s cousin and dearest friend—more sister than either cousin or friend, in fact. They had grown up together and had been virtually inseparable for most of their lives. Gwen referred to a letter her mother, the dowager countess, had received from Aunt Sadie.

“It is evident that she is surrounding you with a veritable army of eligible suitors,” Gwen had written. “Doubtless worthy and impossibly stuffy to a man. Poor Lauren! Is there anyone special—anyone you consider eligible? Oh, I know you have no wish for a beau, eligible or otherwise, but . . . is there?”

Lauren could picture the bright, mischievous grin Gwen would have worn while writing those words. But of course there was no one. Did he deliberately court notoriety? she wondered, her thoughts going off at a tangent. Swimming half naked in the Serpentine, indeed!

Gwen’s letter ended with a sentence written in slightly darker ink, as if she had sat at the escritoire for a long time before adding it to the rest, dipping and redipping her pen into the inkwell as she did so.

“Lily and Neville called at the dower house this morning,” the sentence read, “to bring the happy news that Lily is increasing.”

That was all. No details. No description of how Lily must have been glowing with joy and Neville bursting with pride. No description of how Aunt Clara must have wept with delight at the prospect of holding her first grandchild—or of the pang of grief Gwen must have felt at the memory of losing her own unborn child in a miscarriage following the riding accident that had left her permanently lame.

Just the bare fact that Lily was going to have a baby. Lily and Elizabeth both—newly married and increasing and as happy as the day was long. While Lauren was planning to set up her own very lone spinster establishment later in the summer and convincing herself that it was what she wanted most in life.

Lily had written to her father with the news, of course. Lauren was with Elizabeth in the morning room when he brought the letter to share with his wife.

“Oh, has it happened, then, Lyndon?” Elizabeth asked, clasping her hands to her bosom. “Lily was quite convinced she was barren.” Then she bit her lip and looked at Lauren, her eyes troubled.

Lauren smiled with all the warmth she could muster. “You must be very happy, your grace,” she said.

“Indeed I am, Lauren.” But he laughed ruefully. “Or I was until I recollected but a moment ago that now I will be plagued with anxieties for both my wife and my daughter.”

Lauren put away the embroidery she had been working on and got to her feet to leave Elizabeth and the duke alone together.

And then on the sixth day a card was delivered to Lauren at breakfast. It was an invitation from Mrs. Merklinger to dine the following evening and then proceed with their party to the private box Mr. Merklinger had reserved at Vauxhall Gardens, where there was to be dancing as well as fireworks.

She had spoken very little with the Merklingers at the theater. She had no other acquaintance with them. The only explanation for their invitation to join what must be a small, select party was that Viscount Ravensberg was to be another of their guests. Somehow he had maneuvered this.

She had told him quite firmly that she would have nothing further to do with him. For six days it had seemed that he must have accepted her dismissal. She had been relieved. Oh, whom was she trying to deceive? The past six days had been almost intolerably tedious, though they had been no different from much of her life before them. She must refuse the invitation. It just would not do to fall prey to Viscount Ravensberg’s mocking flatteries and deliberate attempts to shock her. They were so obviously insincere. She must refuse. And yet . . .

And yet Vauxhall Gardens of an evening were said to be enchanting.

And she had a curiosity to know how he meant to proceed with her now that she had made it quite clear that she was not susceptible to his flatteries.

And Aunt Sadie, Wilma, and Lord Sutton disapproved so very strongly of him. That was almost a recommendation in itself, she thought with guilty self-reproval.

And soon now Elizabeth’s confinement would be over and Lauren must move on to . . . well, to the life she had chosen as the most desirable for herself.

And Lily was increasing. Neville was a married man, soon to be a father.

“What ought I to do?” She showed the invitation to Elizabeth, who read it through and handed it back.

“You are assuming Lord Ravensberg will be of the party?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Elizabeth looked kindly at her. “What do you want to do?”

“He is an infamous rakehell,” Lauren said. “Why would he feed gossip by swimming in the Serpentine and then laugh about it when caught and scolded?”

“He is also a remarkably attractive young man,” Elizabeth said. “Attractive to you, Lauren. What are your wishes? I cannot tell you what to do. Is your disapproval of Viscount Ravensberg stronger than your attraction to him? That is the real question that needs answering.”

“I am not attracted to him,” Lauren protested.

“Then there is no harm, surely, in taking advantage of an opportunity to enjoy an evening at Vauxhall,” Elizabeth said. “Unless you are actively repelled by him, that is.”

“I am not repelled by him.”

Elizabeth set her folded napkin beside her plate and rose from the table, spreading a hand over her swollen abdomen as she did so. “Lauren,” she said, “both Lyndon and I are distressed for you that Lily’s news has followed so soon upon your arrival here that you must wonder if you will ever escape your painful memories. No.” She took Lauren’s arm and led her in the direction of the morning room. “You must not deny it. I am perfectly well aware of how deeply attached you were to Neville. But please—oh, dear me, I have sworn to myself that I will not make the mistake Sadie is making and try to order your life for you.” She sighed. “But I cannot altogether resist. Please, Lauren, do not imagine that your life is over or at least your chance for a happy, productive life. Only you can know what will make you happy, and if a quiet retirement from society is what will do it, then I will support you against all the Sadies of this world. But . . . No, I will positively say no more. Do you really want my advice concerning that invitation?”

“No,” Lauren said after a moment’s consideration. She smiled ruefully. “It was unfair of me to ask. I shall go. I have always wanted to see Vauxhall. And I am neither attracted to nor repelled by Lord Ravensberg, Elizabeth. It is quite immaterial to me that he too will be one of Mrs. Merklinger’s guests.”

Elizabeth patted her arm.

Alone in her room a few minutes later, Lauren was suddenly struck by a memory—of words to which she had not been given a chance to respond at the time.

Then perhaps you should marry someone like Bartlett-Howe or Stennson. Every time they move they are lost to view within a cloud of dust.

How incredibly rude! How cruelly unkind! How absolutely delicious!

Lauren suddenly grabbed a cushion from a chair within reach and stuffed it against her mouth as she went off into whoops of laughter. Then she had to drop the cushion in order to find a handkerchief with which to mop at her brimming eyes.

He ought not to be encouraged, she told herself severely, even by this secret laughter.


It was already dark when they approached Vauxhall Gardens by boat. There was a bridge that could take them across the Thames by carriage, Merklinger had explained at dinner, but why waste a perfectly good opportunity to do the romantic thing and cross by boat, especially as all that infernal rain seemed to have ceased at last and it looked to be a bright night with all the stars out and the moon approaching the full?

Why indeed, Kit thought as he handed Miss Edgeworth into the boat and took his seat on the bench beside her. He had sat beside her at dinner too, Mrs. Merklinger having apparently made the assumption that they were a couple—just as she was determinedly making it about Farrington and her pretty little chit of a daughter. Farrington was being roundly ribbed about it among their circle of acquaintances.

“And so,” Kit said, “they sailed away over the edge of the world to a land of wonder and enchantment. And carefree dalliance.”

“We are merely being rowed across the River Thames to Vauxhall Gardens, my lord,” she said. “A journey of ten minutes or so, I daresay.”