It was what he wanted, wasn’t it, to grate on her nerves enough to send her screaming to bedlam? Then why did it incense him so? He was even irked by Freddie, the object of her obvious affection, because Freddie didn’t care about it one way or the other—and Freddie almost never rankled him.

“I’m going upstairs for a minute, Penny,” said Freddie, rising from the desk where he’d been writing a letter since Miss Edgerton left. “I need my card case.”

“I’ll come with you,” Vere answered. “I’ve nothing better to do.”

He’d been working for hours on deciphering the code used in Douglas’s dossier, with letters marked at the corners of the cards he’d been arranging and rearranging, sifting for patterns. Or at least such had been his aim. He’d accomplished nothing on that front, his concentration flaccid the entire day.

Besides, Miss Edgerton still lurked somewhere in the house.

“Why do you want your card case? Are we calling on somebody?” he asked as they made their way up the stairs.

“No,” said Freddie. “I’m writing a letter to Leo Marsden. He’s on his way back from India.”

“Who?”

“You remember him—we were all in the same house at Eton. I have his address in my card case.”

Inside Freddie’s room, Freddie opened the drawer of his nightstand and scratched his chin. “That’s strange. My card case is not here.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“This morning.” Freddie frowned. “Perhaps I’m not remembering correctly.”

Freddie was highly charitable: Most gentlemen would suspect the servants. Vere helped Freddie search around the room to no avail.

“You should tell Miss Edgerton that it’s missing.”

“I suppose I should.”

They did not see Miss Edgerton again, however, until everyone had returned to the house for tea and chitchat on the day’s events. Miss Edgerton expressed the appropriate mix of shock and dismay that such a thing should have occurred in her house and promised to do everything in her power to locate the card case and return it to Lord Frederick.

But as she gave her concerned reassurances, new lamb–pure and kitten-sweet, Vere suddenly suspected her. What she could possibly want with Freddie’s card case he did not know. He knew only that when she didn’t smile, there was a hardness to her eyes—a grimness, almost.

And that his instincts were almost always correct.

* * *

Lady Avery’s demeanor at dinner elevated Vere’s unease from mere disquiet to active alarm. He knew Lady Avery very well: A man of his profession would be foolish not to embrace such a fount of information. And he recognized her bloodhound look: eyes squinted, nostrils almost quivering, ready to pounce upon a meaty scandal if only she could follow its scent to the source of the delectable transgression.

Something was afoot. That in itself was not strange, but this something was suddenly afoot. For at tea Lady Avery had shown no sign of the hunt, content merely to tantalize Miss Melbourne and Miss Duvall with gossip too improper for their maidenly ears.

What could possibly have put Lady Avery on such alert? The girls, notwithstanding their youth and love of fun, were not a particularly scandal-prone group. Miss Melbourne’s main interest lay in her figure; Miss Duvall’s in music. Miss Beauchamp nursed a strong tendresse for her second cousin, who was not present. And Miss Kingsley, despite her flirtation with Conrad, was keener on education than on marriage—she was due back at Girton in October.

Which left their hostess.

Vere stuck close to Freddie. Nothing happened. Dinner came and went. The evening’s entertainment was staid and appropriate. The ladies retired at a decent hour. As the clock struck half past eleven, he was beginning to believe that perhaps, for once, he’d overreacted; that what he’d considered his own instinctual sensitivity to the undercurrents of the gathering had been but a raging case of paranoia.

And then, two minutes later, a sleepy-looking footman entered the drawing room bearing a silver salver upon which lay Freddie’s card case and a sealed note.

Vere sprang to his feet and raced across the breadth of drawing room, stopping just in time to avoid knocking the footman backward, but not so soon that he didn’t knock the silver salver to the ground.

“Sorry!” he cried, and crouched down to retrieve the things meant for Freddie. Then he straightened and patted the footman on the shoulder. “My apologies, my good man. I was too excited: We’ve been looking for the card case all day. Tell you what: You go on to bed, I’ll take the case to my brother. That’s who it was for, right?”

He pointed at Freddie.

“Yes, my lord. But I’ve orders to deliver everything into Lord Frederick’s hands.”

“Not a problem.” Vere sauntered to Freddie and handed over the card case. “See, delivered into Lord Frederick’s hands.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the footman, and left.

Freddie checked the contents of the case. “I wonder where she found it.”

“Ask her tomorrow,” said Vere. “At least now you can address your letter to Marsden.”

He waited a few minutes before he left the room to read the sealed note that he’d pocketed with a sleight of hand.

Dear Lord Frederick,

Here is your card case, which one of the maids found on the service stairs.

And if I may please borrow a minute of your time, just now I have discovered, among my father’s things, a sketch of such beauty and skill, signed by a name so majestic that I dare not set it down in writing for fear of making a fool of myself.

May I trouble you for a look? My excitement refuses to let me wait. If you would please meet me in fifteen minutes in the green parlor, I would be much obliged.

Elissande Edgerton

Elissande. A beautiful name. Almost cutting, like a mouthful of sharply faceted gems. And lovely, clever Elissande wished to meet Freddie at close to midnight, well after the ladies had retired, far away from the drawing room and the billiard room, where the gentlemen still lingered.

A rendezvous alone, in a remote part of the house—with Lady Avery in an overexcited state of anticipation.

He had entirely underestimated Miss Edgerton’s interest in Freddie, it would seem.

* * *

Elissande trembled. This made her nervous. Her aunt was the trembler, not she. She had steady hands and eyes that remained unblinkingly limpid no matter how terrified she was.

Perhaps she could use the trembling to her advantage. A lady meeting a gentleman at an unorthodox hour ought to tremble a little, ought she not? It would give her suddenly unleashing passion a touch of authenticity, and that, in turn, might inspire Lord Frederick to a more heartfelt response.

She touched her shoulders. She’d unraveled the stitches that held the top of her nightdress together. Underneath her robe, it literally hung on by a thread. A tug with any force would split it in two and send the anchorless halves sliding toward the floor.

And what have you found this time, Miss Edgerton? Lord Frederick would ask.

And she would gaze upon him as if he were the Second Coming itself. Oh, forgive me, sir. I know I shouldn’t have, but ever since we met, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.

At least that last part was mostly true.

She breathed deeply, out, in, out, in. It was time. She pulled her robe tight, prayed that she wouldn’t rend her nightdress before its time, and left her bedchamber to head to the green parlor.

The light was on in the parlor. Japanese prints depicting the four seasons took up the walls. Vases and incense holders of jade echoed the lotus leaf hue of the silk wallpaper. Large, clear bottles, raised to chest level on custom-made stands, contained intricately crafted model ships—prisoners, just like her.

And she was alone in the room.

She blinked. She’d meant to arrive a few minutes after Lord Frederick. He should be here already, a little startled at her informal state of attire, perhaps, but eager and impatient to see exactly what too-good-to-believe treasure she’d uncovered.

No fire had been laid in the grate. After two minutes or so pacing madly about the room, she realized she was trembling far worse, as much from the chill in the air as from a sudden onset of panic—her plan was worth nothing without Lord Frederick.

Her hands inched near the flame of her hand-candle, hungry for its meager heat. She breathed fast and shallow. The air smelled of turpentine, from the furniture paste the maids had applied.

The mantel clock striking the hour made her jump. It was the time she’d stated in the unsigned note, with its wax seal already broken, that she’d left outside Lady Avery’s door. Midnight. The green parlor. My heart sighs for you. And she knew Lady Avery had discovered the seemingly accidentally dropped note, because throughout the evening, she had scrutinized the gathering incessantly, trying to discover which love-demented pair dared set an assignation right beneath her nose.

And now it was all for naught.

Numbly, Elissande extinguished the light in the parlor and headed out toward her uncle’s study—to avoid running into Lady Avery, who would most likely be coming from the direction of the front hall. Beyond the study were the service stairs. She would return to her room that way.

She came to a dead stop outside the study. She’d specifically informed her guests that the study was off-limits. But the study door was ajar and the light was on.

She pushed the door open the rest of the way. Lord Vere stood before the cabinets, opening them one after another, humming to himself.