Her heart thudded impossibly hard in her chest, and with no other choice, no possible explanation to give for her outlandish appearance, Mary gave a shove to the ebony-haired man and, with her path of escape clear, raced past him and into the night.

“Damn me.” The viscount’s gaze trailed after the ghostly female figure until she disappeared in the darkness. “Who was that?”

His brother lifted an amused eyebrow as he rubbed his sore, powdery cheek. “On my honor, I swear I have not the faintest notion. But rest assured, I intend to find out.”

The direction Mary dashed, unfortunately, was the exact opposite way from that in which she needed to go, which was only next door. Instead, she was forced through the back gardens, stables, and over the ivy-draped walls of no less than six town houses before she could slip down a narrow alleyway leading back to Berkeley Square and her great-aunt’s town house, where she and her sisters were lodging for the season.

As Mary pressed the front door closed behind her, she emptied her lungs of breath in a grand sigh of relief. She was home at last and, thankfully, fairly certain the viscount had not glimpsed her face.

Even if he had for the briefest of moments, with her body and sable hair coated with a thick layer of flour paste and powder, he could not have recognized her as the woman he tipped his hat to in Hyde Park each Tuesday while riding during the fashionable hour.

At least she hoped not.

The glow of a flickering fire illuminated the open doorway to the parlor, and she started for it, knowing she would find at least one of her sisters inside.

“There you are.” Elizabeth sat hearthside on a stool, combing the dampness from her newly washed, bright copper locks.

Mary’s gaze searched the shadowy room. “Aunt Prudence is still asleep, is she not?” she whispered.

“You know the answer to that. What else would our ancient aunt be doing at such a late hour…or in the morn…or in the afternoon?” Elizabeth flipped her long wet hair over her shoulder, sending droplets sizzling into the fire. “Anne and I were ever so worried that you’d been nabbed.”

“Evidently not that worried. You abandoned me.”

Elizabeth lowered her gaze to the floor. “Yes…well, we are dreadfully sorry about that.” She raised her eyes then, and smiled. “But all is well. You have come home. No harm was done.”

Mary crossed her arms over her chest and did not reply.

“Y-you were not…apprehended?”

“No, but nearly. The large one almost had me.” Mary remembered the stunned look on the oaf’s face as she slapped him, and she chuckled to herself. He deserved it, though. Had she not stopped him, he would have…

“Oh, Mary, thank heavens you are safe!” Anne, wearing a dressing gown and appearing fresh from her bath, rushed into the parlor and made to hug her marbleized sister. But at the last moment, noting the powder all over Mary, she changed her mind. “Why are you so late returning? What happened?”

“Nothing at all. I simply ran in the wrong direction and had a devil of a time making my way home.” It was then that Mary noticed that Anne’s face, throat and hands-indeed, every exposed bit of skin-were as red as a heated brand. “The question should be, what happened to you?”

Anne snatched the comb from Elizabeth and passed it through her damp golden hair. “The powder.” She flicked her eyebrow upward in annoyance. “I told you that it itched. Why I let you persuade me to disguise myself as a statue, I will never know.”

“I only wanted you both to see the man I have decided to marry by the end of the season-and he was right next door this eve.” Mary smiled broadly. “You agree with me, don’t you? He is perfect in every way that matters.” Mary bent to sit upon the settee, but Elizabeth waved her off before her powdered gown could mar the silk cushion. “I haven’t much time, so naturally I shall need my sisters’ help to bring about the match.”

Anne shook her head. “I dare not even ask what your idea of help might entail.” She thrust the comb back in Elizabeth’s hand, then crossed the room and opened their late father’s leather document box. From it, she withdrew several large folds of foolscap. “Besides, once we prove the information held in these letters-”

Mary raised a palm. “Stop. We do not even know where to begin. Proving anything will be impossible, given the time and financial restraints we have.”

Elizabeth joined Anne before the document box. “There is plenty of information here and a number of sound clues to follow. Papa saved these letters for us for this very reason-to prove who we are.”

Huffing her frustration, Mary stalked across the parlor and slammed the lid of the box closed. “Papa wasn’t saving these documents for us, he was hiding them from us. From everyone. Had he had any notion that his death was so imminent, I feel certain he would have destroyed this box and its contents.”

“I completely disagree. He could have burned every scrap if that was his intent, but he didn’t, did he? This was his assurance that someday the babes he rescued would meet their destiny.” Anne lifted the hem of her dressing gown and, appearing more than a little annoyed, dusted Mary’s white powder prints from the leather box with her swollen, red fingers.

Mary pinned her sister with a hard gaze. “For the sake of argument, let us say that we are the girls mentioned in these letters…and let us further assume that every letter inside that box is true-do you think those who worked so hard to erase our existence would simply allow us to suddenly appear in London society with diamond tiaras on our heads?”

“Do not be daft, Mary.” Elizabeth shook her head at the ridiculousness of her sister’s words. “We would not wear tiaras. What a silly thought. One must be married to wear a tiara. Isn’t that so, Anne?”

Mary growled her frustration. “You missed my point entirely. This endeavor of yours could be very dangerous if the letters are genuine. Very dangerous. If not, uncovering the truth of our births will be naught but a colossal waste of time and coin.”

Anne raised her delicate chin, and, with an all-knowing smirk curving her lips, she addressed Elizabeth. “Now here it is, Lizzie. The truth of Mary’s resistance.”

Elizabeth peered blankly back at her sister.

“Do you not see it?” Anne expelled a deep breath. “Our penny-pinching, ever-frugal Mary doesn’t wish to spend a single farthing on investigating the circumstances of our birth.”

Elizabeth lowered her gaze to her laced fingers, which were twisted as surely as the twigs of a nest. “’Tis a Herculean task to be sure, Mary.” She turned her wide green eyes upward again. “But we owe it to Papa…and to ourselves to try.”

“Very well, so be it.” Mary tossed her hands into the air, then let them fall firmly to her sides, coaxing twin clouds of powder from her gown. “The two of you can do as you wish, but I plan to use my resources logically.”

Anne scoffed. “We are rich, Mary.”

“No we are not rich, not even close to it. It only seems that way to you because we lived so simply in Cornwall.” Mary shook her head. “I do not know how Papa managed it, likely by doing without and saving his pennies for years, but he bequeathed us each with great gifts-adequate portions to live on-and dowries large enough to allow us to attract gentlemen of standing and consequence. If we are careful with our spending, and practical in the matches we make, we have the means to assure comfortable lives for ourselves, instead of scraping together every halfpenny to buy flour for bread. But only if we are not wasteful and set aside this fanciful notion of our supposed lineage.”

Mary started for the doorway but, realizing that her sisters had not replied and were likely ignoring her pragmatic advice, turned back. “We must be realistic. We are just three sisters from Cornwall who happen to have been left large dowries. That is all.”

“No, Mary.” Elizabeth lifted the box and held it with reverence before her. “We are the hidden daughters of the Prince Regent and his Catholic wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

“We’ll never prove it.” Mary gestured to the old leather box. “Don’t you understand? This notion is but a faery tale, and we’d be mad to believe otherwise.”

“Deny it all you like, Mary,” Anne countered, “but you know as well as I that it’s true-by blood at least we are…princesses.”

The next afternoon, as Mary sat curled in the window seat, immersed in the pages of a thick book, there came a solid rap at the front door. Her gaze shot to Aunt Prudence, who had fallen asleep in the wing-backed chair beside the hearth with an empty cordial goblet in her withered hand. Prudence snorted once but did not awaken.

Instead of rising to answer, Mary pinched the curtain between her thumb and index finger, parting the two panels no more than a nose’s width, then peeked through.

Aunt Prudence’s advanced age had curtailed social calls many years before. Mary and her sisters had not yet made any formal acquaintances in London, so she knew that a friend coming to call was not a reasonable possibility.

Her only thought that moment was one of dread.

What if she had not escaped the garden last evening as cleanly as she believed? And now someone had come to discuss the serious matter of her trespassing.

Oh God. She didn’t have the faintest idea what to do.

Mary centered her eye on the gap in the curtains, but the angle was too sharp, and no matter how she positioned herself, she simply could not see who stood before the door.

There was a second knock.

Mary jerked her head back from the window. Good heavens. What if he was the caller? Her viscount…or worse, the giant ogre of a man he called his brother?