"Quite all right," said the marquise smoothly. She extended a gloved hand at such an angle that Miles couldn't do anything but kiss it. "Until tomorrow, Mr. Dorrington. Good evening, Lady Henrietta. It has been a singular pleasure."

"Words cannot convey the extremity of my rapture," replied Henrietta politely. She waggled her fingers at themarquise's departing back.

"What was that all about?" Miles demanded, turning to face Henrietta.

Henrietta drew herself up on her tiptoes, stuck her bosom out, and draped one hand languidly over Miles's arm. "Oh, la, Mr. Dorrington, how utterly enthralling you are! I declare I shall swoon from the ecstasy of your presence."

"Is it so bizarre that someone should appreciate me?" Miles inquired.

Henrietta snorted. "If she appreciated you any more, you'd both be banned from the ballroom."

"Aren't you supposed to be dancing with someone?"

"He forgot."

"Ah," said Miles. "So that's what put you in such a foul mood."

"I'm not in a foul mood."

Miles cast her a highly sardonic look. "Shall we simply say that you are not your usual vision of charm and good cheer?"

Henrietta glowered.

Miles backed away with exaggerated alarm. "Or I can just not say anything at all and leave quietly."

Hen flapped her hands at him. "Oh, just go away. I'm going to go find a nice little hole to crawl into."

Miles wondered if he ought to stay, making offerings of lemonade and quadrilles, but the hands of the clock were steadily inching past midnight. Besides, Hen in a bad mood was a rare and frightening occurrence. So Miles simply grinned a comradely grin, kept an eye on her until he saw her fall in with Charlotte, who, from the disgruntled look on Hen's face, immediately inquired into her foul mood — Miles could faintly hear an irate "Why does everyone keep asking me that!" floating from the other side of the ballroom — and went off in search of Geoff, to implement part one of his cunning plan.

Geoff's dark head was easy to spot among the crowd; he stood out several inches over the dumpy dowagers and diminutive debutantes (the male population of the room had already begun a steady but inexorable progression to the card room and the refreshment table). But Geoff, Miles noted with a grimace, was otherwise occupied. He had persuaded that peerless jewel in Albion's crown, otherwise known as Mary Alsworthy, the biggest flirt this side of the English Channel, to partner him for a quadrille, and was gazing down at her dark curls with the devout reverence of a Crusader first sighting the Holy Land.

Miles stood on the side of the dance floor, and made subtle gestures at Geoff. Geoff's eyes remained fixed adoringly on the crown of Mary Alsworthy's head. Miles abandoned subtle. He waved his arms about and jerked his head in the direction of the door. Geoff caught his eye and grimaced. Miles couldn't tell if that was an "I'll be with you in a minute" grimace, or a "Stop waving your arms about because you're embarrassing the hell out of me" grimace. Either way, there wasn't much more Miles could do, short of bodily dragging Geoff off the dance floor, so he retreated to the side of the room with less than good grace, and leaned against the wall with arms crossed.

"You waved?" commented Geoff ironically, striding over to join him as the set on the dance floor dissolved and a new round of couples took their place for a lively country dance.

Miles decided to ignore the irony. Springing from his languid pose against the wall, he announced grandiloquently, "The time has come!"

"To embarrass me in front of Mary Alsworthy?"

"Oh, for the love of God!" The lady in question was already surrounded by five other swains. Miles forbore to point that out, not wanting to precipitate Geoff's departure. "There's a war on, remember? Can we concentrate on that for a moment?"

"Oh. Right." Geoff had already sighted Mary's entourage for himself and was looking that way with a worried line between his brows.

Witchcraft, Miles concluded. There had to be black arts involved somehow. This, after all, was Geoff, who had spent the past seven years capably taking care of the administrative end of the League of the Purple Gentian while Richard undertook the more daring bits. Nothing short of diabolical intervention could explain it.

England was long overdue for a good witch burning.

"You know," Miles said cunningly, "maybe if you avoid her for a few hours, it will pique her interest in you. Hen tells me women respond to that sort of thing."

Geoff shook his head. "Doesn't make any sense."

"Which is just why it might work," Miles said sagely.

"Hmm, there is that."

Miles decided he had pressed that ploy as far as he could without raising Geoff's suspicions. Of course, given his current state, he could probably tell Geoff that King George had just turned into a giant rutabaga, and Geoff would nod and agree.

"The person in question is over there, by the large statue of Zeus throwing thunderbolts," said Miles in a conversational tone, so that no one walking by would suspect anything clandestine. "I need about an hour. If you see him take his leave before then, think of some way to detain him. I'm counting on you, Geoff."

"An hour?"

"More would be better, but an hour will do."

Geoff nodded. "Good luck."

Miles grinned, executed a fancy little fencing move against the air, just for the hell of it, and turned to go. At the last moment, another thought struck Miles. He poked Geoff in the shoulder. "One last thing."

"What might that be?" asked Geoff warily.

It was a sad day when one's friends turned all suspicious. "Just keep an eye on him and Hen, will you? I didn't like the way he was hovering over her last night."

"Simple enough," agreed Geoff with relief. "I can always spirit her off onto the dance floor. Maybe if I could make Mary jealous…"

"Knew I could count on you, old chap!" Miles whacked Geoff on the shoulder before he could complete the thought, and strode cheerfully out of the ballroom with the comfortable sense of one who has done his duty.

Loping down the front steps, Miles drew in a deep, restorative breath of night air — and nearly gagged. Miles's face twisted in disgust. The smell was unmistakable, as were the noises that accompanied it. Someone, coattails sticking up in the air and head in the shrubbery, was casting up his accounts right into the Middlethorpes' carefully trimmed shrubbery.

As Miles passed, the retcher stood up, stumbled, landed with one hand under the bushes — Miles winced — and levered himself up again, so that the lantern light fell full on his pasty face. Miles stopped dead in his tracks. Here was someone he'd been meaning to speak to. It wasn't the best of timing, but Miles would rather get this particular interview over with as quickly as possible. The stench only provided extra incentive.

Taking hold of a mercifully clean part of the man's cravat, Miles helped haul him upright.

"Frobisher," he drawled. "I've been wanting to speak to you."

"Honored, Dorrington." Frobisher swayed on his feet as he attempted a bow. He grimaced at the ground as though he suspected it of trying to attack him. "Pleasure, dontcha know."

Miles couldn't echo the sentiment. Miles sidestepped to get out of the way of the blast of brandy fumes that emerged, like flames from a dragon, when Frobisher spoke. The man's cravat hung askew, his jacket gaped open, revealing streaks of Miles didn't want to know what on his waistcoat, and his bloodshot eyes narrowed with the sheer difficulty of trying to focus on Miles.

This inebriated cretin had had the gall to touch Henrietta. Miles's nostrils flared with distaste — a mistake, since it allowed in more of Frobisher's disgusting reek. When not in his cups, Frobisher was a perfectly presentable specimen, but any man of his age who would let himself get in such a state didn't deserve to be in the same room as Hen, much less drag her out onto darkened balconies. The man needed to be taught a little lesson in manners, starting with keeping his scurvy hands off Miles's best friend's sister.

Calm, Miles reminded himself. Just a little man-to-man chat. It didn't do to pound one's acquaintances silly — it made social life dashed awkward. He just needed to make sure the man knew that if he so much as looked at Henrietta again, he'd better bloody well start thinking about emigrating to the remoter bits of the Americas.

Miles crossed his arms over his chest. "I hear you had a little difference of opinion with Henrietta Selwick."

"Dam' disagreeable chit," slurred Frobisher. "Goin' about, cutting up stiff just because — " He catapulted back into the bushes.

Miles grasped the back of his waistcoat and hoisted him out again. If he held him dangling in the air just a moment longer than necessary, Frobisher was foxed enough not to notice. Nor did he suspect that Miles was considering replacing his hand with a boot and testing just how far one drunken degenerate could be kicked.

Regretfully, Miles dropped Frobisher. He had a message to deliver first. Kicking would have to wait.

"Thanks, Dorrington." Frobisher brushed ineffectually at his waistcoat. Some substances do not respond kindly to brushing. Frobisher scowled at the ruin of his gloves. "Dashed decent of you."

"About Lady Henrietta," Miles began menacingly, eager to say his piece and be done with it.

"Don't know what she was so upset about." Frobisher shook his head at the vagaries of women. "Jus' a little cuddle. Girl's in her third Season, you'd think she'd be thanking me."