However, the meeting did not last long, and Wesley returned his sister to the house on Portman Street, where Miss Haytor was eager to talk to her about the visit to some museum she had made with an old friend of hers – Mr. Golding, actually, who had been the only private tutor Wesley had ever had, though he had not stayed long and Wesley scarcely remembered him.

He went home to relax for a while before dining and getting ready for the evening's ball. But his man informed him that yet again there was someone downstairs in the visitors' parlor, wanting a word with him.

Wesley did not recognize the visitor, though the man got to his feet when he entered the room and came toward him, one hand extended. He was a strong, athletic-looking man with light brown hair and a deeply bronzed face.

"Young?" he said. "William Belmont."

Ah, yes, of course. He was the present Paget's brother, one of Cassie's stepsons. Wesley had met him at Cassie's wedding and again during one of his visits to Carmel a number of years ago. He had gone to America after that, had he not?

"I am pleased to see you again," Wesley said, shaking his hand.

"My ship from Canada docked a couple of weeks ago," Belmont told him,

"and I went immediately to Carmel to find everything much changed. Where is your sister, Young? She is here in London somewhere, is she not?"

Wesley was instantly wary.

"It would be best to leave her alone," he said. "She did /not/ kill your father. No conclusive evidence could ever be found against her and she was never charged with anything because there was nothing to charge her /with/. She is trying to make a new life, and I am here to see to it that she has a chance to do just that and that no one bothers her."

It ought to have been true too, from the moment of her arrival in town.

It was true now, however. Anyone who wanted to get to Cassie was going to have to go through /him/. And even though he was not particularly happy at the breadth of Belmont's shoulders, he was not going to be deterred.

But Belmont merely made a dismissive gesture with one hand.

"Of course she did not kill my father," he said. "I was /there/, for the love of God. I have not come to stir up any trouble for her, Young. I have come to find Mary. Is she still with Cassandra?"

"Mary?" Wesley looked blankly at him.

"She left Carmel with Cassandra," Belmont said. "I assume she is still with her. And Belinda. I /hope/ they are."

Wesley still looked blank. Miss Haytor's name was Alice, not Mary.

"Mary," Belmont said impatiently. "My /wife/."

Cassandra felt very different dressing for this evening's ball than she had felt last week dressing for Lady Sheringford's. She had received an invitation to this one, and she had an escort – in addition to an engagement to dance the opening set and one other.

She looked forward to dancing with Stephen tonight with far more eagerness than she ought to be feeling.

She checked her hair in the mirror to make sure it was firmly enough pinned up that it would not fall down as soon as she started to dance. /That/ would be something of a disaster! She had become far too dependent during the past ten years upon the services of a lady's maid.

She drew on her long gloves and smoothed them out until they were no longer even slightly twisted.

The lawyer had thought she had an excellent case. He thought he could get her all that was owed her in a fortnight, though Cassandra would be perfectly happy with a month. She would be able to pay Stephen back and forget that she had ever done anything as sordid as offer herself to him as a mistress.

Though she did not regret the two nights she had spent with him. Or the picnic.

The picnic, she knew, would always be one of her most treasured memories.

He was going to be hard to forget.

But he had restored some of her faith in men. Not all were unreliable and untrustworthy and downright nasty.

She would remember him as her golden angel. She took up her ivory fan and opened it to make sure it was in perfect working condition.

During his outing with Alice this afternoon, Mr. Golding had invited her to join him in Kent for a couple of days at the end of the week to celebrate his father's seventieth birthday with the rest of his family.

It was surely a significant invitation.

Alice had not said yes – or no. She had waited to see if Cassandra could spare her. But she had been almost vibrating with suppressed excitement and anxiety. Ten minutes after Cassandra had arrived home, five after Wesley had left, she had been seated at the escritoire in the sitting room, writing Mr. Golding a letter of acceptance.

She was in her own room upstairs now, trying to decide what clothes she would take with her.

Cassandra slipped her feet into her dancing slippers and went downstairs to wait for Wesley. Her timing was perfect. He rapped on the door as she was descending the stairs, and she was able to wave Mary back to the kitchen and open the door herself.

"Oh, Cassie," he said, looking her over admiringly. "You will cast every other lady into the shade."

"Thank you, sir." She laughed and twirled before him, suddenly lighthearted. "You look very handsome yourself. I am ready to leave. We do not need to keep the carriage waiting."

But he stepped inside anyway and closed the door behind him.

"I am still outraged about your jewels," he said. "A lady ought not to be seen at a ball without any. I have brought you this to wear."

She recognized the slightly scuffed brown leather box as soon as she saw it. One of her favorite activities when she was a girl had been to lift it out of her father's trunk and open it carefully to gaze inside and sometimes to touch the contents with a light fingertip. Once or twice she had even clasped it about her neck and admired herself in a glass, feeling horribly wicked all the time.

She took the box from Wesley's hand and opened it. And there was the silver chain as she remembered it, though it had been polished now to a bright sheen, with the pendant heart made of small diamonds. Their father had given it to their mother as a wedding gift, and it was the one possession of any value that had not been sold during any of the lean times, or even pawned.

It was not an ostentatious piece and was probably not of any great value. Indeed, the diamonds might even be paste for all Cassandra knew.

Perhaps that was why it had never been sold or pawned. But its sentimental value was immense.

Wesley took it out of the box and clasped it about her neck.

"Oh, Wes," she said, fingering it, "how wonderful you are. I will wear it just for tonight. And then you must put it away and keep it for your bride."

"She would not appreciate it," he said. "No one would except us, Cassie.

I would rather you kept it as a sort of gift from me. Though as far as that goes, I daresay it belongs to you as much as it does to me. Devil take it, you are not /weeping/, are you?"

"I think I am," she said, dabbing at her eyes with two fingers and laughing at the same time. And she threw her arms about his neck and hugged him tightly.

He patted her back awkwardly.

"Is your maid /Mary/?" he asked.

"Yes." She stood back from him, still fingering the necklace as she looked down at it. "Why?"

"No reason," he said.

A minute or so later he was handing her into the carriage he had hired for the evening, and they were making their ponderous way through the streets to the Compton-Haig mansion.

How different her arrival was this time. This time she was handed down to the red carpet by a liveried footman and made her way inside the house on her brother's arm. This time she felt free to look around and appreciate the marble hallway and the bright chandelier overhead and the liveried servants and the guests all decked out in their evening finery.

This time a few people caught her eye and nodded to her. One or two even smiled. She could happily ignore those who did neither.

Wesley led her along the receiving line, and this time she could meet the eye of everyone in it because she had been invited and because her name could no longer inspire the shock it had created last week.

And this time, as soon as they had stepped inside the ballroom and she was looking about her, admiring the banks of purple and white flowers and green ferns, Sir Graham and Lady Carling came to speak with her and to be introduced to Wesley, with whom they did not have an acquaintance.

And then Lord and Lady Sheringford came to bid them a good evening, and Mr. Huxtable came to ask Cassandra for the second set. A couple of Wesley's friends came to speak with him, and one of them – a Mr.

Bonnard – reserved a set later in the evening with her.

"Damn me, Wes," he said, lifting a quizzing glass halfway to his eye, his head held firmly in place by the height and stiffness of his starched shirt points, "I did not know Lady Paget was your sister. She certainly got all the looks in the family. There were precious few left for you, were there?"

He and the other friend, whose name Cassandra had already forgotten, brayed with identical merriment at the witty joke.

And then Stephen was there, bowing and smiling and asking, a twinkle in his eyes, if Lady Paget had been kind enough to remember to reserve a set for him.

She fanned her cheeks.

"The first and second sets are spoken for," she said, "and the set after supper."

"I sincerely hope," he said, "none of those dances are the waltz. I shall be severely out of sorts if they are. May I dance the first waltz with you, ma'am, and the supper dance too if they are not one and the same? And one other set if they are?"