‘So Dorothea never got it?’

Ferdie shook his head.

Fanshawe was totally in the dark. ‘Will someone please tell me what is going on?’ he pleaded.

Without comment Hazelmere handed him the letter. The message it contained read:

My dear Miss Darent,

I cannot imagine that the company at Lady Oswey’s picnic is quite as scintillating as that to which you have become accustomed. So, why not meet me at the white wicket gate at the end of the path through the woods? I’ll have my greys and we can go for a drive around the lanes with no one the wiser. Don’t keep me waiting; you know I hate to keep my horses standing. I’ll expect you at two.

Hazelmere.

Like Ferdie, Fanshawe had no difficulty recognising Hazelmere’s writing and signature and knew the letter in his hand was a hoax. Eyeing his friend with an unusually grim look, he asked simply, ‘Who?’

‘I wish I knew,’ replied Hazelmere. ‘It’s the second.’

‘What?’ The exclamation burst from Fanshawe and Ferdie in unison.

Laying the letter Ferdie had brought in front of him, Hazelmere opened a drawer and took out the note Dorothea had received at the Bressingtons’ masquerade. Once they were side by side, it was clear that the same hand had written both. Fanshawe and Ferdie came around the desk to study them over his shoulders.

‘When was the first one sent?’ asked Fanshawe.

‘The masquerade. That attempt would have succeeded to admiration except I returned to London a day earlier than expected. It was handed to Dorothea in the hall at Bressington House. She was surprised to find me already there. She’d believed the note. Hardly surprising, as it’s exactly the sort of thing I might be expected to do.’

‘You should have told me. We might have baited a trap!’ exclaimed Fanshawe.

‘We did spring the trap,’ Hazelmere answered with a fleeting grin. ‘Dorothea went out on to the terrace at midnight and I was in the shadows behind her. A voice, which neither of us recognised, called her towards the steps down on to the path. But then some others in the ballroom opened another door on to the terrace and whoever it was took fright. I wasn’t about to give chase and leave Dorothea alone on the terrace.’

‘And you saw nobody?’ asked Ferdie. Hazelmere shook his head, going back to studying the second letter.

‘Very likely she’d have gone to that gate if Ferdie’d remembered to give her the note,’ said Fanshawe.

‘No. She won’t be caught by that ruse again,’ said Hazelmere. ‘But what puzzles me most is who the writer of these missives could be.’

‘Got to be someone acquainted with you,’ put in Ferdie.

‘Yes,’ agreed Hazelmere. ‘That’s what is particularly worrisome. I’d thought it was one of those abduction plots at first.’

‘Shouldn’t have thought the Darent girls were sufficiently rich to attract that sort of attention,’ said Fanshawe.

‘They aren’t. I am,’ replied the Marquis.

‘Oh. Hadn’t thought of that.’

All three men continued to study the letters, hoping that some clue to their writer’s identity could be wrung from them. Fanshawe broke the silence to ask Ferdie, ‘Why do you say whoever it is must know Marc?’

‘Writing’s not his, but the style is. Just the sort of thing he would say,’ replied the knowledgeable Ferdie.

‘Can’t know you all that well. You never drive young ladies around, let alone behind your greys,’ his lordship pointed out.

‘With one notable exception,’ corrected Hazelmere. ‘To whit, Miss Darent.’

‘Oh,’ said Fanshawe, finally convinced.

‘Precisely,’ continued Hazelmere. ‘It’s someone who at least knows me well enough to write a letter in a style that could pass for mine. Someone who also knows I have driven Miss Darent behind the greys, who knows I’m very particular about keeping my horses standing and who knew I was out of town and not expected to attend the Bressington masquerade.’

‘Therefore,’ concluded Ferdie, ‘one of us. Of the ton, I mean. At least as an accomplice.’

‘That would appear the inescapable conclusion,’ agreed Hazelmere. He continued to stare at the letters.

‘What’re we going to do?’ asked Fanshawe.

‘Can’t call in Bow Street,’ said Ferdie, decisively. ‘Very heavy-footed. Create all sorts of rumpus. Lady Merion wouldn’t like it; Dorothea wouldn’t like it.’

‘I wouldn’t like it either,’ put in Hazelmere.

‘Quite so,’ agreed Ferdie, glad to have this point settled.

‘As far as I can see, the only thing we can do is keep a very careful watch over Dorothea,’ said Hazelmere. ‘She won’t be taken in with any messages, but, as we don’t know who’s behind this, we’ll have to ensure no one who could possibly be involved is given any chance to approach her alone.’

‘Just us three?’ Fanshawe enquired.

Hazelmere considered the question, the hazel gaze abstracted. ‘For the moment,’ he eventually replied. ‘We can call in reinforcements if necessary.’

‘What are they doing now?’ asked Fanshawe.

‘Resting,’ replied Ferdie. Seeing their surprise, he explained. ‘Went to the theatre last night with your parents, dear boy. Result-Cecily’s exhausted.’

‘Ah,’ said Hazelmere with an understanding grin. Fanshawe frowned.

‘Going riding with them this afternoon,’ continued Ferdie, ‘then the Diplomatic Ball at Carlton House this evening. That’s easy-we’ll all be there.’

‘Well, Ferdie, m’lad,’ said Fanshawe as he rose to leave, ‘you’ll just have to keep us informed of where Miss Darent means to be and then make sure at least one of us is there. Shouldn’t be too hard. They can’t be gallivanting all over town still, can they?’

Ferdie reflected that their lordships, normally engrossed in their own pursuits, had very little idea of just how crowded a young lady’s calendar could be. He sincerely hoped they would not have to keep up their surveillance for long.

Moments later, as he descended the steps in their company, arriving on the pavement ahead of them, he gave voice to an idea that had been rolling around in his head for some time. ‘Actually, as far as I can see, the easiest way to solve all these problems is for you two to hurry up and marry the chits! Then Marc could spend his entire day with Dorothea, if necessary, and Cecily wouldn’t be moping around, and I could go back to living a quiet life again.’

Seeing that their receipt of this advice was not favourable, he hurriedly waved at them. ‘No? I’m off! See you tonight at the ball.’

The Diplomatic Ball at Carlton House was so named because all the diplomatic corps and delegations stationed in London attended. Sponsored by the Prince Regent, attendance by all those invited was virtually obligatory. These included all the year’s débutantes, the majority of the peers present in London and the élite of society. It amused the Prince to think that for one night in the Season they all danced attendance on him. While the cream of the ton considered this function supremely boring, the necessity of being present when the Prince arrived ensured that all summoned came early.

Knowing his Prince, Hazelmere realised that, while it was hardly likely that Dorothea would be kidnapped from the ball, both she and Cecily could face a threat from a different source. After discussing the possibilities, he and Fanshawe called at Merion House when they knew the sisters were riding with Ferdie. They found Lady Merion at home and, having outlined the perceived problem, it was agreed that both of them would accompany the Merion party to Carlton House, using the large Hazelmere town carriage.

Ferdie was taken aback at finding them in attendance when he called at Merion House that evening. A quick word from Hazelmere brought comprehension to his eyes. ‘Good heavens! Never thought of that!’

‘Never thought of what, Ferdie?’ asked Dorothea. She had witnessed the exchange and, her curiosity aroused, had come to see if she could surprise from him some explanation for the appearance of their lordships.

Ferdie could never think quickly in such situations. He could find no glib words to answer her. Dorothea knew that if she waited long enough he was bound to say something helpful. She had reckoned without Hazelmere, who calmly stepped in with a blatant lie. ‘Ferdie, I believe Lady Merion has been trying to catch your eye these minutes past.’

‘What? Oh, yes! Got to see your grandmama.’ With this explanatory aside to Dorothea, he crossed the room to her ladyship’s side with the alacrity of a rabbit escaping a snare.

Dorothea looked at Hazelmere in disgust. ‘Spoil-sport,’ she said.

‘It’s hardly fair to try to trip Ferdie up. He’s definitely not in your class. You can attempt to get the story out of me if you like.’

‘As you obviously have no intention of telling me, it would be wasted effort, I fear,’ she replied, adding, ‘In such matters, I am, after all, definitely not in your class.’

‘True,’ returned Hazelmere, taking the wind out of her sails. The emerald glance he received in reply spoke volumes.

With Ferdie come, there was nothing more to delay their departure and soon they were settled in the carriage and on their way. The Hazelmere town coach was a luxurious affair and easily sat the six of them, despite the voluminous ball-gowns peculiar to this affair. To some extent, the Diplomatic Ball had temporarily replaced the more formal presentations of previous years. Due to the problems besetting the royal family, these had been suspended. But the tradition of all-white, waisted, full-skirted ballgowns for the débutantes, worn with white ostrich plumes in their hair, had transferred to the Prince Regent’s Diplomatic Ball.

The all-white ensemble made Cecily look ethereal. Dorothea, with her dark hair and green eyes contrasting with the white, looked divine. As usual, Celestine had taken full advantage of Dorothea’s age and figure and the bodice was cut low, while the waistline had been subtly altered to emphasise her tiny waist and the swell of her hips. On entering the Merion House drawing-room, Hazelmere, setting eyes on her, knew he was justified in anticipating trouble at Carlton House.