Ha! There Arabella was. Turnip’s breath escaped his lungs in an explosive gasp. For a moment, the relief was so intense that he felt lightheaded with it. There was no one next to her or behind her, no one holding a knife to her ribs or a pistol to her head. She was walking entirely alone and unescorted towards the doors of the gallery.

Alone and unescorted. Turnip’s bubble of well-being popped. What was she doing leaving the safety of the gallery?

Where in the bloody hell was Pinchingdale? Probably gone up to check on Letty, who would be having another bout of evening sickness. Which meant that there would be no one else watching for Arabella.

Except, of course, her assailant.

Turnip bolted for the doors to the gallery, skirting around a group of country squires discussing agricultural improvements, knocking over three old-fashioned periwigs and one wooden leg, dodging two lapdogs, and momentarily getting tangled with one ceremonial sword. Fortunately, it was sheathed.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said generally, and kept going, leaping over the dowager’s small yippy dog to arrive breathless but triumphant at the doors of the gallery only moments after Arabella.

An impassive footman, stiff as a toy soldier in his green and gold livery, opened the door before Turnip could go barreling through.

Turnip skidded to a halt just beyond the door. A series of rooms stretched out enfilade, each opening onto the other. The ducal architects had believed in decorating on a grand scale. Among the more conventional pieces of furniture, huge pieces of classical statuary leered down from pedestals; trompe l’oeil panels on the walls created the illusion of alcoves holding vast flowering urns, mirroring the actual urns set across from them.

In short, it was a villain’s playhouse. Turnip could feel the hairs on his neck begin to prickle. Even with the candles dripping wax from the great candelabra stationed along the route, there were far too many places for a man to hide, lying in wait. It was making him deuced twitchy just thinking about it.

The rooms ran along the garden front, each boasting a set of doors, some cleverly concealed, others grandly displayed, opening into the same shrubbery into which Arabella had been dragged, blind, just hours before. It would be far too easy for a chap to slip out from behind a statue, clap a hand over her mouth before she had a chance to scream, and back her out through those cleverly concealed doors into the garden. The gallery, with its many balconies, looked out onto the West Front. The chatter from the ballroom, the pounding of dancing feet, the exuberant playing of the musicians, all would mask any sounds from the acres of garden at the back of the house.

Back to the wall, Turnip slunk along behind, keeping one eye on Arabella’s back, the other on the lookout for potential villains. Deuced good thing he had two of them.

He would cling to her like a shadow, follow her like a bad dream, stalk her footsteps like a — well, something else shadowy and intangible. She would never know he was there.

“Turnip?”

Turnip ducked behind a statue of Neptune. Fortunately, Neptune had been a full-figured sort of chap. Tall, too. Especially since he was on a pedestal.

Arabella stopped and turned. “Turnip, I know you’re there.”

Turnip stepped out from behind Neptune. “Don’t mind me,” he said airily. “Never know I’m here. Just a shadow on the wall.” He thumped the wall for emphasis.

“For a shadow,” said Arabella, “you are surprisingly corporeal.”

“Shouldn’t do you much good if I weren’t,” he said, flexing one arm. If anyone attacked her, he would show them just how corporeal he could be. “What are you doing out of the ballroom? You weren’t supposed to leave the gallery.”

“My aunt wanted her vinaigrette. She forgot it in here.” Placing her hands on her hips, Arabella surveyed the room, a small drawing room decorated in yellow and rose.

“Ah. There it is.” Arabella dove for the ground, getting down on hands and knees to peer beneath a small settee upholstered in pale gold stripes. Candlelight shimmered distractingly off the peach silk lovingly covering the curves of her backside as she wiggled head and shoulders under the settee.

Turnip swallowed hard as the movement caused the rest of her to wiggle too. He inserted a finger beneath his collar.

“It rolled some way,” came Arabella’s voice, slightly muffled, from beneath the settee. “Ha! Got it.”

She backed out from beneath the settee, a small object clutched triumphantly in one gloved hand.

Blinking, Turnip recalled himself to his duty. He was supposed to be protecting Arabella from spies. Not — well.

He looked sternly at her. “I don’t care if your aunt forgot her own name. You’re not to leave that ballroom. Can’t keep an eye on you if you go on wandering about.”

Whatever else she wanted — the moon on a platter, the head of John the Baptist, tea and figgy pudding — it would be hers for the asking, but this, this was too important for negotiation. Couldn’t bring her heads on platters if she wasn’t alive to receive them, could he?

Her eyes fixed thoughtfully on his face, Arabella swiped a dust clump from the shoulder of her gown. “All right,” she said.

“It ain’t negotiable,” Turnip said belligerently. “Don’t matter if she forgot her left rib, I — all right?”

“All right,” Arabella confirmed. “Until we know who it is, I would have to be an idiot to take risks just for the sake of taking them. There’s no point in courting danger unless it gets us something.”

Turnip didn’t like the idea of her courting danger even then. He had nearly come to blows with Pinchingdale over it, an argument only derailed by Letty’s turning a pale shade of green and bolting for the bedroom again. It was, Pinchingdale had argued, the best and easiest way. How else could they get the villain to expose himself, but by giving him the opportunity — a false opportunity, he had specified carefully — to corner Arabella? Turnip’s answer to that, but for the presence of the ladies, would have been profane. As it was, it had simply been incoherent.

Turnip’s plan, that they put messages in puddings and plant them in various key places around Girdings House, had been universally voted down.

In the end, they had compromised. Arabella wasn’t to be exposed to unnecessary danger, but neither was she to be locked up in her room with a guard at her door (Turnip’s preferred plan). Instead, they were all to go about their normal activities, with someone keeping watch at all times, ready to catch the villain if he pounced.

Or, as Pinchingdale put it, when he pounced.

“If your aunt needs anything, I can get it,” declared Turnip grandly, before remembering that that, too, would rather defeat the purpose. Couldn’t keep an eye on her if he wasn’t there. “Stay where I can see you! And no more vinaigrettes.”

Arabella lifted the vinaigrette to him in salute and turned her back. She wore a thin silk shawl looped over her elbows, and he watched the gentle sway of it as she walked briskly back down the long line of rooms.

Turnip waited five minutes before following her. It felt like a great deal longer. When he returned to the gallery, it was to find the long room even more crowded than before. A set was just about to finish in the area that had been cleared for dancing, boasting a line of twenty couples. He could smell the reek of strong perfume, sweat, and the ale the dowager had provided for her country guests warring with the more familiar sickly sweet scent of champagne.

As he threaded his way through the room, looking for a good vantage point from which to keep watch on Arabella, he passed a mutinous-looking Catherine Carruthers, standing with her parents on the edge of the dance floor, wearing a dress as flounced and frilled as current fashion would allow. Her light brown hair had been twisted into curls that bounced on either side of her small-featured, oval face.

She would have been pretty enough but for the sulky expression that drew down the corners of her mouth, turning her otherwise pleasantly featured face into something one wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley.

Although her betrothal to Lord Grimmlesby-Thorpe had already been officially announced in the papers, her parents were obviously taking no further chances with her. One stood to either side, flanking her like gaolers guarding a prisoner.

As Turnip passed by, he could hear her high-pitched, slightly nasal voice saying, “At least I didn’t elope with the music master.”

What was that about the music master? Turnip came to an abrupt halt. “Beg pardon?”

Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers gave him strange looks, but Catherine took his rude intrusion into their conversation with the peculiar sangfroid known only to sixteen-year-old girls.

She gestured to Turnip in a world-weary way, showing off the very shiny gold bracelet fastened over her glove. “This is Sally Fitzhugh’s brother, Mama. You remember Sally Fitzhugh? The one I visited at Parva Magna last winter.”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Carruthers totted up the cost of Turnip’s clothes and decided to forgive him for his breach of etiquette. “How nice to meet you at last, Mr. Fitzhugh. Your sister is a charming girl.”

“She puts on a good show when she has to,” agreed Turnip. Mrs. Carruthers looked mildly startled, but he barreled on. “What’s that about the music master?”

“Oh,” said Catherine, looking superior, “didn’t you hear? He ran off with Clarissa Hardcastle just before Christmas. Apparently they had been meeting by night in the music room. Disgusting.”