Confused but game, Arabella fumbled at the side of her skirt, looking for a pocket that wasn’t there.

Rolling her eyes, she laughed nervously. “You see how unfashionable I’ve become. We had pockets in our dresses at Miss — ”

She broke off, her face frozen. Her mouth was slightly open and her eyes were fixed in a glazed sort of way on something just past Turnip’s right shoulder. Turnip glanced back, but he didn’t see anything other than the stone wall of the house. Not so much as a caterpillar.

“Arabella?” Turnip waved a hand in front of her face. “Hallo? All right there?”

Arabella grabbed his hand, face glowing brighter than all the candles in the ballroom. “Turnip! I’ve got it!”

Well, that was a relief. That would save him trying to explain it.

“If you mean my hand,” he said, giving hers a squeeze, “yes, you have. And while we’re on that topic...”

“Turnip! Don’t you see?” She gave a little hop, taking his hand along with her. She clapped her other hand to her face. “Oh, Lord, how stupid I’ve been! It’s been here all along.”

Turnip didn’t mind the clinging to his hand — he had rather hoped for that bit — but he was beginning to feel that he had lost the thread of the conversation.

“What has?” he asked cautiously.

Arabella tossed her head back, looking him straight in the eye. She crackled with excitement, like an explorer looking for the first time on a long-awaited shore.

“Don’t you see? I do have it. The list! Turnip, I know where to find the list!”

Chapter 26

Turnip blinked down at her in confusion. “The list?”

Arabella belatedly realized that she was clinging to Turnip’s hand. Blushing, she dropped it.

She covered her consternation by waving her hands about just a little too enthusiastically. She probably looked like she was about to take flight. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. What an idiot I am!”

“I never thought you were an idiot.”

There was something about the way Turnip looked at her that made Arabella look away. “You may change your mind when I tell you where it is,” she said, only half-jokingly. “It was right under my nose the whole time, and I never knew it was there. Oh, I’m sorry. Were you about to say something?”

Turnip sunk his chin into the depths of his cravat. “Nothing. Nothing a’tall. Carry on.”

“There’s not much carrying to do. It’s really embarrassingly simple. Mystery solved, adventure over. And just in time for the end of the house party.”

“Not quite over yet,” said Turnip hastily. “We still have one more day. And night.”

A line from a Milton piece whispered through Arabella’s memory: What has night to do with sleep / Sleep hath better sweets to prove. The night beyond the balustrade seemed redolent with all sorts of dangerous prospects. Even the rustling of the wind in the shrubbery had a sensual sound to it, like clothes crumpling at a lover’s embrace.

Arabella clasped her hands tightly together at her waist. “The sooner we get the list to the proper people, the better,” she said, in her most schoolmistress-ish voice. “I don’t like to think of it just sitting there.”

Turnip nodded emphatically. “Good thinking. Let’s go get it.”

Before they could suit action to words, a long shadow fell across the door to the balcony. “Fitzhugh?” called a bored voice. “Are you out here?”

Turnip quickly stepped in front of Arabella, blocking her from view. “Just came out for a bit of air and all that.”

“You’re going to get a great deal more of it,” said Darius Danforth, stepping into the fall of light from the ballroom door. He was modishly dressed in a tight-fitting dark blue coat, cut high at the waist and long in the back, his hair styled in the windswept style made fashionable by the Prince of Wales. He prowled out onto the balcony, an advertisement for all that was fashionable and dissolute. “The duchess wants us all out in the West Wood.”

“What for?”

Danforth shrugged, showing off the excellence of his tailoring. The material didn’t so much as ripple. “Some Epiphany Eve ritual involving guns, ciders, and a band of overexcited yokels.”

“Think I’ll skip it this time, thanks all the same,” said Turnip amiably.

His tone was casual enough, but Arabella could see the tension in the set of his shoulders. In fact, his shoulders were all she could see. They were very broad shoulders, seamlessly outlined by the set of a coat that clung to his form as though it had been painted on.

There was really something to be said for London tailoring, thought Arabella inconsequentially.

“Oh no,” said Danforth, leaning languidly against the doorjamb. “There will be no skip. The dowager has made it quite clear that every able-bodied man is to join in shooting away the evil spirits. No exceptions. And you know how the dowager gets when she’s thwarted.”

“You mean she’ll shoot us,” said Turnip glumly.

Danforth didn’t bother to deny or confirm. He simply looked at Turnip. “You can’t think I’d be freezing my balls off in the cold with a bunch of bloody farmers if it weren’t for the threat of imminent death?”

Turnip made a sharp, alarmed motion at Danforth’s foul language.

“Oh, I am sorry,” drawled Danforth, with an innocence that was anything but. “Do you have someone with you?”

Turnip’s ears turned red around the edges.

“If you have, best return her to the ballroom before the dowager does it for you, Fitzhugh,” Danforth advised in world-weary tones. “Shouldn’t want to find yourself leg-shackled.”

Danforth turned and sauntered back through the doorway.

Turnip’s fists opened and closed at his side. “That — that — ”

“Person?” suggested Arabella.

A reluctant smile broke out on Turnip’s face. “Don’t know if I’d go that far. Toadstool is more like it.”

So this was it, then, was it? The end of her one and only rendezvous on a balcony. Only she, thought Arabella wryly, would manage to spend a good fifteen minutes on a balcony, freezing her shoulders off in the January cold, without so much as a kiss.

Arabella pasted a fake smile on her face. “You’d best be going, hadn’t you? You wouldn’t want the dowager to start shooting.”

Despite the increasing bustle from the ballroom, Turnip made no move to go anywhere. He looked at her with concern, his brows drawing so close together they practically met in the middle. “Don’t do anything until I get back. Anything dangerous, that is.”

“I’m not the one shooting at evil spirits,” Arabella pointed out. “Your mortality rate is likely to be higher than mine.”

Turnip was not mollified. “Stay with the others. Don’t go wandering off by yourself. That bally list can rot where it is, for all I care, so long as you’re safe.” His eyes brightened as he was seized by a sudden inspiration. “Stay with Lady Henrietta. Deuced good chap, Lady Henrietta. Got me out of that pickle with that Black Tulip person last spring. She’ll see you right.”

“Fitzhugh,” called Danforth. “The sooner you move, the sooner we all get this over with.”

“Don’t worry,” said Arabella softly. “I’ll be fine.” With all the men outside, any threat was radically reduced. Her assailant, on both occasions, had quite definitely been male. “Only two more days to go.”

Turnip was unconvinced. “All the more reason for the chap to get desperate.”

Inside, someone accidentally fired his pistol. There were shrieks and the sound of clattering crystal.

“My point, I think,” said Arabella. “You’d best be going.”

Turnip still didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. “You go in this door. I’ll take the other.” He indicated another door into the ballroom, farther down the balcony. “Wouldn’t want to give Danforth ammunition.”

“I thought the dowager was planning to do just that,” said Arabella lightly, but Turnip didn’t smile. “Turnip?”

Something was bothering him. He cocked his head to one side and shifted from one foot to another, opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, closed it again, narrowed his eyes in an expression of great concentration, shook his head, and finally gave up.

“Oh, bother it,” he said, then grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her.

Having made up his mind, there was nothing the least bit tentative about Turnip’s kiss. One minute Arabella was peaceably standing beside the balustrade; the next she was half bent over the balustrade, clinging to Turnip’s neck for dear life, while little specks of light exploded against the back of her eyelids like the royal fireworks during a particularly rousing performance of the Hallelujah chorus.

Arabella gave a silent hallelujah of her own, wrapped her arms more firmly around his neck, and kissed him back. Through the open ballroom door, she could hear violins playing, singing out a high, sweet strain.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,” said Turnip with satisfaction, setting her back on her feet. He thought about it for a moment. “All week, actually.”

“Oh,” said Arabella, which was about the most she could manage. Her knees didn’t seem to want to work properly anymore. She held on to Turnip’s shoulders for balance. She blinked up at him, searching for the scattered remains of her wits. “You waited until now?”

Turnip grinned and butted his nose against hers. “Sorry. Bad timing.”

“You could say that,” agreed Arabella, although the word “bad” no longer really had a place in her lexicon. That had been quite good, actually. More than good. Would spectacular be going too far?