“What is ‘it’?”

After a moment, she replied, “You don’t need to know.”

“Meaning you don’t wish to tell me.”

She inclined her head.

He was tempted to press, but she’d be here, under his eye, for the next several days; he’d have time and more to figure out her latest start simply by watching all she did. He’d seen her taking note of the gentlemen over the dinner table, and when she’d danced with James and Charlie, and Winfield, too, she’d been unusually animated, leading the conversation with questions. He was quite sure those questions hadn’t been about Kitty; she might ask him such things, but that was because they were almost family-with each other, they didn’t even pretend to the social niceties.

“Very well.”

His easy acceptance earned him a suspicious look, but it wasn’t in her interests to quibble. He let his lips curve, heard her soft humph as she faced forward once more. They strolled on in easy silence, neither feeling any need to state the obvious-that he would keep watching her until he learned her secret, and that she was now warned that he would.

As they crossed the last stretch of lawn above the lake, he reviewed her behavior thus far. Had she been any other female, he would have suspected she was husband-hunting, yet she’d never been so inclined. She’d never had much use for the male of the species; he couldn’t imagine any circumstance that might have changed her mind.

Much more likely was that she was searching for some knowledge-possibly some introduction to or information on some activity not normally open to females. That seemed highly probable-exactly her cup of tea.

They reached the lip from which the grassed path ran gently down to the lake. They halted, she to sweep the scene before her, the vista of the wide lake, its waters dark and still, a black pit lying in a natural valley with a wooded hill looming beyond, an informal pinetum on rising ground to the right and, just visible in the weak light, the summerhouse on the far left shore, starkly white against a black backdrop of massed rhododendrons.

The sight held her silent, absorbed, head up as she took in the view.

He seized the moment to study her face… the conviction that she was seeking a gentleman to introduce her to some illicit experience grew, burgeoned, took hold. In an unexpected way.

“Oh! My goodness!” Annabelle came up, then the others joined them.

“How lovely! Why-it’s quite Gothic!” Cecily, hands clasped, bobbed with delight.

“Is it really very deep?” Winifred looked at James.

“We’ve never found the bottom.”

The response drew horrifed looks from the Hammond sisters.

“Shall we go on?” Charlie looked at Portia and Simon. There was a narrow path all the way around the lake, hugging the shore.

“Oh.” Annabelle exchanged a glance with Cecily. “I don’t think we should. Mama said we must rest well tonight to recover from the rigors of the journey.”

Winifred, too, demurred. James gallantly offered to escort the three ladies back to the house. With good nights, they parted. Flanked by Charlie and Simon, Portia headed down to the lake.

They walked and chatted; it was really very easy. They all moved in the same circles; it was a simple matter to fill the time with comments and observations on all that had transpired in the Season just past-the scandals, the marriages, the most scintillating on-dits. Even more surprising, Simon did not, as he usually did, comport himself in unhelpful silence; instead, he helped keep the conversation rolling along the generally accepted paths. As for Charlie, he’d always been a rattlepate; it was easy to tempt him into regaling them with colorful tales of wagers gone wrong, of the exploits of the younger bucks.

They paused before the summerhouse, admiring the neat wooden structure, a bit bigger than usual because of its distance from the house, then continued on around the lake.

When they started back up the slope to the house, she felt rather smug. She’d survived a whole evening, and a long night walk with two of the ton’s foremost wolves, quite creditably; conversing with gentlemen-drawing them out-hadn’t been as difficult as she’d supposed.

They were halfway up the rise when Henry appeared and started down toward them.

“Have you seen Kitty?” he asked as he neared.

They shook their heads. Halting, they all looked down at the lake. The path in its entirety was visible from where they stood; Kitty’s aquamarine silk gown would have been easy to spot.

“We saw her when we started out,” Portia said. “She and some others were heading for the temple.”

Simon added, “We haven’t seen her, or those others, since.”

“I’ve already been to the temple,” Henry said.

A footstep sounded nearby. They all turned, but it was James who came out of the shadows.

“Have you seen Kitty?” Henry asked. “Her mother wants her.”

James shook his head. “I’ve just been up to the house and back. I didn’t see anyone en route.”

Henry sighed. “I’d better keep looking.” With a bow to Portia and a nod to the men, he headed off toward the pinetum.

They all watched him go until the shadows swallowed him up.

“It might have been better,” James remarked, “if Mrs. Archer had thought to speak with Kitty earlier. As it is… Henry might be better off not finding her.”

They all comprehended exactly what he meant. The silence lengthened.

James recollected himself; he glanced at Portia. “Your pardon, my dear. I fear I’m not in the best of moods tonight-no good company. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to the house.”

He bowed rather stiffly. Portia inclined her head. With brief nods to Simon and Charlie, James turned on his heel and strode back up the lawn.

The three of them followed more slowly. In silence; there seemed little to say and indeed, some odd sort of safety in not putting what they were thinking into words.

They were at an intersection with a path leading toward the temple on one hand, and on the other curving around to the pinetum, when they heard a light footstep.

As one, they halted and looked down the shadowy path toward the temple.

A figure emerged from a minor path leading down and away from the house. A man, he started along the cross path toward them; stepping into a patch of moonlight, he looked up-and saw them. With no check in his stride, he stepped sideways, onto another of the myriad paths that riddled the dense shrubberries.

His shadow vanished. Leaves rustled, and he was gone.

An instant passed, then they each drew breath, faced forward, and walked on. They didn’t speak, nor did they catch each other’s eye.

Nevertheless, each knew what the others were thinking.

The man hadn’t been a guest, nor yet a servant or helper on the estate.

He’d been a gypsy, lean, dark, and handsome.

With his unruly black hair wildly disarranged, his coat undone, his shirttails loose and flapping.

It was difficult to imagine any innocent reason for such a man to have been up at the house, let alone leaving in such a fashion at such a late hour.

On the main lawn, they met Desmond, Ambrose, and Lucy, like them, heading back to the house.

Of Kitty, they saw no sign.

3

Well, then, miss!” Lady Osbaldestone sank into the armchair before the hearth in her bedchamber and fixed Portia with a knowing eye. “You may now confess to me what you’re about.”