Charlotte backed up a few paces, catching at the railing of the balcony before she found herself flying into the pit. In the light of the thousand chandeliers, his face seemed as bright as the golden oval, but it was considerably harder to read.

What had become of his promise not to come until she called? Perversely, she was more pleased than not that he had disobeyed.

Charlotte abruptly squashed down that thought. There was no future there. That dove had flown.

“Robert,” said Charlotte, struggling to keep her tone light. “I hadn’t thought to see you here.”

“I could disappear again,” he offered.

“Yes, you do that very well,” said Charlotte without thinking. Flushing, she amended, “I didn’t mean — ”

“Of course, you did,” said Robert lightly, as though they were talking about nothing more meaningful than the movements on the stage. He bared his teeth in a polished social smile. “And I deserved it.”

Charlotte pleated the folds of her fan. “Most of it,” she mumbled. “You were not entirely without assistance.”

Looking up from her fan, she found him watching her, his expression intent and curiously vulnerable.

Shifting from one foot to the other, he said in a rapid undertone, “If I were to call on you tomorrow afternoon, would you receive me?”

Charlotte didn’t know what to say. There was a tightening in the back of her throat, not of anticipation, but of dread.

“It is your choice,” he added levelly. “If you tell me to stay away, I will. Although I very much hope you won’t. I should like — well, to talk to you.”

That could only mean one thing.

Charlotte let her gaze drop to her mangled fan. What a fool she was. She should be glad that he wanted to make amends, to be — oh, what a lackluster word! — friends. They could put all of her silliness and all of his missteps behind them and start over again, as they should have in the first place.

It was all for the best, she assured herself. But right now she wasn’t sure she wanted to sit through an explanation of what a lovely person she was and how very sorry he was to have kissed her. The very thought of it made her chest tighten in silent protest.

“If I’m not at the Palace,” she prevaricated.

He didn’t seem all that thrilled with her response, but he accepted it as a deserved rebuke. “I will await your pleasure,” he said quietly.

It was an exceedingly unfortunate choice of phrase. Charlotte experienced an intense urge to stamp her foot and shout, It’s not my pleasure! But ladies didn’t do that sort of thing, especially not Lansdowne ones, so instead, she inclined her head in a genteel nod, while her insides churned in silent rebellion.

Was he really that thick? Didn’t he realize there were few conversations she would less rather have? That no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she was still ridiculously, childishly infatuated with the very idea of him?

And not just the idea — it would be easier if it were just the idea of him. She was ridiculously, childishly infatuated with the actuality of him, too. It was there in the way he leaned just that little bit forwards when he spoke to her; the way his lips turned up on one side and not the other when he smiled; the way he was looking at her right now, as though he actually cared what she thought or felt. It was absurd that in a theatre loud with the din of singing, dancing, and talking, she could hear the rustle of his sleeve as he stirred; that in the midst of burning beeswax, orange peel, gingerbread, and a dozen different perfumes, she could still distinguish the particular smell of him, all clean linen and sandalwood and just a hint of saddle leather. There was no play, no party, no pit below. The entire world was narrowed to the span between her body and his, bounded by the curve of his arm on the balcony.

“Dovedale!” The word careened into their kingdom like a cannon-ball, shattering the strange silence that bound her to Robert.

Sir Francis Medmenham strolled over like Charles II favoring a pair of fortunate courtiers with his presence. Charlotte practically expected to see spaniels nipping at his heels, instead of just Frobisher and Innes.

“Do stop monopolizing your little cousin, Dovedale,” he casually commanded. “It’s unfair on the rest of company.”

And then Robert did something very curious.

Instead of standing aside to allow Medmenham to pass, he turned so that his body was ranged between Charlotte and Medmenham, and said, very deliberately, “We are scarcely cousins. The connection is a very distant one. Isn’t it, Charlotte?”

“Through half siblings more than a hundred years ago,” Charlotte confirmed. “You see, our great-great-grandfather married six times,” she began, but Medmenham did not seem to be paying attention to the intricacies of the Lansdowne family tree. Which was a pity, because Charlotte had always found the story of their great-great-grandfather and his multiple marital misfortunes a singularly diverting one.

Smiling charmingly, Medmenham said, “In that case, Dovedale, all the more reason for you to step aside.”

Robert drew himself up in a way that made Charlotte think of knights and gauntlets and the clash of swords on shields. She could practically hear the trumpets sounding in the background. The two men were roughly of a height, but Robert was broader, his muscles honed with years of marches and physical work, while Medmenham was as lean and rangy as a kitchen cat.

“I still have a responsibility as the head of my house,” Robert said pleasantly, but there was a bite beneath it.

Beneath his genial mask, Charlotte was suddenly quite, quite sure that Robert’s feelings for Medmenham were anything but cordial. Then why was he playing at being his friend?

Medmenham had games of his own to play. “Are you sure that’s all it is, Dovedale?” he asked, smiling faintly as though there was something he knew that Robert didn’t. Whatever it was, it pleased him mightily. He looked like Penelope right after a jaunt to a balcony.

“And what would that be to you, Medmenham?”

“That,” said Medmenham lightly, “remains to be seen.”

“I don’t believe that there is anything more for you to see here.”

“Certainly not the play,” Charlotte burst out. “I don’t believe anyone is even making a pretense of watching it.”

Deliberately cutting Robert out of the conversation, Sir Francis smiled intimately at her. “Why would they? I’ve seen better acting from the inhabitants of Bedlam.”

It was a rather odd metaphor to pick. It was, Charlotte remembered, Sir Francis who had recommended Dr. Simmons to the Prince of Wales. The real Dr. Simmons, or the false one?

Charlotte was very aware of Robert’s eyes on her as she said, with forced gaiety, “Do you habitually frequent mad hospitals, Sir Francis?”

“Why would I need to when I can find the same entertainment closer to home?” Sir Francis’s gesture encompassed the entirety of their party, saving only Robert, who stood tight-lipped beside them as though unsure whether to intervene.

It might not be so very bad for Robert to have to play chaperone to her and Sir Francis, thought Charlotte, with a pleasure not without malice. Now that they were to be friends. It was all for the good of the King, after all, she reminded herself piously.

“As you know,” said Charlotte, batting her eyes at Sir Francis over her fan, “the taint of madness runs in some of our best families.”

“Some more than others,” contributed Robert flatly, looking straight at Medmenham.

Medmenham acknowledged the point with admirable sangfroid, leaning one elbow on the wrought iron balcony that edged the box. “Do you refer to my cousin or my aunt?”

It had been Medmenham’s aunt, according to Innes, who had employed the services of Dr. Simmons. If Medmenham did have an aunt who had run mad, wouldn’t that imply that Medmenham had meant to recommend the genuine Dr. Simmons? On the other hand, if it was Medmenham who supplied Innes with the story, nothing Medmenham said proved anything at all.

“I believe I may have heard of your aunt . . . ,” hedged Charlotte.

Medmenham smiled lazily. “You would be unusual if you hadn’t.”

“I haven’t,” said Robert tightly.

The others both ignored him. “And your cousin?” Charlotte asked prettily, more to annoy Robert than anything else.

Medmenham’s lips curled with unholy amusement. “There your esteemed kinsman may have a little more knowledge. My cousin was a noted eccentric of his day — and he was good enough to leave me his house.”

Robert made an abrupt movement, but Charlotte rushed in first. “Of course! You mentioned before that you have a very well-known house. Is it anything like Sir Horace Walpole’s Strawberry Hill?” she asked, referring to the famous monument to the Gothic style the author of The Castle of Otranto had erected.

“It has something of the Gothic to it,” drawled Sir Francis. “Wouldn’t you agree, Dovedale?”

“I would not presume to judge,” Robert said stiffly. “My knowledge of . . . architecture is limited.”

“But growing,” said Sir Francis genially. “Under my careful tutelage. I am sure there are many among your friends who would be glad to give a good report to Lady Charlotte of your architectural education.”

Robert’s went as stiff as though Medmenham had threatened rather than complimented him. What were they talking about?

Well pleased with the effect of his words, Medmenham turned back to Charlotte. “Have you ever considered taking up the study of architecture?” he asked caressingly. “I should think that you would have a taste for the . . . picturesque.”