"It will be talked about for weeks," Elliott said. "What hostess could ask more of her entertainment? I would wager everyone has already forgotten about what they all think poor Sherry was guilty of. His perceived crimes pale in comparison with a female axe murderer. Indeed, I do believe we ought to thank the lady in person."

Vanessa eyed him suspiciously, and Stephen looked across the room again to where Lady Paget was standing, a small empty space all about her as if those in close proximity expected her to draw an axe from beneath her gown and commence swinging with it.

He had glanced at her only once before, when the story had first reached his ears and she had been pointed out to him. He did not want the poor woman to feel that everyone was staring at her.

Why had she been foolish enough to come? And to come /alone/. And without an invitation. Of course, she would probably sit at home for the rest of her life if she waited for one of those.

She was a tall, voluptuously formed woman. And the gown she wore did nothing to hide her curves. It was of a bold emerald green and fell in soft folds from beneath her bosom. On a lesser figure, those folds might have hung loosely. On hers, they followed the curve of waist and hips and long, lusciously shaped legs. Its sleeves were short, its neckline leaving little of her bosom to the imagination. Apart from her elbow-length white gloves and a fan and dancing slippers, there were no other adornments on her person. She wore no jewelry at all and no plumes in her hair. It was a stunningly clever idea. For her hair was her crowning glory – and it surpassed all clichГ©. It was a glowing red and was piled in loose curls on her head, with wavy tendrils to draw attention to the creamy white, swanlike perfection of her neck. Her face was pure beauty despite its bored, haughty, slightly contemptuous expression – a mask if ever Stephen had seen one. He doubted she was feeing as poised as she looked. It was impossible to see the color of her eyes, but there seemed to be a slight, alluring slant to them.

All this he had seen the first time he glanced at her. This time he saw immediately that she was looking directly back at him. He resisted his first instinct, which was to look hastily away. It was probably what everyone else was doing as soon as she glanced their way. He looked steadily back at her. And /she/ did not look away from /him/, as he had expected she would do. Her hand slowly plied her fan. Her eyebrows arched arrogantly upward, and her lips curved into an expression that was half smile, half not.

He inclined his head to her just as Carling and his lady joined them to inform them that the dancing was about to begin.

Stephen went to claim the hand of Lady Christobel Foley, who had just happened to stroll past him with her mama when they entered the ballroom earlier and had stopped to bid him a good evening. Before they strolled away again, it had been arranged that the set he had reserved with her yesterday in the park would be the opening set, and that he would dance another with her later in the evening.

He glanced toward Lady Paget again when he and his partner were standing in the lines waiting for the orchestra to begin playing. She was standing in the same place, though she was no longer looking at him.

And he felt a sudden jolt of recognition. Not that he knew beyond all doubt that he was correct. Nevertheless, he was as sure as he could be that Lady Paget was that widow all in black he and Con had seen yesterday when they were out riding.

Yes, it was surely she, though she looked quite startlingly different.

Yesterday she had worn a heavy disguise.

Tonight she stood exposed to the shock and censure of the /ton/.

Tonight she wore only the disguise of her cool indifference, even contempt for everyone's opinion.

/3/

THE second set would have to be the one, Cassandra decided. She could not stand here all night without looking ridiculous – and without making this whole painful exercise pointless.

But when the opening set ended, the Earl and Countess of Sheringford came to speak with her. She saw them coming and raised her fan again.

She half smiled and half raised her eyebrows. If they were going to ask her to leave, she was not going to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her embarrassed.

"Lady Paget," the earl said, "despite all our efforts to keep the ballroom cool by having all the windows opened, it is overwarm in here after all. May I have the pleasure of fetching you a drink? Wine, perhaps, or sherry or ratafia? Or lemonade?"

"A glass of wine would be very welcome," she said. "Thank you."

"Maggie?" he asked his wife.

"The same, please, Duncan," she said, and watched him walk away.

"Your ball is very well attended," Cassandra said. "You must be gratified."

"It is a great relief," the countess admitted. "I hosted a number of events for my brother before I married and felt no more than a twinge of anxiety each time. It never occurred to me in those days that some massive disaster might occur to spoil the event. This is the first entertainment I have hosted in London since my marriage three years ago, and everything feels different, most notably the level of my confidence.

Perhaps we ought to have returned sooner, but we have both been so happy in the country with our children." /She/ was the massive disaster that was threatening to ruin this particular evening, Cassandra understood. She pursed her lips and said nothing.

"I have been terrified," Lady Sheringford continued, "that no one would come to the ball except my brother and sisters and mother-in-law, though it was a comfort to know that they would all at least bring their spouses – except my brother, of course. He is not married yet."

"You need not have feared," Cassandra said. "The notorious always draw attention to themselves. People are incurably inquisitive."

The countess raised her eyebrows and would have spoken, but the earl had returned with their drinks.

"Perhaps, Lady Paget," he said as Cassandra sipped her wine, "you would do me the honor of dancing the next set with me."

She smiled at him and at his lady, then back at him.

"Are you sure," she asked, "you would rather dance with me, Lord Sheringford, than beg me to leave Claverbrook House?"

"Perfectly sure, ma'am," he said, smiling and exchanging a glance with his wife.

"We are sufficiently acquainted with… notoriety, Lady Paget," the countess said, "to be happy to ignore it in others. Especially when the other person is our guest."

"Your /uninvited/ guest," Cassandra said, drinking more wine.

"Yes, even then," the countess agreed. She laughed unexpectedly. "I met my husband at a ball to which he had not been invited. I have always been thankful that we were both there anyway. I might not have met him otherwise. Please enjoy yourself."

Someone had touched the countess on the shoulder and she turned to see who it was. It was the devil, Cassandra could see – Mr. Huxtable.

"Oh, Constantine," the countess said, smiling warmly, "/here/ you are. I was afraid you had forgotten that you were to dance this next set with me, and I would be left a forlorn wallflower on the sidelines."

"Forgotten?" he said, slapping a hand to his heart. "When I have lived all day in eager anticipation of just this moment, Margaret?"

"Oh, foolish!" She laughed. "Have you met Lady Paget? Constantine Huxtable, Lady Paget, my second cousin."

He fixed her with a steady look from very dark eyes, and bowed.

"Lady Paget," he said. "My pleasure."

Cassandra inclined her head and fanned her face.

"Mr. Huxtable."

She read speculation in the polite stare of his eyes. But he would definitely not be the one, she decided. For those eyes also looked somewhat hard and dangerous, as if he were warning her without the medium of words that if she had come with the intention of casting some cloud over this ball of his second cousin's, she might find herself answering to him. He would be too much of a challenge. She might have been intrigued by him if this were merely a game she was playing. But it most certainly was not.