"It is absolutely true. Marion knows someone who was a guest at her wedding. She ran away with a burglar two years ago. That is her. Can you imagine? Leaving the poor groom at the altar like that? Talbot, has, of course, long since married. He would have none of her when she returned. How can she show herself in polite society?"

"What nerve," her friend agreed.

Annabel twisted in her seat and leveled a cold stare at the women. "It is actually quite easy to partake of polite society," she said. "It hardly requires nerve. One makes a few reservations, gets on a train, and voila, one arrives. But I would question whether this is polite society, actually." And she gave the flushing women her back. Annabel stared at her place setting. Her pulse continued to race.

As soup was served all around, Lizzie placed a hand on hers. "Don't let one rat get your spirits down. This is a wonderful hotel. Most of the guests are so very nice."

To you, perhaps, Annabel thought. "There is always a rat or two, everywhere I go, and I am thoroughly tired of it," she said. She was more than tired of hearing about how fast and willful she was, or that other popular refrain: poor, unfortunate, oh-so-wild Annabel Boothe. Other than the fact that she had been served up a very large dose of a broken heart by her own reckless nature, why, there was nothing unfortunate about her.

She did, after all, have her freedom. Which was all that she had ever wanted anyway. It was women like the two behind her who deserved pity, not herself.

Melissa leaned forward. "If you led an exemplary life, perhaps everyone would forget the past, Annabel. You choose to defy every norm there is-and then you expect people to like and accept you? How can anyone forget, for goodness' sake, when you refuse to let anyone forget!"

Annabel stared at her sister. Was Melissa right? If one entertained Missy's perspective, then she certainly was correct, but Annabel knew that she could not live the way her sisters did, or the way that most of society did. Was something wrong with her? Why was her nature so inquisitive, so reckless? "I do not want to discuss this," she said, lifting her soup spoon. The split pea soup was far too hot and she set it down abruptly.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Annabel inhaled, stabbed by words spoken by someone she did not wish to identify, not even in her mind. She had no wish to remember either his words or him.

"Our soups are getting cold," Adam said firmly, also taking up his spoon.

For a moment they sipped in silence. Annabel stared at her pea soup, having lost her appetite. In Europe no one seemed to find her behavior so odd that it was worthy of censure. But in Europe, she did not frequent society. Annabel had spent the holidays in Paris, where she had run into an acquaintance from the art class she had taken several years ago. Melissa would die if she knew that Annabel had kept such late hours that she had not arisen until the late afternoon, that she had passed the evenings at the theater and afterward in bistros and cabarets, drinking red wine and brandy and smoking cigarettes and cigars.

He had not disapproved of her. In spite of what she had done.

Braxton was haunting her again.

Annabel stared at her soup. It had been two years since the fateful day of her almost-wedding. He still, from time to time, appeared in her mind, haunting her oddly with bits and pieces of the brief time they had shared. Her heart was no longer broken, so she could not understand why this ghost of a memory would not go away and leave her in peace. What was even stranger was the fact that his expression in her mind's eye was always the same. It was filled with regret.

Which was romantic nonsense. The man was a thief and a charlatan, and while Annabel now felt that she was as much to blame as he was for what had happened-she had, after all, seduced him-she would never forgive him for leaving without a word the next day, or worse, for pretending to love her that night.

But he had not disapproved of her then, and he would not disapprove of her now. Annabel had not a doubt.

She reminded herself that as he was a professional thief, he was hardly a suitable judge of anyone's character.

An unladylike elbow jammed in her side. "Annabel! It is that gent from last night, the one who invited you to play tennis today!" Lizzie was full of excitement. Her pretty cheeks were flushed pink.

Annabel looked up, saw a young, handsome fellow approaching their table, and felt her own cheeks go hot while her eyes widened in surprise. She watched James Appleton Beard as he wound his way through the dining room. Last night he had singled her out after supper, and after a brief chat, they had agreed to a tennis match the following afternoon. It had been ages since a real gentleman had shown any interest in her-it had been exactly two years, in fact.

James paused at their table, bowing. His cheeks were flushed. Helios were passed round. Annabel regarded him but remained silent. And gazing at him, seeing his discomfort, she knew.

Her heart sank. She should have expected this, fool that she was.

"Miss Boothe." His smile was brief, strained. "I am afraid the weather will prevent us from our match today." He avoided her eyes.

Annabel thought dully, he knows about Braxton. "Yes, the grass will be far too wet to play."

A silence fell.

"There is always tomorrow," Adam said. Annabel knew that he meant to be helpful. But the effect was the opposite.

"Actually," James said, growing more flushed still, "I have twisted my ankle this morning. Perhaps at the end of the week." He bowed and quickly turned, leaving their table.

Annabel knew her cheeks remained red. She picked up her spoon, resisting the sudden surge of anger that made her want to flip soup all over the table. She was fast. Unacceptable, an outcast. But this was what she had wanted, in order to be free. She had no right to feel sorry for herself, and by damn, she was not ashamed. Yet she had never known that such ostracism would be so painful.

An intense silence had fallen.

"He has probably heard that you are an outstanding tennis player. The poor fellow undoubtedly knew he would not stand a chance," Adam said kindly.

Annabel felt hot tears filling her eyes. She knew that she must not let anyone see that the stupid clod had hurt her feelings. Or had he? She was thinking about the damn thief again.

"Everyone knows that you are unbeatable at tennis," Lizzie said emphatically, agreeing.

"Well," Melissa began. "If Annabel ever wants to catch a husband she should lose at tennis a few times or so."

Annabel had composed herself and she looked up. "I will do no such thing." She locked gazes with Melissa.

"You are a fool, Annabel. No man wants to be with a woman who is stronger, smarter, and a better tennis player than he!" She turned to John. "Am I right, dear?"

"You are very right," John said, nodding.

Annabel had had enough. She was not hungry and she set her soup spoon down. "We all know that tennis is not, and has never been, the issue."

"Yes, let's do change this boring subject," Lizzie said quickly, her tone high. "Have you all heard that the Countess Rossini is arriving today? She is one of the wealthiest women in Europe!"

"I should hope so," Melissa replied, reaching for the bread. "She was seventeen when she married the count- and he was sixty-five. Everyone knows she married him for his money. Her family was quite impoverished. But no one expected him to live another fifteen years!"

"She is a widow, newly so," Lizzie said to Adam and Annabel.

Annabel had no interest in the countess or her money. She stood. "I am sorry. But I have a terrible migraine and I have lost my appetite. Please excuse me. I will see you all for supper." She pushed back her chair and swiftly left the table, aware of dozens of pairs of eyes in the hotel dining room following her as she crossed the room, which had suddenly become far too spacious. A gentleman was entering it as she was departing. They collided head-on.