"Regarding Monsieur LeBlanc and that forgery," she said urgently. "I have a confession from Mrs. Fowler."

Even in the dark, she felt him stiffen. "The deuce you say. Pardon me-but… a confession? How is this? She was here today, Lady Hermione told me. She made you a confession of guilt?"

"Yes! Well, no. Not precisely. She wrote it down."

"Wrote it down!" he exclaimed.

Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness and the dim red gleam of the boiler. "I have it here. And she's coming back to Shelford Hall tonight. Can you ask Lord Sidmouth to meet me?"

He was silent. Callie watched him. She would have to try to accost the secretary herself if he would not aid her, but she was sure the minister would give one of his own assistants a more serious ear.

"She's passed a forged note again," Callie added ruthlessly. "And doubtless will continue, if she isn't stopped." It was unfeeling, perhaps-even wicked- to reveal Mrs. Fowler and put her in danger of the noose, but she had served Trev the same turn without apparent remorse. Callie had thought long on the issue. She hardly knew if Trev would thank her-he might think it rendered what he had done pointless, and there was this child somewhere in the north, his friend's son-but in the end Trev was gone and Callie was adamant. It was for the duchesse, if nothing else.

"You have evidence of that?" Sir Thomas asked sharply.

"Yes, she wrote of it. And the second note has been discovered. She's attempting to find a way to leave the country; that's why she's here."

That was enough. He made a sound of assent. "I'll speak to the secretary."

"Do so directly," she urged. "And bring him here at quarter past eleven."

Callie's message to Mrs. Fowler had warned her that on no account must she come to the porter at the front facade, but to enter by the laundry court. She would have no trouble locating this, for Callie had instructed the same footman to return to the Antlers with a sedan chair and escort her to the Hall at the appointed time. Under a full moon and racing clouds, a pair of hefty retainers trotted up to the rear of Shelford Hall bearing the chair. A figure swathed in a dark domino emerged and stepped daintily to the washroom door.

Callie met her, still masked, feeling much as if she ought to have thirty pieces of silver jangling in her pockets when Mrs. Fowler thanked her with such a pretty profusion. But then she thought of the note and stiffened her resolve. The one forgery-that might have been excused as a naïve mistake-but when she uttered the second counterfeit note, she had known full well how heavy the consequences were. And then she came to Trev again as her savior from her own folly!

Callie had provided a blank card and writing materials on the big ironing table in the dry laundry. "I couldn't find an extra ticket," she said, drawing a closed lantern near. "But this is out of the card stock from Lady Shelford's desk." She set the lantern on the table and shone light on the paper. "Here is ink. Write it as: 'The Pleasure of your company is requested at a Masked Ball'-and you must make a capital of P and M-yes, just so." Callie had noted the peculiar and unique manner in which Mrs. Fowler inscribed these letters. The original invitations had been engraved, and Callie had been ready to explain that these had run out and the latter ones written by hand, but in the event Mrs. Fowler didn't question writing her own ticket. She did it so readily that Callie thought perhaps she had some experience of the practice.

"Where am I to meet him?" Mrs. Fowler asked, looking up from the table. She had procured a half mask on a stick; she picked it up with the card and turned to Callie.

"He's waiting for you," she said. "He says that you must be ready to f ly on the instant."

"Oh, I am ready!" she exclaimed. "I can go tonight if I must."

"What of your son?" Callie asked, the point on which she was most uneasy with this snare.

"Oh, he's well enough where he is; I've left him with Mr. Fowler's parents. They dote on him, I assure you!" She gave a nervous giggle. "I think he would much rather his mama escape with her life than take the time to fetch him, don't you?"

"It must be terrifying." Callie watched Mrs. Fowler through her mask. "Monsieur told me a little of how he felt, fearing for what might be done to him."

"Indeed-I thought from what you said he must have told you-and I'm quite in mortal danger, you know!"

"You must be very courageous, though."

"Oh, I'm the veriest coward, I do assure you, my lady."

"But to forge a note of hand, not once but twice, and then pass them both. You must be as daring as any highwayman, I think."

She lifted the mask to her eyes and gave a pert twitch of her head. "I suppose it was rather daring of me," she said. "I shouldn't speak to you of it, though." Her eyes danced with mischief. "You might witness against me!"

"We need not call my lady to witness, I believe," said a man's voice. Lord Sidmouth stepped from the shadows behind the tall laundry mangle. The courtyard door swung shut and revealed Sir Thomas standing behind it.

Mrs. Fowler gave a shriek. The outer door was blocked, but she threw herself past Callie, making a rush across the laundry room for the corridor. In the dim light, Lord Sidmouth tried to catch her, but after an instant's struggle, he was left with only her black cloak in his hand. She escaped to the passage. Hermey's fiancé started to run after her, but the secretary stopped him with a raised hand.

"Sir Thomas," Lord Sidmouth said calmly, "we don't wish to cause a scene at her ladyship's excellent fete. Let her go."

"Let her go, sir?" Sir Thomas frowned.

"Let her go." He picked up the card Mrs. Foster had written, and then asked Callie for the note in which she had confessed. For a time that seemed to stretch to infinity, he stood reading and comparing the two by the lamplight.

Finally he looked up at Sir Thomas. "You may rejoin your betrothed. I'm certain that she's wondering what's become of you." Lord Sidmouth tucked the two papers inside his coat and turned to Callie. "My lady-would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you?"

Callie's heart sank. She saw her hope of clearing Trev's name vanish before her eyes in his easy dismissal of the whole incident. But he held out his arm, and she could think of nothing to do but accept it. "Thank you," she said in a small voice.

They followed Sir Thomas out into the dimly lit corridor. As his figure disappeared up the stairs, Lord Sidmouth murmured, "I should like to speak to you in privacy, my dear. I'm sure all is at sixes and sevens, but is there some respectable place that we may be quiet?"

Callie was quite familiar with the servants' range. "The housekeeper's parlor," she said, swallowing her nerves. "She can look in, but she won't disturb us."

"Excellent. And perhaps she'll see that we have a cup of strong tea-I've had a surfeit of punch for the night."

This plan was carried out easily enough, Callie being a favorite belowstairs. In the plain, cozy sitting room, Lord Sidmouth dropped a lump of sugar in his tea and sat back in the housekeeper's overstuffed chair. Callie perched on a straight-backed stool, feeling much like a frightened maid called up to account.

"My lady," he said, "I must admire your cleverness. The episode produced an abundance of evidence that can be used in a court of law. But I was brought into it rather suddenly and find myself a little at sea. If you will be so good as to explain to me, why did she come to you in search of LeBlanc?"

Callie bit her lip. She still retained her mask, for which she was grateful as she felt the blood rise hotly in her face. But it was time and enough to speak some truth, she thought. "He isn't Monsieur LeBlanc. He is the duc de Monceaux. His mother has resided here in the village for many years after they escaped from France."