"He was not spying!" she cried indignantly.

"Have you not noticed, my dear, how he is always there whenever you and I meet? He is jealous. He has always had everything he wanted, Henry. There has never been anything he was denied. I hate to see him use you just as another possession. You deserve more."

"I believe you speak out of turn, sir," Henry said coldly. "It is of my husband and my marriage that you speak. They are not your concern."

"Oh, pardon me," he sighed, sinking into the nearest chair and hiding his face in his hands. "I have been unforgivably familiar. I just cannot bear to see a lovely, innocent little creature like you having to face the humiliation of having her husband flaunt his mistress before her face."

"What?"

He looked up, his face aghast. "Henry? You did not know?" he asked. "Oh, what have I said?"

"You will explain your meaning, sir," she said, her head held high but her face noticeably pale.

He groaned. "My wretched tongue!" he said. "But I may be wrong, Henry. In fact, I am sure I must be. Suzanne Broughton was his mistress before he met you. I am certain it cannot be so now. How could any man leave the embraces of so lovely a bride so soon?"

Henry said nothing. She clung to the back of the chair and stared at Oliver, seeing in her mind Marius dancing with Mrs. Broughton at the Sefton ball and on one or two other occasions, seeing him conversing with her during a soiree a few weeks before, seeing him sitting next to her at a recent dinner, seeing all the mature beauty and lure of the woman. And she had never even suspected. How naive she had been to assume that Marius was as satisfied by their sexless relationship as she was. And why did it hurt like a dozen sharp knives to think of that woman in his arms, that woman's hands in his hair, her lips on his? Henry's own lips parted in shock. The reason-of course! -was that she wanted Marius herself.

Cranshawe had risen and was looking at her in concern. "The best way to fight back is to show him that you do not care," he was saying. "Let me take you out one evening, Henry. Come to a masquerade with me."

"A masquerade?" she asked, dazed.

"Yes, Henry, a masquerade at the opera house. They are bright, gay entertainments. You would enjoy the evening. Your character cries out for more amusement than you can find in most drawing rooms."

"I do not believe I ought," she said doubtfully. "And I do not really wish to."

"You do not strike me as being the docile type of wife who would sit back and quietly endure her husband's neglect and infidelity," he wheedled.

She looked squarely at him. "Very well," she said impulsively, "I shall come." She did not pause to consider whether she really felt ill-used or neglected. She only felt bruised and bewildered.

He turned on her the full charm of his smile. "You will not regret it," he said. "I shall guarantee you a most entertaining evening, Henry. There is a masquerade on Wednesday night. Will you be free?"

"I shall," she said defiantly. "You will let me know when to expect you." She did not resist when Cranshawe lifted her hand to his lips, gazing into her eyes all the time.

He left immediately and Henry soon followed him out of the room.

Penelope lowered her legs painfully to the floor, one at a time, and flexed her neck and shoulders. As she crossed to the door and peered cautiously out, she could feel the blood hammering in her brain. She hoped that Phil was back already or would be back soon. She had a great deal that she was burning to confide in him. Seeing a footman with his back to her close to the outer door, she darted quickly from the salon and up the stairs.

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Miss Manford had no difficulty in persuading Penelope, at least, that it was time for bed that night. Philip, seeing his sister's eagerness to retire to her room, realized that something was brewing and did not employ his usual go-slow tactics.

Half an hour later, Penelope let herself into her brother's room through the connecting door. She crossed to the bed without the aid of a candle, climbed up onto the high mattress, and sat with her legs dangling over the side.

"You aren't sleeping, are you, Phil?" she whispered.

"Of course not, silly," his voice replied scornfully from the mound of pillows that she could see dimly in the darkness. "I knew you were coming."

"Henry is in trouble," she announced dramatically.

The dim shape of Philip was now clearly visible sitting up against the headboard. "Henry? In danger?" he asked excitedly. "I say, Pen. What has happened?"

"The toothpowder genius has some sort of hold over her," Penelope said. "I think she owes him money."

"Mr. Cranshawe?" Philip said. "I always knew there was something sinister about him."

Penelope gave her twin an exhaustive account of what she had heard in the green salon that afternoon.

"I say, Pen," Philip said when she had finished, "you really had an adventure. Are you not glad now that you weren't allowed to come to Jackson's with the duke and me?"

"I don't know about that," she replied, not so easily mollified. "But what are we to do, Phil? I don't believe what he said. I think his Grace really cares for Henry. He would not prefer this Mrs. Broughton. Otherwise, why did he marry Henry?"

"No, I don't believe it either," Philip agreed. "The duke is a great gun. But why would Henry owe old toothpowder money, Pen? And how much? Don't the duke give her enough?"

"I am certain he must," his sister replied. "He gives us lots. "

"Do you think she really wanted to go to that masquerade, Pen?"

"I think she was mad at what he said about his Grace, Penelope replied shrewdly. "But, Phil, if she owes him a great deal of money, don't he have some hold on her? Won't she always have to do what he says?"

"It must be a great deal," Philip said excitedly, "and it must have been for something that she could not go to his Grace about. I don't like it, Pen. We have to do some_.- thing to help."

"But what?"

"I don't know, but we have to try to find out more. And we have to protect Henry at this masquerade. I don't like the sound of that at all."

"You mean we are going to go there, too?" Penelope's eyes were as wide as saucers.

"I mean exactly that(" he said dramatically.

"But how?"

"This is what we have to work on," he replied, and they both lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

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Penelope and Philip were not the only ones to sit up late in a darkened bedroom that night. Henry sat propped up against her banked pillows staring into the darkness. She was feeling lost and confused. All her life she had felt in charge of most situations-bold, fearless, and independent. Even when she married Marius, she had felt in command of her fate. She had feared him a little, yes, but Henry was never one to back away from a challenge. She had been exhilarated by it.

Now, suddenly-and she did not know quite how it had happened-she felt vulnerable. She felt guilty about having agreed to go to a masquerade with Oliver. Although she had refused to believe in Marius' suspicions, she had made an effort to cool her friendship with his heir. She certainly had intended to keep her promise to see him only in public. And yet she had agreed to go with him to a place where really respectable people did not go. She had asked Marius once to take her to a masquerade and he had explained that they were rather wild and vulgar affairs, not suitable for a lady of her station.

And now, in the privacy of her own room, Henry had to admit to herself that she had been cleverly manipulated into accepting the invitation. Oliver had played his cards very well. Had he really let slip the suspicion about Marius and Suzanne Broughton, or had he deliberately divulged the information? His words were very probably true, she thought, but why had he wanted her to know? If he were really the friend he claimed to be, would he not do all in his power to protect her from the knowledge? And why would he wish to take her to a place that was not quite proper? For the first time Henry felt a twinge of uneasiness about Oliver Cranshawe.