The reception was a squeeze. Ria inched her way through the gathering clogging the ballroom's entrance until she found an unoccupied niche beside a potted fern every bit as tall as she was. The delicate, feathery fronds swayed, sometimes brushing her cheek as currents of air were stirred by the sweeping circles of the dancers. Ria snapped open her sandalwood fan and used it to politely hide her unseemly yawn.

Lack of sleep was taking its toll, she realized, no matter that she was a single nerve stretched taut as a bowstring. She'd had little enough rest on her journey to London, then only a few hours since arriving.

Elizabeth had insisted she nap before the reception, but after West's revelations, she found it impossible to do so. Lying on the bed in her room, she had merely stared at the overhead canopy and wonderedwhy she did not feel something more than numb.

And Miss Jenny Taylor is the Society's whoremistress. The words were no faint echo in her head.

She could make them out more clearly than anything that was being said around her. While the voices in the ballroom hummed indistinctly, she still heard West's exact intonation in her head.

She wished she might have fainted or even been sick. West had hovered momentarily as if he expected either of these reactions might occur, but the initial shock passed so quickly that Ria came to understand it was not precisely shock that she'd experienced at all, just benumbing resignation. That she did not feel his words as a physical blow made her realize how long she had been harboring similar suspicions. Not that she could have spoken them aloud, she understood now. Some thoughts were so appalling that they resisted even the most private of examinations.

Emily Barret. Amanda Kent. Mary Murdoch. Sylvia Jenner.

Ria turned over the names in her mind as if she were taking attendance. They had all been students at the school during her six-year tenure, and all of them had departed before their graduation. Unlike Jane Petty, none of them left unexpectedly, and no one worried what would become of them. The future of these young women had seemed remarkably brighter when they exited Miss Weaver's than when they entered it.

"You are as colorless as curds and whey," West said.

Startled from her unpleasant reverie by what was certainly an accurate observation, Ria's nerveless fingers lost their grip on the fan. It fell, still open, and dangled awkwardly from her wrist by its silk cord.

She fumbled with it for a moment before managing to snap it closed and secure it in her palm.

Seeing that her composure was badly strained, West offered his elbow. "Come, the portico is empty.

Not many guests are willing to brace the cooler temperatures to enjoy the fresh air."

Ria placed her arm on his and allowed herself to be drawn outside. While she had only been able to move through the crowd in fits and starts before, on the Duke of Westphal's arm, guests made way for them. At the edge of the wide portico, Ria disengaged herself from West's arm and braced herself on the marble balustrade. The night was clear and crisp and stars glittered in the deep indigo sky with as much luster as the diamonds in the ballroom.

"Shall I send you back to Oxford Street?" asked West. "I can have my driver take you. You do not have to leave with North and Elizabeth." Her hesitation was telling, he thought, but she finally shook her head, and West doubted he could change her mind. "I cannot stop you from blaming yourself, Ria, only say that you are wrong for doing so. You couldn't have known about the others."

It did not strike Ria as at all odd that West should have divined the tenor of her thoughts. "But I did know," she said softly. "Or at least it seems that I did. I should have told you about them at the outset. I should not have waited until you confronted me with the whole of it."

West turned and sat on the edge of the railing. He laid one hand over Ria's. "What should you have told me? That four students left Miss Weaver's because families came forward to take them in? It must have seemed like reason to celebrate, rather than the opposite. It is only hindsight that allows you to see similarities to Miss Petty's situation."

Ria knew he was right, yet it was no easy thing to absolve herself. "All of them had benefactors on theboard of governors. They came to the school at an early age, every one of them from workhouses. They were easily among the prettiest girls. Mary and Emily showed talent on the pianoforte. Amanda Kent was lively and cheerful, very popular with the other girls. Sylvia was the best student, quieter than the others, scrupulously polite and always charitable." Ria glanced sideways at West. "Like Jane, Miss Taylor took a special interest in them. I thought it was because they had no one." Her smile faltered, at once rueful and self-mocking. "I suppose I was not wrong. Not really. What do you imagine has become of them?"

West had no answer to that. In fact, he tried not to imagine. By Ria's account, it had been a little more than a year since Sylvia left the school. Her departure occurred just before Ria had been assigned the position of headmistress. The other three had gone earlier. Months, sometimes years, separated the exits.

Emily was fifteen when she went with the childless couple from Nottingham. Amanda and Sylvia had each just passed their sixteenth year when they left the school for homes in London. At fourteen, Mary had been the youngest to go.

"You cannot be certain they were not taken into homes and families that welcomed them," West said.

"I'm certain," Ria said dully. "So are you. I would rather you did not try to raise my spirits with false hope."

West conceded that she was right. It seemed to West that it was Ria's turn as headmistress that had made the governors reluctant to remove girls from the academy in the usual manner. There would have been some trepidation among them about appointing her to the position, but he suspected those misgivings were quieted by her connection to the duke. Still, they must have worried that she would be more thorough than her predecessor in looking after the girls once they were gone from the school. She was, perhaps, not so likely to be lulled into complacency by an occasional letter penned by one of them.

Ria Ashby would take it upon herself to visit the young women who were expressly in her care and make certain they were doing well and fulfilling their promise.

When Jane Petty had sufficiently matured to catch the eye of Sir Alex Cotton, he conceived a different approach. This time there would be no family. Jane's sudden departure would point to an impulsive elopement and result in nothing more than a nine days' wonder. What Sir Alex couldn't have known was that Jane would keep her gentleman admirer a secret from everyone but Amy Nash, and that Amy Nash would take so long to come forward with that information. In the meantime, it simply seemed that Jane had disappeared, raising more alarms than it quieted. Hiring Mr. Lytton to find Jane provided temporary respite, but Sir Alex and the governors were confounded again by the death of the duke. They must have realized the enormity of their mistake in naming Ria headmistress when she went straightaway to London to ask the new Duke of Westphal to involve himself in the school's affairs.

"I do not like leaving you here," said West. "I am not certain you are at all well. You ate very little at the supper."

Ria straightened. They were beyond the circle of candlelight coming from the ballroom, but she could make out his features sufficiently to mark his concern. "You mustn't worry about me. I have promised a set to Eastlyn when Sophie sits with Colonel Blackwood, and I am certain North and South will be obliged to take a turn with me when their wives are similarly occupied. The colonel has promised to entertain me as well, and I have so many questions for him that he is sure to regret the offer."

West did not miss the note of forced well-being in her voice, and he smiled because she meant him to.

He did not point out that he had found her hiding in the shadow of a potted fern. "I suppose if you mean to interrogate Blackwood, I cannot be gone overlong, else I will have no secrets left." Ria nodded, searching his face. "You will be careful, won't you?"

"Yes." He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the mouth. Her lips were dry and cool and passionless.

"I will make it right, Ria," he whispered, taking her into his arms. "I promise you I will make it right."

She made no reply, but held him tightly until he gently drew back. Without a word passing between them, they returned to the ballroom, and he slipped away in the crush of guests.

Ria did not want for companions. The marquess approached her first and reminded her of their promised set. Ria accompanied him onto the dance floor and took her place in line. Eastlyn proved himself to be an easy partner, engaging her in just enough conversation to keep her from dwelling on West's activities.

"He knows what he is about," East assured her.

Ria noticed that the streak of fire in his chestnut-colored hair flashed as they passed under the crystal chandelier. "Would he admit it if he did not?"

"He would." His half-smile appeared. "But I wouldn't."

She frowned slightly, uncertain of his meaning. "Are you saying that-" She fell silent, stumbling when she caught sight of Sir Alex Cotton standing at the edge of the crowd. He appeared to be attentive to the animated conversation of a woman who was batting him playfully on the forearm with her fan.

"Chin up, Miss Ashby," East said, helping Ria recover gracefully. "Eyes on me. My wife says I am a handsome enough fellow and that I improve upon acquaintance, but you will easily convince me otherwise if I cannot hold your attention for the length of a single reel."

The pink in Ria's cheeks might have been from the heat of the room or the exertions of the dance, but they both knew it was not. "You will not let me faint, will you? I have only ever done so once, but I did not manage the thing with any grace."

"I will hold you upright if I must stand you upon my toes." He saw that his solemnly made promise raised her faint smile. "Is it Cotton that you spied?" he asked. "Or Herndon?"

"Sir Alex. Who is he with?"

"She is Lady Powell. Several years a widow and an inveterate flirt. She has independent means and no designs on marriage. It makes her a much desired companion."

Ria wondered at Sir Alex's interest. Was it feigned? Lady Powell was certainly attractive enough to capture a gentleman's notice, but Ria knew something about this gentleman's tastes that made her think the lady might be too long in the tooth for him. Then again, perhaps the girls at the school were merely a diversion, an entertainment enjoyed once, then easily dismissed. It might be that he was genuinely intrigued by the trifling attentions of a woman who was his social equal.

Eastlyn drew Ria's attention back to him. "This summer past I thought she would set her cap for Southerton, but he managed to elude her."

The viscount stood taller than many of the men at the periphery of the dance floor. Still, Ria heard his laughter before she caught sight of his shock of thick black hair. His head was slightly thrown back, hislong neck exposed, and his enjoyment of the moment was evident. Although she could not see Miss Parr, nor either of South's parents, she suspected they were nearby and being vastly entertained by him.

"Do not think he is distracted from his task," East told her. "I am certain he knows the precise location of his quarry."

"I didn't think it for a moment. He is watching Herndon, then?"

East nodded. "And North is responsible for Cotton, at least as long as I am with you."

Ria thought the marquess had pulled the short straw. She said nothing, because he was sure to gallantly deny it. Instead, she concentrated on matching his steps and allowed the music to fill the silence between them.

North invited her for a turn on the floor next, then South appeared to do the same. Made easy by their confidence and diverted by their good humor, Ria occasionally was able to forget that she felt so abominably guilty and found pleasure in their company.

It was no different once she was seated beside the guest of honor. Between interruptions by those in attendance who had not yet offered their congratulations, Colonel Blackwood spoke knowledgeably of art, literature, music, and, finally, of West. Ria was attentive to every part of their conversation, but especially to the last. It was not necessary to interrogate the colonel. He spoke freely, and with evident affection, of West as a younger man. She was quite certain there was a lot that of necessity was left unsaid, but Blackwood filled in a great many of the gaps that West had not.

The colonel finished off his drink and rolled the empty tumbler between his palms. "I am boring you," he said. "Is that it? I have regaled you with one too many of his harrowing exploits, and they no longer have the power to astonish."

Ria quickly lowered her fan. "What? No! That could never be the case."

"My dear," the colonel said gently. "Although you are yawning with considerable delicacy behind your fan, you are yawning nonetheless, and I do not think I am mistaken that your occasional darting glances are in aid of finding West or discovering the time. I can say with complete assurance that West has not returned, else he would put himself immediately at your side. As to the other..." Blackwood consulted the timepiece inside his frock coat. "I make it to be half past the ten o'clock hour."

"So late." Ria had nerves enough left to modulate her distress but not hide it entirely. "Why hasn't he returned?"

"Because he is not finished," the colonel said simply. "You think I am making light of his absence, but I am not. Trust me to know my men, Miss Ashby. West is nothing if not thorough."

"You are not afraid for him?"

Blackwood stopped rolling the tumbler and regarded Ria gravely. She seemed young to him of a sudden, or perhaps it was only that he felt so old. "I will not insult you by saying that I've never been afraid for him, but it has rarely been about the things you think." He smiled softly and let her make of that what she would. Holding out his glass, he asked, "Dare I impose upon you to-"

Ria stood immediately and took the tumbler from his hand. "I should have offered before," she said. "Iwill only be a moment." She was grateful for the opportunity to do something, even something so small as refilling the colonel's glass. Since arriving at the reception, she had been watched over and coddled. She was all but suffocated by the cotton wool of good intentions.

Clutching Blackwood's empty glass, Ria seized this chance to escape. Refreshments were served in the adjoining room, and Ria set off determinedly in that direction. It was not distance that posed the problem but the veritable clot of people at the entrance. Sidling and occasionally ducking, begging the pardon of two matrons and one elderly gentleman for trodding on their toes, pausing occasionally for a polite exchange of inconsequential pleasantries, and finally wielding her closed fan like a poker, Ria was able to move through the crush with no injury to herself and only minor inconvenience to others.

As was so often the way of these things, once she broke through the tight pack of guests in the doorway, the people milling about the refreshments room numbered exactly eleven. A footman, who had evidently been deterred by the crowd, stepped forward quickly and relieved Ria of her glass. She followed him to the large crystal punch bowl, but when he lifted the ladle, she stopped him.

"I don't think it is ratafia that was in there," she said. As she was negotiating the entrance, she'd had the colonel's tumbler pressed close to her chest. It was not the scent of fruit juice and brandy, nor the sweet flavoring of almonds that she detected rising from the glass. Leaning forward in the manner of sharing a confidence, Ria told the footman, "Whiskey, I think. The best that you have. It is for Colonel Blackwood."

"Of course." The footman turned to the sideboard behind him and in short order produced the tumbler with two generous fingers of whiskey. He handed it to her and waited in expectation of a request for herself.

"I am not certain I can manage two glasses," Ria said, glancing back the way she came.

"There is another route." The footman let his eyes slide sideways, pointing Ria to his left.

She followed his gesture and saw that the walnut wainscoting was not a single, solid piece and that the mural on the wall above it cleverly concealed most of the outline of the door. The small brass ring set into the wall was what had drawn her eye and revealed the rest. Smiling gratefully, Ria said, "If you can produce a glass of sherry, I shall gladly accept it."

"Certainly." He turned again, poured, and gave her the delicately stemmed glass. "It will take you to the gallery," he said. "From there you will find the hall or pass into the library. Will you not allow me to take your drinks and escort you?"

"No. That is unnecessary. I'm certain I am not the first to leave by that exit this evening, and no one has been lost yet."

"No, indeed."

Holding up both hands, Ria reminded the footman of the glass in each. He saw her dilemma and went straightaway to the door panel and opened it just enough for her to slip through. Ria paused on the other side as the panel clicked into place behind her.

The gallery was not deserted. There were always those in attendance at any gathering of the ton who preferred the company of their intimates to the company of the crowd. If circumstances had not compelled West to be elsewhere and his friends to be in the ballroom, Ria suspected this is where shewould have found the Compass Club. She could easily imagine them taking up position in one corner of the long room-perhaps beneath the large portrait of their host's ancestor on horseback-and making wagers as to the identity of the next person to walk through the wall. Moreover, they would wager on whether or not a refreshment would be carried and what it might be.

Smiling faintly at her own musings, Ria started across the gallery to the door that would lead her into the hall. She was aware of heads turning as she passed, though whether there was some objection to her intrusion, she couldn't fathom. Caught up in each other, the couple on the settee paid her scant attention.

The trio of matrons deliberately paused in their conversation. One gentleman turned from his study of a painting to apply the same scrutiny to her, another standing close by merely took a pinch of snuff. At the table where cards were being played, the game continued without interruption, though one gentleman found it was possible to raise his quizzing glass and make his trick simultaneously.

Ria would have liked to linger, but the softly lilting sounds of the stringed orchestra beckoned her back to the ballroom. She was also aware that her absence would not go unnoticed for long. The colonel would certainly be in want of his drink, even if he did not desire her company.

One of the ubiquitous footmen hastily stepped forward from his sentinel position at the door and opened it as Ria approached. Ria declined his offer to assist her with the drinks as she passed into the hallway.

The music was louder here, as was the conversational drone of the guests. She glanced down the hall to the group of people milling at the entrance to the ballroom, and she knew she could not bear to go back there just yet. The door behind her was already closed and did not offer an easy retreat.

She remembered the footman in the refreshments room had mentioned a library. It seemed like an offer of sanctuary now. Ria could not imagine that in a home as large as this one that there was but one way to arrive at the room. Pivoting soundlessly on her slippered heels, Ria set off-and walked directly into the path of Lady Powell.

In spite of her astonishment and the awkwardness of the encounter, Ria managed to avoid spilling the sherry. The generous pour of whiskey that she had been holding protectively at the level of her bosom was another matter. It sloshed over the rim of the tumbler and splashed the bodice and skirt of her gown.

Throwing up both hands as if to ward off another determined advance, Lady Powell jumped backward.

At the same time, she issued a soft "Ooh" from her perfectly shaped bow mouth. When she saw how much of the drink was staining the front of Ria's gown, she gathered courage enough to examine the condition of her own attire. Except for a few droplets of whiskey collecting in her cleavage, she was perfectly dry. The satin bands that crisscrossed her bosom and held her ice-blue tunic in place were unmarked, as was every fold of her draped silk gown.

Assured that she was all of a piece, Lady Powell turned her attention to the real casualty in this unfortunate collision. "Oh, my poor dear. You have taken the brunt of it, I'm afraid, though it was very good of you to do so."

"I had no notion that you were just behind me," Ria said.

"And I had no notion that you meant to spin like a dervish and reverse your course." She gazed significantly at the glasses Ria still held. "Nor any idea that you were armed. Here, allow me to take this one." Without waiting for an invitation, she relieved Ria of the nearly empty tumbler. "Come, we will find somewhere for you to make repairs and I will fetch a servant. They are everywhere, are they not, except when we have need of them." Looping her arm in Ria's just as if they were fast friends preparing to engage in a tete a'tete, she led Ria down the hall away from the ballroom. "I am Lady Powell," she said."My late husband was the Honorable Edmund Powell."

"I am Maria Ashby."

"Yes, I know. My husband knew the Duke of Westphal quite well. Similar political interests, I think, and business schemes. All of it beyond my ken, I assure you. Dull stuff. I rarely had occasion to cross paths with Westphal. I know his son considerably better."

Ria concentrated on not spilling the sherry, though seizing the carrot Lady Powell dangled in front of her was tempting. She suspected her ladyship was acquainted with Tenley every bit as well as West, but had little doubt it was West to whom she was referring.

"Aaah, here we are." Lady Powell stopped in front of a polished, paneled door and set her palm around the brass handle. "I believe this is the music salon." She opened the door a crack. "Yes, there is the pianoforte and the harp. There can be nothing wrong with you using the room until I am advised of more suitable accommodations. Go on. It will only be a minute before I return. No longer." She threw open the door wider so Ria could enter. "A sip or two of the sherry would not be amiss," she advised. "You are unaccountably pale."

The door closed behind her before Ria could react. Lady Powell was wrong. There was most certainly an explanation for the ashen state of her complexion: she was not alone in the salon. Sitting on the bench at the pianoforte, facing her, was Mr. Jonathan Beckwith.

Reaching behind her, Ria groped for the handle. Her fingers curled around it, and she pulled. The door rattled but did not open.

"Do not blame Lady Powell," Beckwith said. "She thinks her effort is in aid of supporting a lovers'

reconciliation." He stood, smiling narrowly at Ria's patent expression of disbelief. "What? Never say you would not choose me over Westphal."

"I would not choose you over a toad."

He sighed, not at all offended. "My, that is lowering and uncommonly ill-mannered of you. As it happens, Lady Powell was not asked to credit it, either. She has a charmingly diabolical turn of mind, but there are limits to what she can be made to believe. She thinks only that I am acting on Westphal's behalf and that my function is to keep you here until the duke arrives."

"Why does she think Westphal and I are lovers?"

"I suppose because Sir Alex told her you were. Herndon also dropped that interesting bit of salacious gossip. You must acquit me of stirring the pot, as I did not mingle with the guests. You will perhaps find it shocking that I was not invited to this affair." He motioned to Ria to join him at the piano. "Come, we must go now."

Ria didn't move. What she did was open her mouth to scream. The loud, discordant crashing of the keys on the pianoforte cut her off and left Ria feeling outmaneuvered. Only someone passing in the hall would have noted the noise and probably not made much of it. She slowly closed her mouth until her lips were just slightly parted, then she raised the glass of sherry and sipped. "I will not be going anywhere with you, Mr. Beckwith, so you are welcome to play another tune."

A dark brow arched dramatically. The effect was one of icy amusement, and Beckwith saw that he hadhit his mark with it. Ria's hand was not quite as steady on the stem of the sherry glass as it had been the moment before. "Insolent baggage." He smiled suddenly. "It is not entirely without appeal, though it can become wearing."

Ria tried the door again, but the handle remained jammed. On the far side of the piano were a pair of French doors. She supposed that Beckwith meant to escort her out through one of them and into the garden. There was a possibility that she could reach the portico and slip back inside, or at least call attention to herself. It was a certainty that someone would be looking for her. She had but to delay their departure.

Beckwith pointed to a spot on the floor directly in front of him. "You will come here." He paused a beat, then added in a tone that was like the snap of a whip, "Now."

Ria's stomach turned over. The effects of eating too little at supper and having had so few hours of sleep combined to make her feel unsettled and light-headed. At least it was what she told herself. She would not let herself believe it was Beckwith's sharp command. Her knees wobbled, and she took a second swallow of sherry. It struck her suddenly that fainting might just be the delaying tactic she required. Eyes darting around, she quickly assessed what pieces of furniture she must avoid.