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Disorganized bookcases. A barren hearth. A globe and a painting of a ship. That final observation would have been enough to turn her away if she hadn’t noticed, just to her left, a cellarette.

She pushed the door just shy of closed. The cellarette’s mahogany lid opened with a squeak, and she fished into the darkness, finding the narrow neck of a bottle. “Thank you, Lord Milton,” she whispered to herself. There was just enough moonlight coming through the curtains to make the brandy’s label visible.

A minute’s fumbling revealed a velvet armchair and crystal glassware, which she wasted no time making use of. Darkness ensconced her in this corner of the room. The drink burned its way down her throat, and she took the glass in both hands to keep it steady.

She wasn’t that unsettled; a few minutes of quiet would see her restored. She would go back to that ballroom, soiled skirts and all, and continue to dance through to dinner. To dawn, if she had to.

“To the Penneys.” A wry smile curved Sophie’s lips as she spoke the words and tipped back her glass. “My attentive chaperones.”

It was a wonderful thing, on occasion, to go easily unnoticed. Everyone thought only of themselves, and tonight, all the Penneys’ thoughts would be for their daughter’s match. The wealthiest man in the house was doubtless being tortured by them, marked a sacrifice to restore their destitute estate through marriage. At least a lack of funds was one problem the St. Quintons did not have.

Perhaps the only one. Sophie drained her glass and coughed into the back of her hand. She’d taken off her gloves, letting the space between her fingers breathe, and even done the same with her slippers. All was well. She was in control again. She reclined in the armchair, leaning her head back as far as her pearl-pinned coiffure would allow, and stretched her legs.

Footsteps outside the study door sent her eyes wide open.

“I hadn’t expected you’d be in company tonight.”

Two men, their tones familiar only in their stiff formality. But the one who had just spoken, whoever he was, had a nice-sounding voice. A baritone marked by sharp consonants, not so refined as a gentleman. She’d have bet anything he was young, just by that voice. That barely leashed irritation lying beneath it.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to have this conversation privately?” The door creaked open another inch.

Oh, divine! Sophie sat bolt upright, her feet searching blindly for her discarded slippers. It was an easy assurance that no one would come seeking her out, but she hadn’t accounted for being discovered—in dishabille, barefoot, with her empty glass still reeking of her host’s private brandy collection.

She found the first slipper just as light bloomed on the carpet, and the lean silhouette of a stranger entered the study.

two

Rafe passed the untouched glass of ratafia from his left hand to his right. Why had he accepted it, again? Manners, or some such nonsense. Very well. He would bandy about as many drinks and suffer through as many introductions as the evening warranted; his purpose here was singular, and just now, she was dancing with another man.

“Who is that fellow? I say, he doesn’t look familiar to me.”

Rafe gave his father the briefest glance. Thomas Balfour’s face was flushed, the thick red skin of his neck curling over his cravat. A damn shame to employ the finest tailors, only to argue over the accuracy of their taken measurements.

The warm glass passed back into Rafe’s left hand. “Who?”

“Why, the fellow dancing with Miss Penney!” Thomas hissed. “He must be possessed of some wealth.”

Rafe took a sip, small enough he could hardly taste it. “I’m not acquainted with him.”

“You wrote your name on her card, did you bloody well not?”

“I did.”

“Well? Then tell me who else had written there.”

When Rafe had penciled himself in for Miss Penney’s minuet, he’d been more concerned with holding himself just the right way, and not making a scene in general, and getting the business over with as quickly as possible for both their sakes. He hadn’t cataloged a single name, remembering his competition only as lords and captains and the like. He was the only ‘Mister.’

“I don’t recall,” Rafe said.

“Let us hope you have retained your dancing abilities better than that of your memory. Another few lessons would have been prudent—”

Glass shattered somewhere behind them. Rafe spun on his heel to face the refreshment room. A small group was gathering to peer inside, obscuring his view. Someone gasped. Another covered her mouth with a gloved hand.

A strong grip ensnared Rafe’s elbow, halting him before he could take a second step.

“There’s enough of a scene as it stands.” Even speaking low amid a packed ballroom, Thomas’s voice held a certain thick command.

Rafe sidestepped his father’s hold and smoothed his coat sleeve. “I only thought if someone were injured, they might be in want of assistance.”