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“Of course not.”

“Look, miss,” Miranda invited, gesturing toward the mirror. “No one will ever suspect you’ve been having adventures.”

Emily looked in the glass. It was true. She was restored to her usual appearance of sense and propriety. No one would guess that she had come so close to being seduced by a spy. She would return to her father’s house looking as if she’d spent the afternoon sipping tea. Tomorrow she and Lynley would appear side by side at Roz’s dinner, the picture of a properly betrothed couple.

* * * *

With her morning chocolate Emily woke to mortification. She leaned against her pillows, unable even to lift her cup. She, who prided herself on her power to direct her life’s course, to act according to sense and principle, had, in a giddy moment of strong feeling, seen the promise of happiness in Lynley’s dark eyes, and said yes to ruin.

Intent on the puzzle of the missing papers, she had not realized how far she’d been led down the path of seduction. For a moment it had seemed as if everything had changed between them, as if each existed only for the other. Only the fortuitous arrival of Lynley’s friends had saved her. On her own, she had forgotten the precise nature and boundaries of their partnership. She had a strong inclination to pull the coverlet over her head and curl into a ball.

Next to her cooling chocolate on the tray was a note from her mother. She picked it up and read.

My dear Emily,

You may imagine that no London news reaches me at this distance, and that preoccupied as I am with Grandmama’s care, I am indifferent to the success of your Season, but make no mistake I receive regular correspondence from a great many people.

To call Lady Vange’s ball private is, I fear, to misuse the word, for a number of persons have written in some haste to inform me that you drew attention to yourself in the most pronounced way in the middle of the dance floor by stepping between your betrothed and Lord Ravenhurst. As my informants have industriously reported, you have offended every feeling of propriety and delicacy.

I hope I am misinformed in this matter and that you will make every use of the dinner Roz has planned to restore your credit and Lynley’s in the eyes of the fashionable world.

Ever your affectionate mother

Emily groaned, put aside the tray, and threw off the covers. At least her mother had no idea of Emily’s worst folly, and if she and Lynley could behave with dignity at Roz’s party, the gossip might fade. And she and Lynley could return to being spy partners. This happy thought sustained her through breakfast with only a few moments of wondering how she would feel had they not been interrupted.

On the whole she felt she had recovered her senses when Lady Silsden entered the drawing room in great agitation, hardly waiting for Emily’s astonished butler to announce her.

“Ma’am, you look unwell. Do sit down,” Emily urged.

“You must stop him, Miss Radstock,” Lady Silsden declared.

“Stop Lynley, ma’am? From what?” Emily helped her guest to a seat.

“From fighting a duel. It’s all over London that he means to meet Ravenhurst.”

Emily sank onto the sofa opposite her guest. If Ravenhurst’s absurd attempt to challenge Lynley was known, then it must have been circulated by Barksted.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry for your distress. I’m afraid you’ve been taken in by some baseless tittle-tattle.”

“But I hear the challenge was quite public. Everyone saw Ravenhurst grab Lynley by his lapels at Lady Vange’s ball.”

There was no denying that bit. Emily could see how a clever man could build a credible story on a drunken man’s brief moment of indiscretion. “As it happens, you’re right that Ravenhurst did grab Lynley. I was there. I can assure you that no challenge was made. Poor Lord Ravenhurst was quite confused and in his cups.”

“You don’t understand. Lynley will be just like his father.”

“Are you speaking of the disaster? Can you tell me what happened?”

Emily procured her guest some tea, and when Lady Silsden had recovered somewhat, Emily encouraged her to tell the story.

“It was the summer of the great victory celebrations. The Tsar was here with his sister and a great many Russian ladies and gentlemen, and officers, of course. One officer caught the eye of Lynley’s mother, Caroline. The Russian was just as dashing as a soldier ought to be and quite the dancer. Lynley was with his parents in town to see all the pageantry, the reviews and enactments in the park, the fireworks at night.

“It was Lynley who realized Caroline was going to leave with the Russian. He tried to stop her as she climbed into the man’s carriage, and the man whipped him. He bears the scar, you know. Then—foolish, foolish boy—he told my brother. I’m sure Lynley had no idea of what would follow. My brother should have let her go, of course, faithless jade that she was, but he pursued them, and insisted on a duel. The Russian shot him dead.”

Lady Silsden held her teacup in trembling hands. Emily sat as calmly as she could. It would do no good to comment on the heartlessness of the account, but the image of Lynley’s imperfect mouth intruded to stir her feelings. She knew the sequel to this story. Lynley, a boy of fourteen, had blamed himself, had believed himself at fault for failing to stop the disaster.

When Lady Silsden managed a sip of tea and put down her cup, Emily asked, “What became of his mother?”

“Oh, Caroline went off with her Russian, but he never married her. He abandoned her in Paris, I believe. She died there some years later.”