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He stopped himself. That way lay madness. The spark of interest he had sensed in her would be extinguished the moment she laid eyes on him—especially dressed as he was now.

Harry squeezed his foot back into the too-small shoe. What a careless piece of work that had been, leaving it on the balcony when he pitched his things off and all but jumped after them. If she had refused to give it back, he would have been stuck, unable to return to the house, and then he would have been in real trouble.

As it was, he’d spent far too much time outside, and not seen a thing he meant to see. The longer it took him to search the grounds, the longer it would be before he could steal another glimpse of her in the ballroom.

Straightening his coat and picking up his walking stick, he set off through the darkened gardens.

Chapter Three

Mariah flung back the drape and hurried through the ballroom toward the terrace. The doors were open wide to allow the guests to move freely from the crowded ballroom into the gardens. The scoundrel had climbed straight down a wall—to get away from her!—and if he thought to sneak back into the ballroom without explaining himself, he was sadly mistaken.

The guests had begun moving toward the supper room, where a feast for hundreds was spread. Mariah threaded her way though them as quickly as she could, barely returning the greetings people called to her. See, Harry, she told him in her mind, everyone here wants to greet me and be introduced to me. Why don’t you?

“Mariah!” A tall, plump girl with a profusion of chestnut ringlets caught her arm. “Where are you going in such a rush?”

“Joan, have you been on the terrace?” Mariah demanded.

Her cousin smiled coyly. “Well. I’m sure I’d never admit it, if I had been.”

“Bother that. Did you see a...” Oh blast, how was she to describe him? “A tall gentleman with a sly laugh?”

Joan blinked. “Only ten or twelve. Why?”

Mariah seized her arm and towed her through the doors out onto the terrace. “Point them out,” she whispered. “Especially any who have not been here all along.”

Joan stared at her. “Why? I refuse to incriminate anyone until you tell me what happened. Did he make an improper advance? Did⁠—?”

“Just do it.” Mariah pushed her cousin forward, following close behind.

Joan huffed, but put on a bright smile and began nodding at the guests returning to the house from the terrace and garden. Mariah kept one eye on the other doors, too, although they were farther from where Harry had left her. He would have to make a very wide circle to get in that way without her seeing him.

“This one?” whispered Joan through her fixed smile. Mariah stared at the approaching gentleman, tall with golden good looks. She doubted he was the one; he didn’t fit with her mental picture of Harry at all, much too elegant and proper-looking. Harry was sly, bold, charming... and took off his shoes at a ball.

The gentleman paused in front of Joan, probably because she was staring at him and grinning like a fool. “Good evening, Miss Bennet.” He bowed. “Lady Mariah.”

It was not Harry. His voice was nowhere near the same, too cool and too languid. Mariah immediately turned away, scanning the terrace for any other candidates as he spoke to Joan.

“How kind of you, sir,” Joan was saying. “But we are already engaged for supper, thank you.” Thank heavens Joan was such a good friend. Mariah murmured something to the gentleman as he bowed again and excused himself with a lingering puzzled glance. No doubt he thought them quite strange for staring at him, then brushing him aside. She would worry about that later, after cornering the impertinent Harry.

If she found him, that is. There were only a few people crossing the terrace now. A pair of gentlemen talking in low voices went back into the ballroom, but Joan whispered that she had seen them both talking outside for some time. A woman strolled out of the garden, smiling secretively, and a few moments later a man followed, too obviously intent on her to fool anyone. Soon it was only she and Joan.

“Now,” exclaimed Joan when it became clear they were alone. “Tell me everything!”

“There’s nothing much to tell,” said Mariah, a little let down. “I met a gentleman, and he only told me his given name.”

“Which is?” Joan prompted, her brown eyes shining.

“Harry.” Mariah put up her chin as she said it. Harry was a rather common name, now that she thought about it.

“You mean Henry. Or Harold. Perhaps Harris?” Joan frowned. “I met a Mr. Harris Cortney the other day, but he was quite short.”

Mariah shook her head. “No, no, this Harry was tall, taller than I am.”

“What does he look like?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

Joan gasped. “You don’t know! Why not? Did you have your eyes closed? Were you—Oh! Mariah Dunmore!” she squealed. “Were you alone with him in the dark?”