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Her mother’s gaze turned shrewd. “And you were not so taken by the dancing.”

“No,” Mariah admitted without pretense. “At least not by the dancing partners.”

Cassandra Dunmore put down her teacup. “Mariah, you do know you shall see those same gentlemen at many other events. I hope you’re not being too quick to condemn.”

“Condemn? Oh, no, Mama,” she protested. “I did not know what to expect. Now I do.”

“And now you will expect to be bored,” murmured her mother with a wry look. “Perhaps your father and I were wrong to keep you from London for so long. This is your home, after all, not St. Petersburg or Vienna. I hope the excitement of those cities hasn’t spoiled England for you.”

“Not at all! I am glad to be home. And I would never have forgiven you and Papa if you had left me here alone for the last five years.” Her mother laughed, and Mariah grinned. Then she tried to shift the subject to what she wanted to discuss. It had to be done delicately. “There were some interesting people present last night, and I expect they shall improve even more upon further acquaintance.” Mariah paused, then added as casually as she could, “Might I see the guest list?”

“Of course, darling. May I ask why?”

Mariah hesitated. At twenty-two years, soon to be three-and-twenty, she was past the age when most girls made their debuts. Her father had worried about this upon their return to England, but her mother had firmly put his doubts aside. A girl with Mariah’s family and beauty, to say nothing of her charm and intelligence, could have a husband as soon as she decided to get one. The earl agreed with his wife on all counts about their adored only child, and Mariah had felt none of the pressure to find a husband that her friends and peers had felt.

Still, she knew just how pleased her mother would be if she showed any interest in a gentleman. Papa would probably have him fetched at once to make his intentions and expectations known. Which was, of course, impossible with Harry until she discovered who he was, and even then she preferred not to arouse her parents’ suspicions. She might not like him so very much after all.

“I met a gentleman last night, and he refused to tell me his proper name,” she settled on saying. “It was most vexing.”

“Indeed,” her mother replied in surprise. “Exceedingly vexing, I should say. What did he tell you?”

“He said he was called Harry.” Mariah faced her mother with as unconcerned an expression as she could manage. “He laughed when I said I would discover his name on my own, and said he knew I could not.”

Cassandra set aside her tea. “He laughed?”

Mariah gave a small sniff of disgust. “No doubt he thought I lacked the intelligence.”

Her mother flung back her covers and got out of bed, a martial gleam in her eye. “Did he? We shall see about that.” She pulled on her dressing gown as she crossed the room to her writing desk. Mariah watched, quietly gloating, while her mother pulled several pages from a drawer. “Now, come here, Mariah,” she said, taking a seat on the chaise. “Let us discover the scoundrel.”

“Yes, Mama.” Mariah hurried over.

A half hour later, however, all her plans to fling the discovery triumphantly in his face lay in ruins. They had gone over the list two, three, four times, examining every name that could possibly imply Harry, and found nothing.

“Mariah, I think he must have lied to you.” Cassandra put down the list. “We didn’t invite anyone named Harry.”

“But he was here, Mama!” She scowled at the list in frustration. “Who is this?” She tapped one name.

Her mother looked. “Mr. Harold Graves. Tall and bald. Not a terribly charming fellow.”

Mariah didn’t want that to be her Harry, and besides, she had found him perfectly charming. She looked down the page. “And this one?”

“Sir Henry Gates? I’m certain he never left the card room. Appalling weakness in a man of his position.”

“What position?”

Her mother cleared her throat. “He advises the Lord Chancellor, dear. Best of friends with him.”

“Ah.” Mariah flipped the pages, grasping at straws. “This one, then.”

Cassandra sighed wearily. “Lord Wroth is elderly, Mariah. He walks with a cane and has a hump.”

Mariah flung the useless list across the room. “Then who the devil is he?”

“Mariah, please!”

She flopped back with something dangerously close to a pout at her mother’s reprimand. How on earth was she ever to meet the man again if she didn’t know his name or his face?

“Tell me more about this gentleman,” said her mother. “What does he look like?”