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What was worse, the Templetons believed in the adage, the more the merrier, and packed the house to the rafters with revelers. That, along with too much mulled wine, hot toddies, abundant champagne, and the gentlemen imbibing in stronger spirits, provided the perfect opportunity for illicit liaisons.

Last year, trying to find a quiet spot to read, she’d stumbled upon no fewer than three amorous couples. That included Jackson Matherfield in the conservatory wrapped in a scandalous embrace with that fast, immoral wanton Francine Willoughby.

Even now, the memory caused Aubriella’s cheeks to flame with chagrin, and it was freezing outside. She’d pelted back to her shared bedchamber and pleaded a sick headache for the next four and twenty hours.

Never mind that Aubriella didn’t ever suffer from headaches.

But what she’d accidentally witnessed made her head throb with the vengeance of a Highlander’s battle drums and proved beyond a doubt that Jackson Matherfield was every bit the rapscallion and rakehell she’d always believed him to be.

Mindful that her friends awaited her, Aubriella slung her satchel strap over her head and adjusted the bag to hang near her waist. The smooth, dark-brown leather concealed so many secrets. Confidences she and the others she was about to meet with had sworn never to reveal.

Keeping one hand firmly against the sealed bag, she peered up at Mosely.

“Pick me up in three hours.” Would that give her enough time to ready herself for dinner? “No, you had better make it two.”

Mama had invited guests to supper for Emmet’s birthday, although for the life of her, Aubriella couldn’t remember precisely who would attend and celebrate.

Had Mama told her?

Probably.

Trying to recall, Aubriella pursed her lips. Absorbed with the drawings she’d received from Italy last week, not much else had kept her attention these past few days.

Such magnificent, wondrous, intriguing renderings.

The copies of Leonardo da Vinci’s anatomical drawings lay hidden beneath her mattress.

Just thinking about the intricate and detailed works caused her tummy to tumble with giddiness. She might’ve led her parents to believe the sketches were da Vinci’s architectural renderings. Architecture wasn’t exactly appropriate for a young lady of quality, but it was certainly not as scandalous as the artist’s depictions of human dissections.

Aubriella felt little remorse for deceiving her parents.

If women could study medicine, she wouldn’t have had to resort to subterfuge. However, until that day came—and she was confident it must—she would unapologetically use whatever means necessary to expand her knowledge of the human body.

Regardless, a formal supper meant Aubriella must dress appropriately. Her usual attire of whatever she wore while studying her specimens would not do, sans her stained laboratory apron, of course.

No, tonight would require a fashionable gown, stays, intricately coiffured hair, jewelry, and perfume. And, of course, her best manners, decorum, and hours of insipid small talk. She would struggle to not roll her eyes, yawn, or make a less-than-charitable remark.

So help her God, if anyone mentioned the weather, fashion, or shared a snippet of gossip, she would eschew propriety and suggest a dark, unmentionable cavern where they might shove said exchange.

Since at four and twenty, she was too old to banish to her room, and restricting her social interactions merely brought her relief, her parents had no notion what to do with their middle daughter when she blurted something blush-worthy or indecorous. Which, truth be told, occurred more often than Aubriella cared to admit.

Nevertheless, the skills that came easily to her sisters seemed to have skipped her altogether, along with the ability to dance gracefully, sing in tune, and wield a needle with any skill. Although she’d bet her pin money if women could become surgeons, she’d have managed a needle with considerable aptitude.

Yes, tonight would be another painful reminder of everything Aubriella was and was not. She was plain, solidly on the shelf, and had nothing to look forward to except caring for her parents in their dotage.

And…sneaking around, trying to learn as much about anatomy as possible.

A sparrow amongst doves.

For certain, tonight she would say something stupid, knock over her wineglass, clink her fork or spoon against her plate, or any number of other miniature calamities.

One could wager on it.

Her stomach cramped at the thought, but she forced a smile to her suddenly stiff lips.

“Please tell Widow Waddell hello for me, Mosely.”

For the past year, since entering into the clandestine business venture, she’d visited Roxina almost weekly. Mosely and the widow had grown quite cozy, and Aubriella hoped he’d propose soon.

“Yes, Miss Penford. I shall.” He nodded, giving her a grateful smile, fondness creasing the corners of his kind, nut-brown eyes and wrinkling his weathered face. “I’ll just watch until you’ve entered the house.”

He took his duties to deliver Aubriella home unharmed seriously. That meant he was on duty until the door closed behind her. Bracing against the wintry wind buffeting her, she bent her head as she turned and plowed straight into a tall, hard, masculine form.

“Careful there, Miss Penford.”