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Lily opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented. The familiar hush of early morning filled the drawing room, where the delicate tick of the longcase clock was the only sound beyond her own breathing. Her book had slipped from her hand and now lay open-faced upon the Aubusson carpet, the corner of one page bent as if in protest. She must have dozed off while reading, lulled by the flickering candlelight hours ago.

Sitting upright, she pushed a loose curl behind her ear and blinked away the remnants of sleep. Pale light filtered through the sheer mullioned drapes, just enough to illuminate the high plaster ceiling and gilded frames along the far wall.

The first fragile threads of dawn stretched like silk across the rooftops of Mayfair, turning chimney pots and brick façades into softened silhouettes. A carriage rattled to a stop across the street, its wheels a muted clatter on the cobbles, and drew her attention. Her breath caught slightly as she recognized the familiar crest upon the lacquered panel. It was Lady Slight’s barouche.

Several heartbeats passed. Then the widow herself emerged, walking with her customary grace despite the hour. A heavy velvet cape was drawn over her shimmering evening gown, its hem brushing the paving stones as she crossed to her front door. Her stride was measured, though her return at such a time hinted at impropriety.

Lily frowned, a furrow forming between her brows. Had Lady Slight truly left Mr. Ridley waiting through the night? The notion struck her as inconsiderate. Even in an arrangement of questionable propriety, such neglect showed a lack of regard.

She stretched, arms above her head and back arching slightly in a movement that would have earned a stern rebuke from Mama. As she did so, she noted the silence of the household. If she had spent the night in the drawing room, then her parents and brother Aidan must still be at their various engagements. Mama would never have allowed her to remain here, alone and uncovered, if she had returned.

Bending to retrieve her book, Lily’s thoughts were disrupted by sudden motion beyond the glass. The door across the street burst open, swinging wide with uncharacteristic force, and Mr. Ridley strode out in haste. His coat flared behind him, and though distance obscured his expression, his urgency was unmistakable.

Had he, like her, fallen asleep and only just awakened? His manner suggested more than mild alarm. He was not merely late. He seemed almost agitated.

She watched as he disappeared into the lavender-gray shadows at the end of the lane. Hackneys would be difficult to find at this hour. Lily doubted the gentry of Mayfair were stirring yet, and certainly not their drivers.

Clutching the book to her chest, she turned toward the door. It was high time she sought her bed, though she suspected she would not sleep. The image of Mr. Ridley’s retreating figure lingered in her mind like the closing line of an unfinished story.

Chapter

Three

“Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent’s fate.”

Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)

JULY 20, 1821, THE DAY AFTER

Lily was eager for an outing with her cousin. After a restless night dozing off in the front drawing room, she had finally made her way to bed and awakened refreshed and ready for a visit to Hatchards with Sophia to peruse the latest novels.

After yet another unsuccessful Season, Lily admitted she needed a respite from social events and the endless parade of introductions to gentlemen she scarcely knew.

A morning with Sophia would be a welcome change, a chance to relax and enjoy each other’s company without Mama watching her like a falcon guarding its nest of hatchlings.

She wore a muslin walking dress in the customary white her mother insisted upon. Lily pulled a face at her reflection in the mirror. White was hardly flattering on a pale young lady with brown hair and eyes. Since her marriage, Sophia had enjoyed the privileges of a countess, including a wardrobe of flattering blues and spring hues that perfectly complemented her red-blonde hair and vivid eyes. Even before marrying, Sophia had been allowed greater latitude as Mama’s niece than Lily could ever hope for.

How was she to catch the notice of a handsome young gentleman when she looked so washed out and childlike?

Shaking her head in disgust, she drew on a pastel blue Spencer, which did her complexion no more favors than the dress beneath it. Mama, on the other hand, wore rich tones—claret, saffron, and Egyptian brown. They shared similar coloring, and Lily knew well that such shades would lend her vibrancy, but Mama remained unmoved in her conviction that white and pale pastels were the only acceptable attire for a proper debutante.

Not that she was such a young debutante anymore.

Lily grimaced at her reflection. Indeed. After three full Seasons, she could hardly claim youth with any conviction.

She drew on her kid gloves and departed her room, her step lightening slightly. Sophia would collect her on the hour, and Lily could not suppress the flicker of joy at the prospect of escaping the Abbott townhouse without family in attendance.

Reaching the front hall, she glanced at the casement clock before moving to the window that overlooked the street. She gazed out in hopeful anticipation.

And gazed.

And continued to gaze.

Checking the time again, Lily began to pace. It was not like Sophia to be late. She had even sent a footman two days earlier to confirm their appointment, despite the countess’s many obligations surrounding the coronation.

When she checked the time once more, Lily blew out a sigh, her shoulders sagging with disappointment. First Aidan had left her to her own devices the day before, and now Sophia, too, had failed to appear.

Something must have happened.