A silence fell. Millie and Fitz were certainly each thinking of the specifics of what they needed to accomplish. As for Helena, Venetia had no idea what went through Helena’s mind these days. She hoped Helena wasn’t again blaming herself. If anything, she was grateful for Helena’s indiscretions—it had brought her the most wonderful week of her life.

“I’ll be all right,” she said.

Hell-bent on escape, she had not quite realized it at the time. But the worst had already happened: She had lost the man she loved.

Everything else was but ashes from the fire.


Because Christian did not frequent the London Season, Society had an exaggerated idea of the amount of time he spent gallivanting abroad. But he was rarely away more than four months out of the year. The rest of the time he looked after his inheritance.

The de Montforts had been a lucky clan. Other families just as prominent now held land and properties worth next to nothing. But the de Montforts happened upon quarries, mines, waterways, and tracts coveted by generations of builders. Directly and indirectly, through older holdings and newer ventures, Christian was responsible for the livelihoods of six hundred men and women. He educated their children and supported longtime retainers in their retirement.

His income was tremendous, but his expenses were also breathtaking. For that reason, he’d always approached meetings with his agents and solicitors with the utmost alertness. Today his attention lasted long enough to approve of a plan to petition the Shah of Persia for a concession to search for petroleum on the latter’s land.

After that, he barely heard what the roomful of men had to say.

The dream had come again—Mrs. Easterbrook dressing leisurely after their lovemaking, while he gazed upon her with infinite pleasure. This time, however, when she’d turned around, she’d spoken in German—in the baroness’s voice.

The worst part was that he’d awakened happy.

A knock came at the door. McAdams, the solicitor, cast a displeased eye toward it.

“Sir,” said Richards, his butler, “the dowager duchess would like to see you.”

Her Grace had never before asked to see him in the middle of a meeting with his men of business. Was something the matter with Mr. Kingston? He’d been in perfect health when they’d left him yesterday morning.

She was waiting for him in the drawing room and closed the door the moment he was inside. “The news is all over London, Christian. Lady Avery reports that at the lecture you gave at Harvard University, you accused Mrs. Easterbrook of killing her husbands with her greed.”

Time slowed with the utterance of the word Harvard. The dowager duchess’s lips moved at the speed of a glacier. Each additional syllable took an eon to arrive.

But he didn’t need to hear the rest. He already knew. His mistake had come to deliver its costly consequences.

“Lady Avery was at the lecture herself?” He heard his own voice, detached, remote.

Her face crumpled. “Oh, Christian, please tell me it isn’t true.”

“I never named Mrs. Easterbrook.”

“But you were speaking of her?”

He could not admit it, not even to the woman who had been both a mother and a sister to him. “It does not matter of whom I spoke. Rest assured I will do what I must to rectify the situation.”

“What has happened to you, Christian?” Her face sagged with worry. “First a public affair and then this. This is not like you at all.”

“I will take care of everything,” he promised her. “I will make everything all right again.”

At least on the outside.


Amazing how much one could do on an empty stomach when much needed to be done.

Venetia made sure she was seen everywhere: at the park, at the theater, at the latest exhibit of the British Museum. During Millie’s dinner she smiled and chatted as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Following dinner, she donned her armor and set out for the balls.

The armor was a ball gown of crimson velvet, cut very low and very tight. She’d had it made two Seasons ago on a whim, but she’d come to her senses and never worn it—her function at balls was that of a chaperone and a facilitator, not someone who called attention to herself. But tonight she meant for all eyes to be upon her, as she danced and laughed as if she’d never heard of America, let alone the Duke of Lexington.

By the time she arrived at the Tremaine ball, her third and last, it was well past midnight. Lady Tremaine met her at the head of the stairs and gave her an approving look.

“Brings back fond memories of when I last made a dramatic entrance—also in red velvet, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken at all,” said Lord Tremaine, who was never far from his wife’s side. “And the memories are indeed very fond.”

Venetia shook her head. “You will please stop flirting in public with your wife, sir. The mind quite boggles.”

Lady Tremaine laughed. “Well, in you go, Mrs. Easterbrook. They say Byron would claw his way out of his grave to rewrite ‘She Walks in Beauty’ if he ever saw you coming down a staircase.”

Venetia possessed one of the best descents. She didn’t often employ it—again, not her place as a mere chaperone—but when she did, her head tilted just so, shoulders back, arms limber, the slightest of a smile playing about her lips, both men and women had been known to drop their drinks at the sight.

Tonight the entire ballroom held its breath at her entrance, then came a scramble for places on her dance card.

But this was never about the gentlemen: A beautiful woman was always assured of some masculine support. Society, however, was run largely by women and for women. And women were far less forgiving of other women.

The younger girls were excited—and some, quite unnerved—by the possibility of great conflict. Some matrons regarded her with a mixture of coolness and what felt to be—she hoped she was wrong—bloodlust. They were too prudent to immediately pounce upon her and declare her a husband-killer, but they, or at least a few of them, would like to, for the sport and spectacle of it, if nothing else.

And it was they, in the end, who must declare her once again fit for Society.

At present, her allies circulated the ballroom and, subtly but firmly, let it be known that they would not stand by for her to be ostracized—that they were prepared to sever ties with the one who dared to cast the first stone.

She was grateful. But she was also a realist. If this dragged on, her reputation would diminish daily. In the end, it would not be necessary for anyone to step up and denounce her. The collective caution—and desire to not be associated with someone dubious—would be quite enough to relegate her to the fringes of Society, still received in a few households and unwelcome everywhere else.

Breathless and a little dizzy from dancing Strauss’s “Wine, Women, and Song” with Lord Tremaine, she almost did not hear the announcement of the arrival of the Duke of Lexington.

The ballroom had thrummed with exiting dancers, laughing from their exertion. Now it fell as quiet as the Reading Room at the British Museum, with all eyes upon the duke, descending the grand staircase behind his stepmother—gentlemen of a party always entered a ball behind the ladies—and a man Venetia assumed to be Mr. Kingston by his side.

Lord Tremaine had been about to deliver Venetia to Fitz and Millie, but now he changed course and guided her toward his wife. The two of them flanked her—so there could be no mistake of their backing.

Christian, with his characteristic directness, headed straight for the Tremaines—and Venetia.

The air drew taut. This was not to be an overtly hostile encounter—the presence of the dowager duchess was a guarantee of civility on her stepson’s part. Yet Venetia felt as if she were a novice gladiator about to be thrown into the coliseum for the first time against a seasoned combatant, with the entire audience braying for her blood.

Lord Tremaine exchanged a pleasant word with his guests, extended his welcome, and then, turning a little, as if just discovering Venetia beside him, said to the dowager duchess, “Your Grace, may I present a good friend, Mrs. Easterbrook?”

The Dowager Duchess of Lexington was very gracious, if a little struck, as people often were when first meeting Venetia.

“Mrs. Easterbrook,” Lord Tremaine continued, “allow me to present His Grace the Duke of Lexington and Mr. Kingston. Gentlemen, Mrs. Easterbrook.”

Venetia inclined her head. Christian looked at her the way his Norman ancestors might have scrutinized a troublesome Anglo-Saxon, and returned a cursory nod.

Well, that was it. He had allowed the introduction and would henceforth count her as an acquaintance: as open a rebuke to Lady Avery’s account of events as anyone could want. He would now politely disengage himself, perhaps dance with a suitable young girl who had the favor of his stepmother, and then depart.

For a moment, it seemed that was precisely what he meant to do. But the dowager duchess placed a hand on his elbow. An unspoken message passed between them.

With a determined set to his jaw, he said, “It is expected, is it not, upon being introduced to a lady at a ball, to ask for a dance?”

Had she not ventured aboard the Rhodesia, she’d have taken the opportunity to let him know that their new acquaintanceship meant as little to her as it did to him. That he, for all his title and wealth, was the last man she’d allow to put his arm about her.

But she had ventured aboard the Rhodesia, had spent a week falling in love with him, and every minute since thinking about him. She’d crouched in a soggy-smelling hansom for hours outside his house, like an ill-trained private investigator, just so she could see his face again.