That was when the body in the upstairs room would be discovered. Shortly thereafter, the police would begin their search for the woman who had murdered Lord Gavin, one of the wealthiest, most distinguished gentlemen in the Polite World.

She fled into the night.

One year and two months later…

The mysterious widow had vanished again.

Anthony Stalbridge prowled slowly along the shadowy hallway, watching for a crack of telltale light beneath a door. All of the rooms appeared to be unoccupied, but he knew she had to be somewhere in the vicinity. A few minutes ago he had caught a glimpse of her disappearing up the dark flight of servants’ stairs.

He had given her a little time before following her up the cramped staircase. When he emerged on the bedroom floor, however, Mrs. Bryce was nowhere in sight.

The muffled strains of a waltz and the dull roar of champagne-inspired conversation emanated from the ballroom. The ground floor of the Hastings mansion was ablaze with lights and crowded with elegantly attired guests, but up here there was only the dim glow of an occasional wall sconce and an ominous silence.

The house was a large one, but the only occupants were Elwin Hastings; his very new, very rich, very young bride; and the staff. The servants slept below stairs. That meant that most of the bedrooms on this floor would be empty.

Vacant bedrooms at a large party sometimes proved tempting to guests in search of a location suitable for an illicit tryst. Had Mrs. Bryce come up here to meet a man? For some obscure reason he did not care to contemplate that possibility too closely. Not that he had any claim on her. They had shared a few dances and some cautious, excruciatingly polite conversation at various social affairs this past week. That was the extent of their formal association. But his intuition—not to mention every masculine instinct he possessed—had warned him that in reality they were engaged in a reckless fencing match. It was a match he had no intention of losing.

Since their first meeting, Louisa Bryce had done her best to discourage his attentions, verbally at least. That was not entirely unexpected, of course, given the old scandal linked to his name. What intrigued him was that she seemed to go out of her way to put off every other man in the room at every party she attended.

He was a man of the world. He knew that there were some women who were not attracted to men in a sexual manner, but, on the few occasions when he had coaxed Louisa out onto the dance floor and into his arms, he had been convinced that she was as sensually aware of him as he was of her. The waltz was an excellent test for that sort of thing. Then, again, perhaps he was deluding himself for the oldest reason in the world: He wanted her.

She could not know that her scholarly gold-rimmed spectacles, unfashionable gowns, and earnest, painfully dull conversation only served to fascinate him. The studious, boring veneer was so manifestly fraudulent. He had to admit, however, that it appeared to be quite effective on the rest of Society. Her name was not connected to that of any gentleman. He had made a point of confirming that fact, discreetly, of course. As far as he could tell, Louisa was not involved in an intimate liaison with a man.

The lady was most certainly a mystery, and one of the most mysterious things about her was her stealthy curiosity concerning their host tonight, Elwin Hastings, and the gentlemen involved in Hastings’s new investment consortium.

A door opened at the far end of the hall. He moved into the deep shadow of a small alcove and awaited developments.

Louisa emerged from the room. He could not see her features clearly in the gloom, but he recognized the uninspired maroon gown with its unfashionably small bustle. He also knew the proud tilt of her chin and the graceful set of her shoulders.

In spite of the decidedly indiscreet situation, or perhaps because of it, a hot thrill of desire tightened his lower body. He watched her coming toward him out of the shadows and remembered how she had felt in his arms when he had danced with her a short time ago. She had done her best, as usual, to appear prim and boring, but no amount of stilted conversation could disguise the wary intelligence and intriguing challenge in those amber eyes. Nor could any amount of dull chatter detract from the feel of her elegant spine beneath his palm. He wondered if she realized that the harder she tried to discourage him, the more he felt compelled to discover her secrets.

She hurried along the hall, oblivious of his presence, going back toward the servants’ stairs. The light from a wall sconce gleamed briefly on the rims of her spectacles. He was debating whether or not to step out into her path and confront her or continue to follow her when a rough voice rumbled from the top of the servants’ stairs.

“Who goes there?” a man asked sharply.

It was a demand, not a question, and it was not delivered in the polite, deferential tone of a servant.

Quinby. One of the two guards who accompanied Hastings everywhere lately.

Anthony reached out an arm, seized Louisa as she went past him, and dragged her to a halt.

She turned toward him, mouth opened on a small shriek of startled surprise. Her eyes were very wide. He clamped his free palm over her lips.

“Hush,” he said into her ear. “Trust me.”

He pulled her tightly to him and kissed her hard enough to enforce silence.

She resisted tensely for a couple of seconds. He deliberately deepened the kiss, demanding a response. Abruptly, she stopped fighting him. In that searing moment of intimate contact something as highly charged and as electrifying as a lightning bolt flashed between them. He knew she was aware of the sensation. He could feel her sudden, shocked reaction. It had nothing to do with the approach of the guard.

Quinby’s heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Anthony swore silently. He wanted nothing more than to continue kissing Louisa. He longed to drag her into the nearest bedroom, put her down on a bed, strip away the spectacles and the plain gown…

“What are you two doing up here?” Quinby demanded.

Anthony raised his head. He did not have to pretend a show of reluctance and irritation. Louisa stepped back, frowning as though she, too, was vexed by the interruption. He noticed that behind the lenses of her spectacles her eyes seemed a little unfocused and that she was breathing quickly.

“It seems we have company, my dear,” he said evenly.

Quinby was almost upon them. Big and broad-shouldered, he was dressed in a dark overcoat. One of the pockets of the coat sagged with the weight of the object inside. A large, expensive-looking gold-and-onyx ring flashed on one hand.

Louisa rounded on the guard. Anthony sensed that she was unnerved, but she covered her reaction quite admirably by opening her fan with an irritated snap.

“I do not believe we have been introduced,” she said in a voice that could have frozen a furnace. Although she was a good deal shorter, she somehow managed to look down her nose at Quinby. “Who are you to accost us?”

“No offense, ma’am,” Quinby said, his hard eyes on Anthony, “but no guests are allowed on this floor. I’ll see you both back downstairs.”

“We do not require an escort,” Anthony said coolly. “We know the way.”

“Indeed,” Louisa said. “We most certainly do.”

She collected a handful of her skirts and made to sweep past Quinby. He reached out and caught her elbow.

She gasped, as though shocked to the core. “How dare you?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but before you go, I’m obliged to ask what you were about up here,” he said.

She glowered through the lenses of her spectacles. “Take your hand off me immediately, or I shall see to it that Mr. Hastings is informed about this incident.”