She looked deliberately about her, secure in the knowledge that no one was going to meet her eyes and catch her staring. She did not recognize anyone. She concentrated upon the gentlemen, realizing as she did so the difficulty of the task she had set herself. There were young and old and everything in between, and all were immaculately dressed. But there was no way of knowing which among them were married and which single, which were wealthy and which poor, which had strong moral scruples and which were debauched – and which were somewhere between those two extremes. She had no time to find out what she needed to know before making her choice and her move.

And then her eyes alit upon a familiar face – three of them, actually.

There was yesterday's devil, looking just as satanic tonight in black evening clothes. The lady who had been on horseback yesterday was standing beside him, her hand on his sleeve, and she was talking and laughing. The gentleman Cassandra had thought of as mockingly handsome looked on, an amused smile playing about his lips.

The devil looked across the room from beneath his brows, and his eyes locked on Cassandra's. She fanned her cheeks slowly and gazed back. He raised one eyebrow and then lowered his head to say something to the lady. She laughed again. They were not, Cassandra guessed, talking about her.

The devil was Mr. Huxtable. Cassandra continued to look at him for a few moments. He had given her an opening, which she might use later if no better prospect presented itself.

"I saw you looking at me earlier, sir," she might say, "and I have been puzzling ever since over where we have met before. Do please enlighten me."

They would both know that they had /not/ met before, and he would know that she knew. But the door would have been opened and she would make sure that he stepped through it with her.

Except that she could not help feeling that he was a dangerous man. And when all was said and done, she was not an experienced courtesan. She was only a desperate woman who knew that men found her attractive. For years she had considered that fact to be a liability. Tonight she would turn it into an asset.

Her eyes moved onward. And then, directly opposite her across the ballroom, she saw her angel.

He looked even more handsome than he had yesterday in the park. He was dressed in a black evening coat with silver knee breeches, embroidered waistcoat, and crisp white shirt and neckcloth and stockings. He was tall and perfectly built – slender and yet well muscled in all the right places. And his golden blond hair, though short and well styled, was wavy and looked as if it might be unruly in its natural state. It looked like a halo of light about his head.

He was standing with a lady and a gentleman who resembled Mr. Huxtable to such a close degree that Cassandra looked quickly back at the latter to make sure he had not flown around one quarter of the ballroom ahead of her eyes. But this man was not dressed in unrelieved black, and his face was more good-humored. The two men must be brothers, though.

Perhaps even twins.

Cassandra looked back at the angel – the Earl of Merton. He was the only gentleman in the room about whom she knew anything at all. If the five ladies in the park were to be believed – and they had been right about this ball being a grand squeeze – he was a very wealthy gentleman indeed.

And single.

And there was that air of innocence about him. Was that a good thing, though, or a bad?

And then, as had happened with Mr. Huxtable, his eyes met hers across the room and held her gaze.

He did not smile. Neither did he raise one mocking eyebrow. He merely gazed steadily at her as she slowly fanned her cheeks and then half smiled at him and raised her own eyebrows. He inclined his head slightly in return – then someone stepped in front of him and he was blocked from her view.

Cassandra's heart was fluttering. The game had begun. She had made her choice.

The dancing was about to begin at last – though she guessed she had been in the ballroom for no longer than five or ten minutes. The Earl and Countess of Sheringford had stepped onto the floor, and others followed them. The Earl of Merton, she could see, was in the line of gentlemen, smiling across at his partner, a very young and very pretty young lady.

The orchestra, at a given signal, played a chord, and the ladies curtsied while the gentlemen bowed. The music of a lively country dance began.

Cassandra resumed her leisurely perusal of all the gentlemen in the room while the pool of emptiness about her appeared to expand.

Stephen had dined at Claverbrook House with his sisters and brothers-in-law, and with the Marquess of Claverbrook and Sir Graham and Lady Carling, Sherry's mother and her husband.

Meg had been quite nervous about the ball. She had been convinced no one would come, despite the fact that everyone else had agreed with Monty's prediction that the walls of the ballroom would have to be pressed outward before the evening was over in order to accommodate everyone who would wish to stand inside it.

And despite the fact that almost everyone who had been sent an invitation had replied in the affirmative.

The ball had been Meg's idea in the first place. There was no point in their coming back to town this year, she had said, if she and Duncan were going to creep in and hope that no one noticed. They might as well be quite brazen about it and throw a grand ball while the Season was in full swing. Her grandfather-in-law, who had been a total recluse for years before Meg's marriage to Sherry and not much better since then – apart from his rather frequent and lengthy visits to the country – had surprised them all by offering Claverbrook House for the event before either Elliott or Stephen could speak up to offer their own London homes.

And now Meg was a bag of nerves. At least, she was until the guests began to arrive – and continued to arrive and continued and continued until the early comers must have been wondering if the dancing would /ever/ begin.

Of course, there was the major distraction that took all their minds off the lengthy wait. There was a gate-crasher. A woman, who had, rather shockingly, come alone. She /was/ a lady – she was Lady Paget, in fact.

She was also notorious, if that was a strong enough word. She had killed her husband just a year or so ago. At least, that was the story when it reached Stephen's ear.

With an axe.

"Which I very much doubt," Vanessa, the Duchess of Moreland, said to both Stephen and Elliott as she stood between them, waiting for Meg and Sherry to leave the receiving line and begin the opening set. "How could she take an axe, after all, without the gardeners stopping her and wanting to know where she was going with it so that they could do the job for her? She could hardly have told them she was taking it to chop Lord Paget to bits, could she, and would they be kind enough to do the job for her? Besides, unless she is a very strong woman, she would not be able to lift it high enough to do damage to any part of him higher than his ankles."

"You have a point," Elliott said, sounding amused.

"And if she really killed him," Vanessa continued, "and if there was proof that she did – that is, if someone /saw/ her swing the axe – would she not have been arrested?"

"On the spot," Elliott said. "And she would probably have been swinging in a different way soon afterward. She certainly would not be gracing Claverbrook's ballroom right now looking for dancing partners."

She looked up at him suspiciously.

"You are laughing at me," she said.

"Not at all, my love." He took her hand and raised it to his lips, winking at Stephen as he did so.

"But I do agree with you, Nessie," Stephen said. "I think we may discount the axe part of the story. Perhaps the rest of it too. One can only hope that her coming here uninvited is not going to ruin Meg's ball."