Simon's brow tilted. "I believe it was the other way around. She chose me."

"Dear heaven, I do not believe I am hearing this. I assume she has the Faringdon looks, at least? Tall and fair?"

"No. She is rather short, has bright red hair and freckles, a nose that tilts upward, and she is almost never without a pair of spectacles. She looks rather like an intelligent elf and she has a habit of saying 'bloody hell' when she is overset."

"Good heavens." Lady Merryweather was genuinely appalled. "Simon, what have you done?"

"Actually, I think she will become something of a sensation when you take her out into Society, Aunt Araminta."

"You want me to introduce her?" Araminta looked horrified at first and then rather intrigued by the challenge. "You want me to turn an elf into a social triumph?"

"I cannot think of anyone more suited to the task. It will be a delicate business, I fear. Emily will definitely need some guidance, as she has never been out in Society, but I would not have her spirits depressed or dampened by too many rules and strictures. You, I think, are quite capable of appreciating her unusual qualities and finding ways to set them off to their best advantage."

"Simon, I am not certain there is a best way to set off a short, redheaded elf who says things such as 'bloody hell' when she is overset."

"Nonsense. You will find a way. I have complete confidence in you."

"Well, I shall certainly do my best. Lord knows, it is the least I can do for you after all you have done for me, Simon. I would still be stuck in that moldering pile of stones in Northumberland if you had not rescued me from genteel poverty a few years ago."

"You owe me nothing, Araminta," Simon said. "It is I who shall be forever grateful to you for helping me take care of Mother and for selling the last of your jewels to buy me a commission."

Araminta grinned. "Giving you a start in life was the best investment I could have made. The jewels and clothes I am able to buy now are worth a great deal more than the paltry few I had back in those days."

Simon shrugged. "You deserve them. Now, then, as to the matter of introducing my wife to Society. As I said, I shall leave the project largely in your hands. But I will undertake to quash the one potential problem that looms on the horizon."

Araminta eyed him cautiously. "What is the nature of this potential problem, Simon?"

"My fiancee is a rather impetuous sort and there apparently was a rather Unfortunate Incident a few years back."

"An Incident?" Araminta demanded in distinctly ominous tones. "Just how bad was this Incident?"

"As Emily explains it, she was temporarily overcome with an excess of romantic passion and ran off with a young man."

Araminta leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes in horror. "Dear God." She promptly opened her eyes and shot her nephew a shrewd glance. "How bad was it? Did her father stop the pair before they got to the border?"

"There is every indication that the man involved had no real intention of making it to Gretna Green. In any event, Emily ended up spending the night with him at an inn. Faringdon caught up with her the next day and brought her home."

"The next day? He did not find her until the following day?" Araminta was clearly beyond shock now. She leaned forward, her eyes fierce. "Simon, you cannot be serious about any of this. It is all some sort of bizarre joke you are playing on your poor aunt. Confess."

"It is no joke, Aunt Araminta. I am about to marry a lady with a past. But you need not fret. I shall see to it that her past effectively ceases to exist."

"Good God, Simon. How?"

He shrugged without any concern. "My title and fortune will prove a most effective stain remover. We both know that. And I will personally blot up any small leftover drips that may appear."

"Dear heaven. You are enjoying this, aren't you?" Araminta gazed at him in sudden comprehension. "You are having yourself another great adventure."

"Emily has a way of adding spice to one's life, as you will no doubt soon learn."

"Simon, I am going to be blunt. The chit may be an original and I know you are attracted to the unusual. But you must think of what you are doing. We both know you simply cannot marry a young female who is not a virgin, no matter how charming she is. It is one thing for a woman to have discreet affairs after she is married, quite another for her to have been involved in a scandal with a man before marriage. You are the Earl of Blade. You must think of your name and position."

Simon took his gaze off the fire and gave his aunt an amused, quizzical glance. "You misunderstand, Aunt Araminta," he said gently. "There is no question about my wife's innocence. She is, I assure you, as pure as snow."

"But you just said there was a great scandal in her past. You said she ran off with some young man and spent the night with him."

"I do not know yet precisely what happened that night," Simon mused. "But I am quite satisfied that Emily did not share a bed with the young man."

"How can you be so certain?" Araminta retorted, and then her brows climbed. "Unless you have already been to bed with her yourself?"

"No, I have not, more's the pity. I assure you, I am certainly looking forward to my wedding night. I am persuaded it will be a most interesting experience."

"Then how can you be sure she is innocent?" Araminta asked, exasperated.

Simon smiled to himself. "It is rather difficult to explain. I can only say that Emily and I have established a unique form of communication that takes place on a higher plane."

"A higher plane?"

"I refer to the metaphysical world. Your problem is that you do not read very much modern poetry, Aunt Araminta. Let me assure you that certain things are very clear on the transcendental level where two like minds may meet in an excess of pure, intellectual emotion."

Lady Merryweather stared at him speechlessly. "Since when have you concerned yourself with higher planes and pure intellectual emotion? I have known you long enough to realize you are up to some dark business here, Blade. I can feel it."

"Can you really? How fascinating. Perhaps you have access to a higher plane of knowledge yourself, Aunt Araminta."

Lord Richard Ashbrook did not normally frequent the same clubs Simon favored. It was necessary, therefore, to seek out the dashing young poet at one of the smaller clubs in St. James that catered to the dandy set.

Simon eventually located his quarry in a card room.

Ashbrook was playing with the sort of devil-may-care recklessness that was quite the height of fashion.

Simon could see at a glance that the poet was obviously every maiden's dream, assuming said maiden did not mind the weakness about the eyes and chin. Ashbrook was indisputably handsome in a Byronic manner: black hair, brooding dark eyes, and a jaded, somewhat petulant tilt to his mouth.

Simon waited quietly in a winged chair, amusing himself with a bottle of hock and a newspaper until his quarry left the tables around midnight. Ashbrook joined a companion and together they strode toward the door of the club muttering something about going to look for more interesting action in the hells.

Simon got up and followed slowly, delaying his move until Ashbrook had summoned a carriage and leapt into the cab. When the poet's companion made to follow, Simon stepped forward and tapped his shoulder. The man who turned in annoyance to confront him was older and far more dissipated-looking than Ashbrook. He was also quite drunk. Simon recognized him as a gamester named Crofton who frequented the hells.

"What's this? Who are you?" Crofton demanded in a surly, slurred voice, his once handsome face twisted in irritation.

"I require a word with Ashbrook. I fear you will have to wait for another carriage." Simon gave Crofton a small push, just enough to send him staggering backward.