All of the names she knew, some better than others. Impoverished her family might be, but their breeding was matchless, their connections impeccable. A few barbs might be lobbed in Anne’s direction, given that she had married so far beneath her rank, yet a baron’s daughter she remained. Barring any real scandal, she ought to be admitted to anyone’s home. Welcomed, even.

She picked apart a roll and reviewed the list. Leo had selected the highest-ranking members of Society, men of ancient lineage. Anne mulled over their names, sensing that something connected them, something she could not quite identify, yet lingered at the back of her mind like a distant storm. Dark clouds massing on the horizon.

But what was it? What linked the names on the list?

Anne shook her head. Again, she let fancy run rampant. Leo had revealed much this morning, giving her glimpses of a self she suspected he showed few, if any. How much of his past did his friends know? Men seldom unburdened themselves to one another, as if, like the basest pack of animals, they feared a show of vulnerability meant a challenger would disembowel them and claim dominance.

What Leo had said to her today had been spoken in trust. She could not repay that trust with suspicion. Already she knew her acceptance pleased him. Her mouth and body still resonated with the heat of his kiss.

God, if that kiss was any gauge of what she ought to expect when they finally consummated their marriage ... no wonder she battled fear. For the effects of Leo’s desire could leave her a smoldering ruin. And she might gratefully welcome the conflagration.

Cheeks burning, heat pooling low in her belly, Anne tried to compose herself with a sip of tea. Yet the liquid was too hot, and she burned her tongue. Everything, it seemed, burned her.

She spent the remainder of the morning in correspondence. As she sat at an escritoire in the opulently furnished drawing room, no noise in the chamber but for the scratching of her pen across the foolscap and the pop of the fire, Anne thought she heard a rustling, and the sound of a footstep just behind her. Startled, she dropped her pen, spattering ink across the paper.

She turned in her seat, expecting to see either Meg or one of the servants. No one. The chamber had one occupant: her.

Instinctively, she looked toward the mounted sconces, but the candles were unlit. There was nothing to extinguish.

Chiding herself, Anne sprinkled sand onto the paper in the hopes of salvaging it. The contents of her letter were not irreplaceable, but she was too used to frugal living to readily lose a sheet of foolscap. Paper was dear.

Now she could afford as much foolscap as she desired, and in her letters she would not have to cross her lines anymore as a means of using less paper.

Anne sighed. The letter was beyond repair, and her thoughts too scattered to attempt anything resembling coherent correspondence. Checking the hour, she saw that she was well within polite boundaries for paying calls. She may as well begin crossing names off Leo’s list. No sense in delaying.

Lord Newstead seemed the best candidate with which to begin. Lady Newstead was close in age to Anne, and married only a year. She and Anne might find elements of parallel over which they might form, if not friendship, then a better sense of acquaintanceship. Keeping this strategy in mind, Anne donned her hat and, with Meg in tow, stepped outside.

The sky was mottled, gray clouds streaking the cold blue sky, and an air of hushed waiting hung over the street.

“Mr. Bailey has taken the carriage.” The footman waiting in attendance by the door seemed apologetic, as if having only one carriage seemed a breach of decorum. Anne’s family had to share their carriage with two other families, which kept impromptu journeys to a minimum. “I can summon a hack for you, madam.”

It seemed a dreadful expense, when a sedan chair would suit the same purpose, but she had to remind herself that expense little mattered anymore. She glanced down the street. “I do not see any hackneys.” In truth, almost no one was out, apart from a sweep with his brushes.

“Two streets over, there’s loads of traffic. I’ll just run over. Back in a moment, madam.”

“You may have an admirer, Meg,” Anne said once the footman had run off. “He seemed most eager to show himself at an advantage.”

The maid sniffed. “As if a lady’s maid would ever hold truck with a footman. It takes more than a fine pair of calves to turn my head.” Yet Meg cast lingering glances in the direction which the footman had disappeared.

An icy wind spun down the street. Anne shivered.

“This weather is changeable.” Meg gazed critically toward the sky. “Shall I fetch a shawl for you, madam?”

At Anne’s nod, the maid hurried up the stairs and then into the house. Anne stood by herself, rubbing her hands on her arms. The sweep had turned the corner. No one else occupied the street. She was alone.

“Mrs. Bailey.”

Anne spun around.

Not five feet from her stood a tall, brown-haired man, his clothing fine but verging on threadbare. His brilliant blue eyes shone with intelligence, and though he never took his gaze from her, he seemed acutely aware of his surroundings, as if sensing enemies all around. At his side was a young woman of exotic origin, her skin dusky, her eyes as black as her hair. Like the man, the exotic girl had an air of wariness about her. They had the guarded manner of fugitives.

Though Anne did not recognize the girl, she knew the man by reputation alone.

Her voice came out little more than a croak. “Lord Whitney.”

The street had been empty, yet Lord Whitney and his companion had just noiselessly appeared. “My ... my husband is not at home.”

“It’s you we want to speak with,” said the young woman. Large golden hoops hung from her ears, necklaces draped around her neck, and rings adorned her fingers. Anne had never been this close to a Gypsy in her life, though she had seen them at Bartholomew Fair doing trick riding and telling fortunes.

“Time is in short supply.” Lord Whitney stepped closer, and Anne took an instinctive step back.

“Time for what?”

“To warn you.”

Unease crawled up Anne’s neck. “Truly, perhaps you should return when Leo is home.”

“Leo is the one you should be afraid of.”

Anne did not like the alert tension in Lord Whitney’s stance, nor the way the Gypsy woman kept glancing around the street. Perhaps the Gypsy was ill, for her body gave off a tremendous amount of heat. Perhaps both the woman and Lord Whitney were both ill, for they had a kind of fever in their eyes.

“He has been nothing but kind to me,” Anne said.

Lord Whitney and the Gypsy exchanged speaking glances. “She doesn’t know,” said the Gypsy.

“Know what?” Anne’s anxiety gave edge to her temper. “These riddles you speak are tiresome.”

“Leo has—” Lord Whitney broke off when the front door opened.

Anne turned to see Meg standing at the top of the stairs, an Indian shawl in hand. “Madam?”

Glancing back at Lord Whitney and his companion, Anne jolted in surprise when she found no sign of them.

“Did you see them?” Anne asked when Meg came down the steps.

“I heard you speaking with someone, but when I came out, you were alone.” The maid’s forehead wrinkled in concern as she draped the shawl around Anne’s shoulders. “Are you well, madam?”

Anne pressed a hand to her forehead. Had she just imagined that entire bizarre conversation? Manufacturing Lord Whitney—a man she barely knew—and a Gypsy woman—whom she knew not at all? If she had invented that scenario, she could not understand where the details came from, nor why she would construct the person of a Gypsy out of her own imagination.

Perhaps I’m the one with fever.