Although critics sniffed that any ball held in mid-January was likely to be thin of company, Lady Middlebury knew early in the evening that her impromptu ball would be a resounding success. Although Lady Middlebury could not be characterized as a well-read or clever woman, her social instincts were brilliant. The fall gatherings of the ton had been overshadowed by the increasing unease felt by most of the gentry regarding the social unrest in the country. The astounding news that the unrest had been orchestrated by unscrupulous members of the ton and the public exposure of the Jewelled Men had resulted in a frenzy of speculation and gossip.

No fool, Lady Middlebury knew that the release of tension would welcome a splendid ball even in the unseasonable month of January. She had promptly dispatched her invitations. There were those, such as the Dowager Viscountess Highley, that had declined the invitation. Lady Middlebury, reading the Dowager's politely worded regrets, had promptly sallied forth to engage her old enemy in battle.

Encountering the Dowager at Sunday services, Lady Middlebury affably inquired after the Dowager Viscountess' health. After receiving a frigid, and suspicious, reply, Lady Middlebury raised her voice to its most penetrating pitch and bewailed the loss of dear Lady Highley's company at her 'little ball.' "For I assure you, the response has been most gratifying. So many dear friends have promised to come, including," Lady Middlebury paused to assure herself that she had the attention of bystanders, "Tio Glendenning, Gordon Chandler, dear Peregrine Cranford - or Sir Peregrine I should say - Sir James Morris, and," she concluded triumphantly, "August Falcon!" With each name, Lady Highley's face had become more crestfallen, but the bystanders had been intrigued. Lady Middlebury returned home and awaited the results with confidence.

Her confidence had not been misplaced. Her rooms were filled with laughing, chattering men and women, brilliantly dressed and eagerly eyeing the men recently made famous by their exploits on behalf of the King.

Seldom had the ton been more scandalized than it had been with the sudden exposure of the Jewelled Men. What had not been known was that during recent months, there had been a second group of conspirators against the King. Even now rumors flew about the crowded ballrooms. Lady Middlebury thankfully escaping from her post at the entrance of the ballroom moved graciously from guest to guest, her senses alert to the latest rumors and gossip.

" ...they say Havershaw is returned from Scotland. Apparently, he was sent by the King to investigate Jacobite plots to steal the Crown Jewels. I understand that wretched Alistair Eryskyn... "

"...discovered a plot to poison the King's troops and replace the officers with Jacobite sympathizers..."

"...And Eryskyn is the most notorious of them all. It's preposterous that he of all men would be..."

" ...honored by the King with a private audience! Can you imagine! I couldn't care less about Alistair, but Alexander Eryskin is returned to town..."

"...such a wicked man with the ladies. I understand Lady Dunscroft switched her favors to him after Falcon's surprising betrothal to Gwendolyn Rossiter..."

"...I must call upon Gwendolyn. I understand Lady Seaforth's sister is staying with her. Supposed to be a delightful creature. But I can't understand why she is not visiting with dear Cecily Tilbury. She told me how much she was looking forward to her cousin's arrival..."

"...most worried about Cecily. It was scandalous enough when she continued to reside alone in the family townhouse after her father died, but now she is disappeared! No one has seen her. And she faithfully promised to attend Melissa Coombs' musicale. And another person that has not been seen for ages is..."

"...David Daventry is ruined. The earl completely wasted the estate, leaving Daventry with nothing. I hear he's been involved with some shady business ventures in an attempt to recoup his fortune..."

"...and all the time he was betrothed to Flora Havershaw, he had a mistress in keeping in St. John's Wood. I understand the mistress is actually married to some provincial squire. I heard Daventry fought a duel over some lovely last year..."

Having found a suitable spot to linger, Lady Middlebury listened in unabashed interest to the conversation between two of the most conspicuous members of the ton. Lady Nadia de Brett, seated on a sofa next to her friend Samantha Golightly, smoothed her gown and sighed sympathetically. "Poor Flora! How humiliating it must be for her."

Mrs. Golightly smiled in a patronizing fashion and patted Lady Nadia's hand. "I'm sure you understand how Flora feels upon learning about her betrothed's misdeeds." She blandly continued, ignoring her companion's outrage, "But Flora Havershaw can take care of herself. My sympathies are with Jacob Holt. He's obviously dangling after her..." She stopped and sighed insincerely.

"I chose to end my betrothal to Gordon Chandler, Samantha," Lady Nadia interrupted shrilly. Lady Middlebury, observing the two ladies descending into a loud and public quarrel about their respective faults, smothered a smile. The events at her ball would ensure that it would be talked of for days! As she discreetly turned away from the ladies' quarrel, she stumbled into a slender young man that had stopped and was staring at Lady Nadia and Mrs. Golightly with a frown on his face. Meeting Lady Middlebury's raised eyebrows, he flushed and, murmuring a polite excuse, moved away from the corner. Racking her brains to recall the identity of the young man, Lady Middlebury wondered what had been said that caught his attention. What was his name? Not David... Duncan Tiele, that was it...

Duncan Tiele quickly walked away from the shrill argument. He did not personally know the ladies, but one had to be Lady Nadia de Brett, formerly betrothed to Gordon Chandler. Lucky man to have been able to elude that marriage. She seemed a shrill and unpleasant woman. But if she and her friend were correct... He frowned. Surely it was a coincidence? But could he take the chance? Troubled, Duncan glanced around the room and his expression lightened as he gaze rested upon Gordon Chandler leaving the dance floor with a young woman. He quickly moved around the ballroom, reaching Chandler's side as he and his companion joined an animated group.

"Tiele!" Chandler smiled broadly at the newcomer. "I did not see you earlier. Let me make you known to my wife. Ruth, my dear, this is Mr. Duncan Tiele."

Duncan smiled briefly at the petite blond woman. "Your pardon, Mrs. Chandler, but could I have a private word with you, Gordie?" Chandler hesitated briefly, but a quick glance at Duncan's intent face informed him that the matter was serious. After all, Gordon reflected, Falcon's little excursion was not scheduled to begin for twenty minutes. He moved toward the edge of the crown and looked inquiringly at Tiele.

Duncan paused and glanced over Gordie's shoulder. A curtained recess leading to a small antechamber was behind him. "We could be more private..." As Duncan moved toward the door, Gordie reached out to block his entry.

"Ah... no. Let us stay out here.'' A muffled burst of laughter came through the door. Duncan looked curiously at Chandler. Gordie shook his head, although he seemed to be trying not to smile. "Don't ask."

"Oh." Disappointed, Duncan tried to appear uninterested in whatever was happening in the antechamber. He gathered his thoughts. Dropping his voice to a low tone, Duncan stated, "I've received some curious news from abroad."

"From France?" Gordon asked alertly.

"Yes. But not about Quentin." Duncan interposed reassuringly. The two men smiled ruefully at each other, each understanding the anxiety of having a dear brother exiled in France. "My brother passed along some curious rumors. Someone is spending money lavishly trying to recruit dissatisfied Englishmen on the Continent. For what, he's not sure, not his cause, that is all he knows." Gordon nodded, understanding Duncan's allusion to the Stuart cause. "But they are ruthless." Duncan hesitated. "It seemed a mad scheme... I thought perhaps he had gotten wind of the Jewelled Men plot, but... the details do not fit."

"Go on, man!" Chandler encouraged.

"It's not much," Duncan said hastily. "But there is a rumor that the contact point is a young nobleman's love nest in St. John's Wood. Only it's not really a love nest. Or it is a love nest... but, its real purpose is to allow people to contact... them." Duncan smiled sheepishly. "I feel like a fool."

"And?" Gordon could sense there was more.

"The mistress..."

"Or not mistress," Gordon interrupted.

"Or not mistress," Duncan accepted the correction with a grin, "is a part-time resident because she is a married woman. Now, many noblemen have houses in St. John's Wood. And many have married mistresses. But I overheard a few things tonight that made me wonder. The nobleman is supposed to be heir to a title and desperate to regain his fortune. How many men in London would fit that description?"

"Quite a few, I would imagine." Gordon said dryly.

"How about Daventry?" Duncan said under his breath.

Gordon stiffened. "Daventry, eh?" He paused for a moment. "Why are you telling me this?"

Tiele glanced around awkwardly. "I need some advice." He straightened and looked Chandler in the eye. "It seemed a ludicrous story. But I have to take it seriously. Only I'm afraid the authorities won't believe it."

"Come with me." Gordon ordered crisply. Turning, he slipped through the curtained recess and entered the antechamber.

Bewildered, Duncan followed him. Inside, the small room, he saw a card table with cards and wine glasses set upon it, as though two person had been playing piquet. At first the room seemed empty, but as Tiele's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see several people gathered on the balcony.

"Damnation! Chandler, you're supposed to be ensuring that no one notices my absence, not bringing callers." Tiele recognized the furious speaker as August Falcon.

"Aye." Gordon agreed calmly. "But this particular caller has some interesting news for you and Major Holt."

"Yes?" Falcon drawled. He continued looking into the garden scarcely glancing at Tiele.

The second occupant of the room moved forward. "Well met, Tiele."

"Major Holt." Duncan responded stiffly. At Gordon's encouraging nod, he began relating his story again. He was heartened to see that both Holt and Falcon listened carefully to his story.

"The contact point in St. John's Wood..." Falcon rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Duncan has a guess as to his identity." Gordon said softly.

"Do you?" Holt glanced at him sharply.

"It is a guess," Duncan said hastily. "David Daventry."

"The devil!" Falcon's eyes widened. "Are you saying Daventry has a mistress in St. John's Wood? How do you know?"

"I don't know. I overheard Lady Nadia de Brett gossiping tonight about Daventry and his mistress."

"By God, it fits!" Falcon said softly. He was interrupted as another man, unknown to Tiele, entered the room from the balcony. "Are you ready, Alex?"

"Ready. For God's sake let's get this done." Holt and Falcon both nodded briefly before following him as he returned to the balcony. Tiele watched in amazement as the three men climbed over the balcony rails and dropped down to the gardens beneath. They disappeared into the darkness heading toward the Tilbury townhouse next door.

Duncan was stunned at the abrupt disappearance of the three men. Stepping swiftly beyond Gordon's reach, he moved out onto the balcony, following their progress as they approached the darkened Tilbury house. Gad! Were they? They were! They were attempting to force open the French doors facing out onto the small garden that separated the townhouse from the mews. He caught his breath as a rough scraping sound assaulted his ears.

He shrugged off Gordon's restraining hand and in a flash was over the balcony and ascending the half dozen steps behind the trio, roughly pulling Falcon away before grabbing Jacob's wrist as he used a cudgel to try to force the doors.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" he demanded in hoarse whisper.

Mightily offended by Tiele's treatment of him, Falcon said calmly and softly, "Give me that cudgel, Holt. I'm going to silence this interloper."

Jacob glared at both of them. "This isn't your affair, Duncan. Go back to the party. You never saw us."

"Not without an explanation, Jacob." The level gaze from those clear blue eyes revealed an implacability in Duncan's nature which, for all the years Jacob had known him, had hitherto been concealed beneath a congenial nature and exquisitely good manners.

The third man, a singularly handsome individual of fair hair, dark blue eyes, and wildly distracting waistcoat, chimed in with a mixed degree of disgust and relief.

"Well, that's put paid to this little venture. I suppose half the ton is now observing us from the Middlebury's balcony. Kindly do not fix that gimlet gaze on me, Falcon! I have no intention of being taken up by the Watch for burglary. I told you it was a harebrained notion to be planning on breaking into Cecily Tilbury's house with two hundred potential witnesses less than 30 yards distant."

A light flared unexpectedly inside the house. The trio of ersatz burglars froze momentarily before taking cover in the nearby shrubbery. Duncan stood fixed in place, gazing in horror as the curtains were drawn away from the French doors by an unseen hand. As the doors were slowly pulled open, he backed away, and when a shadowy apparition seemed to flow toward him he caught his breath and backpedaled so swiftly he found himself descending the steps even faster than he had ascended them - and in a far less graceful fashion. Not that his ridiculous fall concerned him overmuch once his head had made the intimate acquaintance of the lowermost of the flagstone steps. The apparition now hovering over him had soft, cool hands that contrasted sharply with the imperious voice demanding assistance. His last conscious thought was that if she would only give him a minute he would gladly come to her aid. He would do anything if only she would not take those sweet hands from his face.

Jacob was in rare sweat.

Well, what could they have done? Duncan had obviously been injured in the fall. What should he have done, jumped from behind the hedge and demanded Cecily leave Duncan be?

Ho, yes! That would have gone down well. That would have started off a nice round of questions with no good answers, and ended badly with Cecily warned of their intent. Not to mention she probably - and justifiably - would have set the Watch on them. He shuddered at the mental picture of the three of them appearing before the magistrate: Alexander Erskyn, August Falcon, and Jacob Holt, gentlemen all and the latter an officer in the King's service.

"Never mind all that!" he snapped, putting an end to the bickering and accusations flaring between Alex and August. Gordon had witnessed the debacle and was blaming himself for not stopping Duncan in time.

"What's done is done, no use crying over spilt milk," he said savagely.

"Do not dare," August intoned with icy hauteur, "quote maxims and proverbs at me."

Jacob wisely ignored him. "What is to be done?"

Gordon was his calm, unruffled self again. "I think there is nothing to be done. Either Duncan is well and will soon depart that house of his own accord, or..." He left the statement unfinished. There were too many variables.

"D'you think that was Cecily herself we saw?" Alex asked after a bit.

Falcon nodded. "Never could see her face, all draped in black silk like that, but who else could it have been? That was her butler and footman who carried Duncan inside. What a fine lot of heroes we are!" he exclaimed in disgust. "All right, here's what I think we must do until we get Duncan clear of the house..."

He had had a very bad night of it. When he was awake, he wished he were not, for the crashing pain in his head almost unmanned him. It worried him that although he could hear a soft voice speaking to him no candles were ever lit. He could not even detect the glow of a fire although the room in which he lay ensconced in what seemed to be a very small bed was comfortably warm. When he was not awake, he wished he were, for he kept having the most horrifying dream of being trapped in a huge silken web and being slowly eaten alive by a giant black spider, which whispered to him sweetly even as it gnawed on him.

Awakening once again as the feeble watery rays of a January sun drizzled between the curtains, the pain in his head had at last subsided to a constant dull throb behind his right ear. Without moving his head, his eyes surveyed his surroundings and found nothing familiar. From the incredibly ugly Sevres vase adorning the mantle over the fireplace (and he was relieved to see there was one; he could recall a brief moment of panic that he might have somehow have lost his sight for he knew he must be injured but not to what extent), to the gilt-framed cheval mirror in the corner, to the portrait of a woman so blindingly and sensually beautiful she could not possibly be real, nothing was recognizable.

The door opened quietly and a heavily veiled woman draped in flowing black silks entered. A widow, then. That would account for the bad dreams, he supposed.

"So you're awake, are you?" Her voice was throaty, provocative, and much to his surprise he felt his body react strongly. "How are you feeling? That was a nasty fall you had."

He peered up at her, wishing she would lift away the veil so that he might see what face God deemed suitable for pairing with such a voice.

"Was it?" he murmured, gazing raptly up at her concealed features. "I don't remember." And beneath the covers he crossed his fingers. No doubt his presence in this bereaved lady's household would be a terrible imposition, and in the ordinary course of events he would not dream of imposing himself on any lady under any circumstances. Perhaps it really was a result of that knock on the head, but Duncan found that with no notice whatsoever there had arisen in him a steely resolve to remain as close to this woman as possible, for as long as he might.

Cecily Tilbury stared down at the young man nestled snugly in the tiny maid's room. His sandy brows hinted at ginger hair, but where the powder had shaken loose from his thick locks glinted a shade of strawberry blond rarely seen on a man. So intently was his clear blue gaze fastened on her that she felt he could see directly beneath the veil to the scar which marred a face no one had thought more perfect than she once had herself. There was a quality in his eyes - not innocence, no. She had seen and destroyed that quality in countless men. What then was it about his eyes? A kind of fervent zeal, perhaps, like the saints of old must have had? No, not quite that. Purity! That was it. She remembered an engraving she had once seen, an artist's rendering of the face of Galahad, the Arthurian knight of legendary courage and purity. Now why ever should this - well, really, he could not reasonably be described as more than mildly attractive, could he? - this almost average-looking man remind her of such a classic figure? Those eyes, something about those eyes...

Breaking from her reverie, she stretched out a cool hand to stroke the stubbled growth on his jaw. "Tell me," she urged softly, "what did you and those other gentlemen think to gain by breaking into my house last night?"

Not by so much as the flicker of an eye did Duncan reveal his shock. He merely crossed his fingers ever more tightly, and replied, "Why, what do you mean?"

The lady gave an absolutely intriguing chuckle and leaned closer, thus allowing her draperies to just barely brush his bare - his bare arm! Duncan, glancing down in surprise, abruptly realized that he was sans coat, waistcoat, shirt, and in fact every other item of gentlemanly apparel. Scrambling to a sitting position and gathering the counterpane up to his chest, he demanded, "What in the devil have you done with my clothes?"

The widow sighed regretfully. "I had hoped you wouldn't notice, but it seems you are rather resistant to my... ah... varied persuasions. Very well, we shall take the more difficult route. I had your clothes removed because your nocturnal activities forcibly reminded me that I have enemies in high places, and so-called friends in places higher still." She brushed down her skirt and walked - could a woman in hoops make her hips to show themselves swaying seductively? he wondered inconsequentially - to the shuttered and curtained window across the room. "I cannot afford to let you leave, just yet. It seemed more civilized to take your clothing than to tie you to the bed." She turned, and abruptly her luminous eyes were hard and angry. "But the latter can also be arranged."

Duncan swallowed, and mentally rained down curses upon the absent heads of Gordon Chandler's cronies.

Marguerite Templeby leaned on Flora Havershaw's arm a little more heavily than she was used to and sighed.

These unaccustomed signs of dejection were not missed on her friend, who instantly turned and inquired solicitously, "Are you very tired, Dearest? Would you prefer that I call a chair for you rather than walk? Bath is so very steep!"

Marguerite brushed back her curls, which were a few shades darker than the guinea-gold of her companion's, from where they had begun to adhere to her forehead underneath her bonnet despite the cold. She forced a smile and replied, "Oh, no, Flora! Indeed, a little fresh air is exactly what is called for."

Flora, obviously not convinced that damp and dreary January "fresh air" was at all necessary, nonetheless resumed their trek down Barton Street, toward Queen Square. The two girls walked in silence for a moment.

Suddenly Marguerite burst out with, "I am condemned to a useless and utterly uninteresting life, is all, Flora! I am doomed to becoming an utter quiz, likely a spinster aunt who will dote upon her nephews and nieces because she has never born her own children." She made a petulant moue and added, "I only hope God sees my current existence as Purgatory and will allow me to skip the genuine experience after my death. I am persuaded it could not be very unlike how I live at the moment."

Flora, who had heard the same complaint at various times over the past week, merely smiled and patted her friend's arm. "Now, Margo," she remonstrated. "You have been very ill for the last three months. One does not suddenly recover from pneumonia. To be sure, the waters have done wonders for you..."

"The waters!" Marguerite shuddered. "They smell dreadful. And did you know that the same water that the beggars bathe in outside is used to supply the Pump Room? Utterly disgusting!"

"No, is it?" Flora asked, pert nose wrinkling dubiously. "I had thought - but it is of no consequence. Do not think to distract me, foolish one! You are my dear friend, which is why I permitted you to embark on this foolhardy expedition at all, but I must insist that we turn back. The air is too chill for your lungs."

"Oh, no, Flora, please," Marguerite begged. "I feel quite the thing, I assure you, and if you are anxious we can summon a chair after all. I declare, if I stare at the walls of our house for another day I shall go mad, which you must admit is a far worse death than pneumonia, for it takes much longer to complete its course."

Flora laughed despite herself, rolling her blue eyes at Marguerite's dramatics. "It is not so very bad, Margo," she contradicted, raising her voice over a growing clatter from the square below as they descended. "Major Broadbent sent a very nice letter to your mama hoping for your recovery."

"And I am not fully persuaded that it was proper in him to do so," Marguerite replied, furrowing her thin brows. "But he was ever impulsive."

Flora, staring down at the pavement so as to hide her smile, reflected that "impulsive" and "Broadbent" were two words she had never thought to hear in relation to one another. He was quite different from Jacob - but no. She would not think of him. Or the danger he insisted on courting. Or the fact that the last time he had visited he had pressed her hand quite warmly when he (too soon!) took his leave. Oh, heavens, she was doing it again!

"Miss Havershaw?"

And now she was even allowing her imagination to fool her into thinking she heard his voice - again. Well, this time she would take firm charge of that unruly thing and bend it to her will. No more of this ridiculous...

"Miss Havershaw?" the voice said a second time, followed by Marguerite's excited whisper, "Dearest, I believe that gentleman is speaking to you! Shall we cut him?"

Flora, glancing up sharply, saw that her ears had not deceived her and that, in fact, Jacob Holt was awaiting her attention from the back of his bay gelding. Risking a quick look at her friend, she saw that Marguerite's unnaturally pale cheeks had become a bit flushed and that she looked quite invigorated by the possibility of a social skirmish. Flora almost was sorry to put an end to her hopes, but Jacob must not think her an utter ninny.

"Captain Holt!" she exclaimed, raising one slightly unsteady hand in greeting. "I had not thought to see you so far from Town! Does all go well with you?"

He brought his restive mount alongside them, and dismounted to kiss her immediately offered mitten. "Indeed, yes, Miss Havershaw, for we have discovered a vital bit of information regarding the business that occupied your guardian a little while since."

Flora, instantly reminded of the need for discretion, looked again at Marguerite and saw that her friend's pretty mouth had dropped open. Following her gaze, Flora beheld a bustling scene: Bow Street Runners were ascending and descending the steps of a building across the square - 'Like Jacob's ladder,' she thought, and was instantly embarrassed at the pun. Those descending lugged heavy boxes of what looked to be documents.

Her attention was (easily) reclaimed by Jacob Holt when he added, "I fear I must ask that you accompany me on the trip back to Town. Seaforth is anxious that you be nearby in case of trouble."

Marguerite, not having caught all of what the captain said, asked eagerly, "Flora? Are you for Town? Oh, I know it is most rude in me to inquire, but do say I may accompany you!"