Anne Barbour by A Dangerous Charade

expression, however, indicated nothing beyond a courteous attention. Lady Wilbraham heaved herself to her feet.
    “I see Mary Glenham over there, boring the ears off poor Reverend Rayburn. I must be off to rescue him.”
    She had barely begun to make her ponderous way across the polished wooden floor of the room when Meg fairly exploded with the giggle she had been stilling for the past several minutes.
    “Meg!” rapped Lady Edith. “That will be quite enough.”
    “Oh, but, aunt,” gasped her niece. “We must send a card of thanks to Lady W. for telling us which of all the modistes in London is to be avoided at all costs.”
    Lady Edith’s tips twitched, but her stare was minatory and Meg soon subsided. Alison took pains to hide the smile that curved her own lips.
    Across the room, March watched Miss Fox’s efforts. He was forced to acknowledge that in her quiet loveliness, she was one of the most provocative females he had ever met. Her austere walking dress of Cheshire brown twilled silk should have obliterated the lush body hidden beneath its stiff folds; instead, it merely created in him an uncomfortable desire to push the folds aside to discover the beauty that lay beneath them.
    He excused himself from the group with whom he had been conversing and made his way to where the ladies sat before one of the long windows that overlooked the King’s bath.
    “March,” cried Meg, “have you spent all this time here? You must be ready to expire from boredom!”
    “On the contrary, infant,” he returned, an amused twinkle in his eye. “I have spent a pleasant afternoon renewing old acquaintances. Unlike you, my pleasure does not hang on how many fripperies I can purchase in a given amount of time. May I assume,” he continued, “from the astonishing number of parcels under whose weight you staggered in, that you were successful in the Great Bonnet Quest?”
    By unspoken consent the group rose to depart, and on the way home, Meg regaled them with the details of the shopping expedition.
    “A zephyr scarf?” asked Lady Edith of Alison. “It sounds perfect for the cerulean satin we had made up for the Budwell soiree.”
    “Yes, so I thought, my lady. Although, I am still not wholly reconciled to attending Mrs. Budwell’s party.”
    “Why not, for heaven’s sake? It will be one of the grandest events of the season.”
    “That’s just it.” Alison glanced surreptitiously at Lord Marchford. “It will be thought coming of me to attend such a function. There will be dancing, and..”
    “Of course there will be,” interjected Lady Edith impatiently. “And you will not lack for partners. Now see here, Alison, I will not countenance any longer this—this obsession you have with fading into invisibility. One would think you were some jumped-up little mushroom instead of the granddaughter of the Earl of Trawbridge.”
    March’s eyes widened. He had not known this. How was it that the granddaughter of an earl was reduced to earning her bread in service as companion to a septuagenarian? Was it the oft-told tale of an enraged peer whose daughter married beneath her? Had the earl severed the connection, leaving his impoverished descendant to make her own way in the world? Such was the stuff of high drama, he concluded briskly. If this was the case, the offspring in question had certainly landed on her feet. Good God, his besotted aunt was indeed treating the woman like a beloved daughter. Cerulean satin and fashionable soirees, indeed.
    When the party reached Royal Crescent, the earl declined to enter, but bade the ladies farewell on the doorstep, claiming a prior engagement. It was in a thoughtful mood that he strode down George Street en route to his temporary abode in the Royal York Hotel. To his surprise, he was informed on entering that elegant hostelry that a visitor awaited him in a private parlor just off the coffee room.
    “Good afternoon, my lord,” said the man who leapt to his feet at the earl’s