The Perfect Lover by Stephanie Laurens

its entirety was visible from where they stood; Kitty’s aquamarine silk gown would have been easy to spot.
    “We saw her when we started out,” Portia said. “She and some others were heading for the temple.”
    Simon added, “We haven’t seen her, or those others, since.”
    “I’ve already been to the temple,” Henry said.
    A footstep sounded nearby. They all turned, but it was James who came out of the shadows.
    “Have you seen Kitty?” Henry asked. “Her mother wants her.”
    James shook his head. “I’ve just been up to the house and back. I didn’t see anyone en route.”
    Henry sighed. “I’d better keep looking.” With a bow to Portia and a nod to the men, he headed off toward the pinetum.
    They all watched him go until the shadows swallowed him up.
    “It might have been better,” James remarked, “if Mrs. Archer had thought to speak with Kitty earlier. As it is . . . Henry might be better off not finding her.”
    They all comprehended exactly what he meant. The silence lengthened.
    James recollected himself; he glanced at Portia. “Your pardon, my dear. I fear I’m not in the best of moods tonight—no good company. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to the house.”
    He bowed rather stiffly. Portia inclined her head. With brief nods to Simon and Charlie, James turned on his heel and strode back up the lawn.
    The three of them followed more slowly. In silence; there seemed little to say and indeed, some odd sort of safety in not putting what they were thinking into words.
    They were at an intersection with a path leading toward the temple on one hand, and on the other curving around to the pinetum, when they heard a light footstep.
    As one, they halted and looked down the shadowy path toward the temple.
    A figure emerged from a minor path leading down and away from the house. A man, he started along the cross path toward them; stepping into a patch of moonlight, he looked up—and saw them. With no check in his stride, he stepped sideways, onto another of the myriad paths that riddled the dense shrubberries.
    His shadow vanished. Leaves rustled, and he was gone.
    An instant passed, then they each drew breath, faced forward, and walked on. They didn’t speak, nor did they catch each other’s eye.
    Nevertheless, each knew what the others were thinking.
    The man hadn’t been a guest, nor yet a servant or helper on the estate.
    He’d been a gypsy, lean, dark, and handsome.
    With his unruly black hair wildly disarranged, his coat undone, his shirttails loose and flapping.
    It was difficult to imagine any innocent reason for such a man to have been up at the house, let alone leaving in such a fashion at such a late hour.
    On the main lawn, they met Desmond, Ambrose, and Lucy, like them, heading back to the house.
    Of Kitty, they saw no sign.

W ell, then, miss!” Lady Osbaldestone sank into the armchair before the hearth in her bedchamber and fixed Portia with a knowing eye. “You may now confess to me what you’re about.”
    “About?” Portia stared. She’d come to assist Lady O down to breakfast; standing in the middle of the room with the light from the window full on her, she found herself transfixed by her ladyship’s sharp gaze. She opened her lips to say she wasn’t about anything, then closed them.
    Lady O snorted. “Indeed. We’ll save a lot of time if you just give it to me without any roundaboutation. You usually have your nose so high you don’t even notice the gentlemen about, yet yesterday you were not only studying them, you actually deigned to converse with them.” Folding her hands on the head of her cane, she leaned forward. “Why?”
    Shrewd speculation gleamed in Lady O’s ink black eyes. She was old and very wise, steeped in the ton, the relationships and families; the number of marriages she’d seen and assisted in had to be legion. She was the perfect mentor for Portia’s new tack. If she chose to help.
    If Portia had the courage to ask.
    Clasping her