The heavy Twyford coach lumbered along in the wake of the sleek Delmere carriage. Lady Hillsborough put up a hand to right her wig, swaying perilously as they rounded a particularly sharp corner. For the first time since embarking on her nephew's crusade to find he Fleming girls suitable husbands, she felt a twinge of nervousness. She was playing with fire and she knew it. Still, she could not regret it. The sight of Felix and Margaret together in the hall at Twyford House had sent a definite thrill through her old bones. As for Sophia, she doubted not that Daniel Hammington was too far gone to desist, resist and retire. True, he might not know it yet, but time would certainly bring home to him the penalty he would have to pay to walk away from the snare. Her shrewd blue eyes studied the pale face opposite her. Even in the dim light, the strain of the past few days was evident. Thankfully, no one outside their party had been aware of that contretemps. So, regardless of what Sophia herself believed, Amelia had no qualms. Sophia was home safe; she could turn her attention elsewhere.

Maribella, the minx, had picked a particularly difficult nut to crack. Still, she could hardly fault the girl's taste. Henry Byron was a positive Adonis, well-born, well-heeled and easy enough in his ways. Unfortunately, he was so easy to please that he seemed to find just as much pleasure in the presence of drab little girls as he derived from Maribella's rather more scintillating company. Gammon, of course, but how to alert Maribella to that fact? Or would it be more to the point to keep quiet and allow Henry a small degree of success? As her mind drifted down that particular path, Amelia suddenly caught herself up and had the grace to look sheepish. What appalling thoughts for a chaperon!

Her gaze fell on Emma, sweet but far from demure in a gown of delicate silver gauze touched with colour in the form of embroidered lilacs. A soft, introspective smile hovered over her classically moulded lips. Almost a smile of anticipation. Amelia frowned. Had she missed something?

Mentally reviewing Emma's conquest, Lady Hillsborough was at a loss to account for the suppressed excitement evident, now she came to look more closely, in the way the younger girl's fingers beat an impatient if silent tattoo on the beads of her reticule. Clearly, whoever he was would be at the ball. She would have to watch her youngest charge like a hawk. Emma was too young, in all conscience, to be allowed the license her more worldly sisters took for granted.

Relaxing back against the velvet squabs, Amelia smiled. Doubtless she was worrying over nothing. Emma might have the Fleming looks but surely she was too serious an innocent to attract the attentions of a rake? Three rakes she might land, the Flemings being the perfect bait, but a fourth was bound to be wishful thinking.