Eventually, routed, Mr. Chistlebury rose, ostensibly to return Miss Senet to her parent. Watching his retreat with laughing eyes, Margaret returned her gaze to her guardian, only to see him look pointedly at the door from the ballroom. She glanced across and saw Maribella enter, slightly flushed with a too-bright smile on her lips. She made straight for the table where Sophia was sitting with a number of other and, with her usual facility, merged with the group, laughing up at the young man who leapt to his feet to offer her his chair.

Margaret turned to Felix, a slight frown in her eyes, to find his attention had returned to the door. She followed his gaze and saw Lord Byron enter.

To any casual observer, Henry was merely coming late to the supper-room, his languid gaze and sleepy smile giving no hint of any more pressing emotion than to discover whether there were any lobster patties left. Felix Cambridge, however, was a far from casual observer. As he saw the expression in his lordship's heavy-lidded eyes as they flicked across the room to where Maribella sat, teasing her company unmercifully, His Grace of Twyford's black brows rose in genuine astonishment. Oh, God! Another one?

Resigned to yet another evening spent with no progress in the matter of his eldest ward, Felix calmly escorted her back to the ballroom and, releasing her to the attentions of her admirers, not without a particularly penetrating stare at two gentlemen of dubious standing who had had the temerity to attempt to join her circle, he prepared to quit the ballroom. He had hoped to have persuaded Miss Fleming to view the moonlight from the terrace. There was a useful bench he knew of, under a concealing willow, which would have come in handy. However, he had no illusions concerning his ability to make love to a woman who was in tenterhooks over the happiness of joy one but two sisters. So he headed for the card-room.

In his way, he passed Maribella, holding court once again in something close to her usual style. His blue gaze searched her face. As if sending his regard, she turned and saw him. For a moment, she looked lost. He smiled encouragingly. After a fractional pause, she flashed her brilliant smile back and, putting up her chin, turned back to her companions, laughing at some comment.

Felix moved on. Clearly, Margaret did have another problem on her hands. He paused at the entrance to the card-room and, automatically, scanned the packed ballroom. Turning, he was about to cross the threshold when a disturbing thought struck him. He turned back to the ballroom.

"Make up your mind! Make up your mind! Oh, it's you, Twyford. What are you doing at such an occasion? Hardly your style these days, what?"

Excusing himself to Colonel Wingate, Felix moved out of the doorway and checked the room again. Where was Emma? He had not seen her at supper, but then again he had not looked. He had mentally dubbed her the baby of the family but his rational mind informed him that she was far from too young. He was about to cross the room to where his aunt Amelia sat, resplendent in bronze bombazine, when a movement by the windows drew his eyes.

Emma entered from the terrace, a shy and entirely guileless smile on her lips. Her small hand rested with easy assurance on his brother's arm. As he watched, she turned and smiled up at Francis, a look so full of trust that a newborn lamb could not have bettered it. And Francis, wolf that he was, returned the smile readily.

Abruptly, Felix turned on his heel and strode into the card-room. He needed a drink.