“I thought it would be best if I—we,” she added, gesturing to Nilly and Winnie as if their presence might protect her from Victoria’s annoyance, “paid a call to determine whether you’d recovered from your fright yesterday.”

“Indeed,” squeaked Lady Nilly, her pale, slender hands fluttering at her throat. “I cannot even imagine how you must have felt after seeing that poor girl! Why, I’m sure I’d not sleep for a week, for fear of the nightmares.”

“Ah, nightmares,” inserted Lady Winnie in a rather carrying voice. Her hand hovered over the plate of cinnamon-iced almond biscuits that had been summoned at the instant of their arrival—despite the fact that they were three hours early for afternoon calls. “I know all about them, I do. Why, I daresay, that visit to Rome put me in a state, for I’ve nary slept a wink since the trip. I spend all night tossing and turning, dreaming about vampires and other horrific things.” She paused in her search for the perfect biscuit—namely, the largest and with the thickest swirl of icing—to pat her hand over the saucer-sized silver and gold cross she wore pinned to the side of her bodice. Its weight caused the blue floral muslin to sag slightly, pulling the scoop neckline off center just a bit.

“Vampires!” Nilly had no compunction about her selection. She slipped right in and swiped a most promising treat right from under the duchess’s poised hand. “I declare, I’m certain we must have talked about this before and you’re quite mistaken, Winnie. I’m the one who has been dreaming about vampires ever since Rome! You’ve only started since I told you about my dreams—the dark, cunning men, swooping down in dark halls, cornering me—”

Victoria found it necessary to interrupt and, from long experience, knew that the best tactic was to completely change the subject. “Mother, I’m feeling quite well today, after all. Thank you for your concern. I truly do appreciate it.” She tried not to glance at the portmanteau. Perhaps if she didn’t see it, it would leave with her mother without fuss.

Lady Melly leaned forward and patted her daughter’s ungloved hand. “I’m delighted to hear it! Now, of course, since you’ve recovered, you’ll be able to attend the Twisdale’s garden party tonight with me. I’ll call Melvindale in—she’s waiting in the carriage with my trunks—and she’ll—”

“Your trunks?” Victoria was aware that the pitch of her voice was sharp as a roof’s peak, but she didn’t care. Her control of the situation—along with the almond biscuits— was rapidly disappearing.

“Of course, my dear. You simply cannot go on as you have, even though you are a widow. One night is fine, especially if no one knows about it—which is possible, since I came as soon as I heard—”

“Mother. Thank you.” Victoria struggled to keep her composure in the face of the runaway curricle that was her maternal parent. “I don’t need a chaperone. I—”

“Oh, but Victoria, of course you do! You still must protect your reputation if you want to marry again,” said Lady Nilly, spraying almond crumbs with abandon.

“Perhaps you might even catch the eye of one of the most eligible bachelors to grace our Society,” added Lady Winnie with a familiar gleam in her eyes. “After all, you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting him, and it would be so much simpler—”

Whatever Victoria might have said to puncture the duchess’s—and, clearly, Lady Melly’s—outlandish hopes was forever lost as the tall white doors to the parlor opened.

“The Marquess of Rockley,” intoned Lettender.

As one, the three older ladies surged to their feet and turned toward the new arrival. Victoria steadied the tea table, then turned to greet James.

He looked rough and windblown this morning, just as unkempt as he’d done yesterday with the exception of his clothing. Apparently the staff had seen to more than just gossip, for he was dressed from head to toe as befit his station.

Victoria refused to let herself look too closely, for fear that she might recognize some of the clothing as Phillip’s . . . and it was just better not to. She still had his cloak and one of his tall hats stuffed in the back of her wardrobe, and she often used them when she went out at night dressed as a man. She fancied they still carried the scent of his lemon-rosemary pomade.

By the time Victoria rejoined the conversation, James and his American drawl had been fussed over by the three ladies, and he was on the sofa between Ladies Winnie and Melly. In other words, exactly where they wanted him.

“So you see, my lord,” Lady Melly was saying, “we certainly will take advantage of your hospitality while my daughter sees to her personal affects being prepared for removal—which I’m certain will take several weeks to be done properly, of course—but it simply isn’t done for her to stay under your roof without a chaperone.”

“I’d be delighted to have you here,” James was saying with what appeared to be complete sincerity. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to ruin Mrs.—er, Lady Rockley’s reputation.”

“And aside of that, the duchess and Lady Petronilla and I would be honored to help you sift through those”— she gestured to a tray overflowing already with new invitations—“and determine which ones to accept, and which ones might be best ignored, if you follow my thinking,” Lady Melly said with a knowing look. “In fact, we were just about to discuss our plans for this evening, which include a garden party at the Twisdale residence.”

Victoria could sit back no longer. “Thank you very much, Lord Rockley”—how horribly odd it felt to say that to a stranger—“for your hospitality, but I have already decided to move myself from St. Heath’s Row, which I should have done immediately upon my return.”

“Victoria, I can hardly bear to tell you this, but . . . the roof at Grantworth House—it’s being repaired. A huge tree branch fell on it, just over the place where your chambers were, and it won’t be habitable for weeks.” Lady Melly looked over at James, who appeared to have the tiniest nag of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Thank God he seemed not to be as gullible as he appeared. “So there is no place for you to stay at Grantworth House—”

“I’m so sorry to hear about the repairs. That’s the first I knew of them,” Victoria returned with an exaggerated sweetness in her voice. “And what a sacrifice for you to offer to stay here when there is such a crisis at home. But, I meant to say that I have already begun to make arrangements to move to Aunt Eustacia’s old town house. If you recall, she deeded it to me upon her death.”

Lady Melly’s face fell like a ruined soufflé, and Victoria could actually see the thoughts whirling about in her mind as she tried to extricate excuses and arguments. “Oh, dear, Victoria, but your aunt’s town house is in such an unfashionable part of Town. Why, it would be much more convenient to stay here at St. Heath’s Row. There’s plenty of room—”

This time, it was Lady Melly’s contentions that were cut off by the opening of the tall white doors.

“Miss Gwendolyn Starcasset, Mr. George Starcasset, and Signorina Sarafina Regalado,” said the butler in perfect pronunciation. He looked immensely pleased with himself.

Victoria realized her mouth had begun to sag open, and she snapped her jaws shut as she rose, along with the others, to greet these wholly unexpected guests.

George Starcasset looked much the same as he had the last time she’d seen him, when he’d been pointing a firearm at her as he ushered her through the hallways of the Palombara Villa in Rome, where the demon Akvan had made his hideout.

George was older than his sister, but his face bore a trace of youth that gave him dimpled cheeks and a cleft chin. He wasn’t an unattractive man, by any stretch, but his hair was a flat flaxen helmet that curled up at the ends, and his sideburns were too short. Overall, he merely made Victoria want to pat him on the head and send him off to play with his wooden blocks.

He wasn’t an especially adept villain either, for the one time he’d had Victoria alone and planned to ravage her at gunpoint, it had been much too simple to distract and disarm him. So much so that Victoria hardly credited herself with the escape.

But there was something different about him now . . . something harder and more confident as he swept his attention over her. There was a knowing look in his eyes, and a hint of challenge.

She had no worries that he might divulge the specifics of their last few meetings—not only would no one believe it (well, no one except Lady Winnie and Lady Nilly), but those events would definitely not show him in the most esteemed light. Perhaps his self-assured air was because he knew his presence had taken her by surprise, or perhaps it was because of the lovely young woman on his arm, who was clearly managing the event.

Sara Regalado flounced across the parlor in her perfectly tailored butter yellow day dress. Even Victoria, who was not one to care much for style—at least, not any longer—took notice of the fine Alençon lace dripping from the wrist-length sleeves, and the three rows of rosettes and lace decorating the hem of her skirt. The fabric alone was worth notice, for the design of bluebirds and spring green ivy wasn’t stamped on it, but embroidered in painstaking detail.

“Victoria,” Gwen was whispering once all the introductions were made, pulling a chair closer to hers. “I couldn’t wait to meet him! I heard he arrived yesterday, and he seems divine. His accent is so . . . rustic.”

Clearly, Lady Melly wasn’t the only one who had designs on reinstating Victoria as the Marchioness of Rockley rather than merely the Dowager Marchioness. And since George appeared otherwise engaged, Gwendolyn wasn’t wasting any time.

“Lady Rockley, is splendido to see you again,” said Sara in her accented English. She smiled prettily, but Victoria didn’t trust the glint in her brown eyes. “Forse, we might do the shopping together, on Via Fleet, is it? Perhaps you and I and our mutual friend?”