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mind, sir, I’m interrogating my brother,” said Juliet, refusing to be thrown off the scent of a promising new trail. “Was she very pretty, Cary?”
    “Actually, she’s one of our Derbyshire cousins,” said Cary, avoiding the question. He knew from experience that telling his sister he had met a pretty girl was the surest way to turn her into a Cupid’s helper. “Lord Wayborn’s her uncle. You must know her. You know everyone.”
    “I do know everyone,” Juliet said smugly, “but his lordship must have two dozen nieces, if not more. He had a dozen brothers and sisters. What’s her name?”
    “Don’t know,” said Cary. “I didn’t think to ask.”
    Juliet stared. “Didn’t think to—! And, of course, a lady couldn’t volunteer the information,” she said, exasperated. “Who was with her?”
    “No one.”
    “No one?” said Juliet, in disbelief. “She must have been with someone. Her mother? A chaperone? A maid?”
    “No one,” said Cary. “Unless one counts Lord Dulwich.”
    The Duke sat up in his chair, demonstrating that he had actually been following the conversation between brother and sister. “One don’t, as a matter of fact.”
    “No, indeed,” said Cary. “An absolute negative quantity. One subtracts him, rather.”
    “I don’t understand,” said Juliet. “Was this girl of yours with Lord Dulwich?”
    “No, she was quite alone when the filthy beast knocked her down,” said Cary, remembering the incident with renewed anger. “He shoved her out of the way in Piccadilly, and she fell, poor mite.”
    “Somebody ought to shove him into the bloody river,” snarled the Duke, “except there’d be no grave for me to dance on. Look here, Cary, if you want to call him out, I’ll second you. He can’t go about the place shoving girls in the back. Not in my England.”
    “I hadn’t thought of taking it quite so far,” said Cary, modestly. “I just helped the girl to her feet and showed her the shortcut to Hatchard’s. You know, through the bakery?”
    “Oh, yes,” said the Duke, who knew London almost as well as the other gentleman. “There’s nothing quite like a bun straight from the oven.”
    “What did she look like, this cousin of ours?” Juliet inquired, not in the least interested in shortcuts or buns or even Lord Dulwich’s grave. As the sister of two eligible bachelors, she prided herself on knowing all the marriageable young ladies on the market, and for Cary to have met one whom she could not immediately identify irritated her. “Was she pretty?”
    “She was noticeably human in appearance,” Cary equivocated.
    “What does that mean?” Juliet demanded.
    “I didn’t want to kiss her,” he explained, “but neither did I feel compelled to run away.”
    Juliet sighed. “That doesn’t much narrow things down, I’m afraid. I’ve met three or four of our Derbyshire cousins, and they’re all presentable but rather plain. The word for that is ‘tolerable,’ by the way. You might use it instead of ‘noticeably human.’ What color is her hair?”
    Cary knew better than to reveal that the girl had hair the color of hot buttered scotch.
    “Brown, of course,” Juliet answered her own question. “The Wayborns are all brunettes.”
    “She’s not a Wayborn herself,” said Cary. “Her mother was one of the earl’s sisters.”
    “The man had seven sisters,” Juliet complained. “Your mystery girl could be anyone.”
    “Not anyone, surely,” said Cary, amused by Juliet’s frustration. He was himself only slightly interested in the identity of a girl he probably would never see again in his life, but Juliet was like a dog with a marrowbone she couldn’t crack.
    “It could be the Vaughn girl,” she said hopefully. “There’s a scandal in there somewhere, but no one’s talking… yet . I’ll find it out though. See if I don’t.”
    Cary chuckled. “Sorry, Julie. This girl’s about as scandalous as a pot of tea.”
    Juliet wrinkled her nose.