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outcomes reported a few days or even weeks later in the papers. Here was a glimpse into a world she had never imagined, and she found it intriguing.
    As she followed her father and mother around the main room, she thought that one advantage to marrying Stowe is that she would stay in London. Another advantage was that, once married, no one would care who she was. Right now, she was given great accord because the gentlemen fancied her, but all the ogling would blessedly change—­
    Her father pulled up short. His body stiffened, and he hissed through his teeth.
    “What is it, Colonel?” her mother asked.
    “Fyclan Morris. Damn his hide. What is he doing here, talking to Stowe?”
    “Fyclan Morris?” her mother echoed.
    At the mention of the name, Jenny pushed forward, anxious to catch a glimpse of the man who had captured her interest that afternoon. He was here. And he looked even better in evening dress.
    He wore his hair pulled back and unpowdered. His midnight-­blue jacket seemed molded to his broad shoulders. His white knee breeches with silver buckles emphasized his lean masculinity. His shirt was a snowy white under a silver-­gray vest. The knot in his neckcloth was impeccable.
    In contrast, Lord Stowe appeared a rooster in his sea-­green jacket and neckcloth of overflowing lace. He preferred a wig that added height to his frame, but Jenny thought its shape reminded her of nothing less than a coxcomb.
    Her father yanked her back behind him. “Don’t let Morris see Jenny,” he ordered his family. “The man is bent on ruining me.”
    Ruin? A thousand questions leaped to Jenny’s mind.
    “Who is he?” her mother asked.
    “A bastard through and through and an unmitigated liar. I knew him in India. Come, let us go as far away from him as possible.”
    “But Lord Stowe—­” her mother started to protest.
    “Will find Jenny,” the colonel finished. He had taken Jenny’s arm and directed her away from Mr. Morris—­but she glanced back.
    He was looking at her. He pretended to listen to Lord Stowe, but his gaze was on her, and she knew that he was here for her. She knew it.
    She wanted to wave. More than that, she had the urge to run to him, to throw herself in his arms and tell him about what had happened to Sir David’s book. But she didn’t. Instead, she let her father lead her away to the room set aside for refreshments.
    Nor would her father say anything else about Fyclan Morris in answer to the questions her mother did try to ask.
    Jenny was silent on the matter. Several gentlemen admirers gathered around her so that she could hide her interest in this enemy of her father’s behind light teasing and easy banter, but she knew the moment Mr. Morris entered the refreshment room.
    He stood in a corner talking to several gentlemen, yet he was aware of her. Just as aware as she was of him.
    Stowe approached. He reminded her of nothing less than a huge, burly ram, one foot placed in front of the other and his head heavy from his own consequence. He brushed aside her younger admirers and bowed over her hand. “You appear radiant this evening, Miss Morris, as always.”
    “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, as her parents beamed their approval.
    Stowe looked to the colonel and her mother. “You will allow me the honor of escorting your lovely daughter into the music room?”
    “Of course, of course,” her father said. “She was hoping you would ask.”
    Stowe offered Jenny his arm, and she felt she had no other option than to take it, conscious that Mr. Morris was a witness to it all.
    They joined the flow of ­people moving into the music room. Her parents were behind them, then they seemed to melt back into the crowd. Lord Stowe escorted her to seats in the first rows. He preened and glanced around as if to see if everyone noticed him. Of course, they did. There was a bet on the books at Brooks’s to ensure they would.
    However, she had a disquieting sense that Lord Stowe wasn’t interested in