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dragging forth of every unmarried chit of her
acquaintance. And now he found that it was one of them he searched
for.
    He crumpled the letter and threw it aside,
stomping onto the pavement, vowing to put the incident behind
him.
    But a few minutes later he was back,
retrieving the damned thing, smoothing it out and tucking it away
again.
    Half Moon House, indeed.
     
     
    The footman had been correct, the first
hackney driver knew the place, although he gave Worthe an odd look
when asked. Worthe climbed down when they arrived, paid the jarvey,
and stood, contemplating the place.
    The townhouse looked ordinary enough, but
the door was distinctive. The fan above had been carved with a half
moon and a scattering of stars, all set with glass. A very pretty
effect at night, he’d wager, when the light shone through. But he
could not recognize the pattern of the stars.
    He snorted. A very amateur society, after
all.
    His knock was answered
immediately—by a girl wrapped in a sheet, one corner thrown over
her shoulder. She beamed at him while he stared at the ivy in her
hair and the waxed grapes tucked in the crook of her arm. Granted,
he was largely out of touch with the ton and their interests, but this?
He could not explain it.
    “Welcome, Mr. Middleton, sir! I am a nymph
of the vine, handmaiden to Dionysus. Won’t you come in?”
    She opened the door wider. Frowning, he
opened his mouth and stepped in—just as a call rang out.
    “I’m Diana, Goddess of the Hunt!”
    Suddenly, Dionysus’s handmaiden screamed.
She jumped back as an arrow shot past her—and straight into
Worthe’s shoulder.
    The impact knocked him back, he stumbled . .
. and fell back, landing hard and grunting as his head struck the
stone walkway. His last thought, as the light faded, was that he
didn’t recognize the pattern of stars dancing overhead, either.
     
    “Oh, please, sir. Do wake up!”
    The stars were still there when he opened
his eyes again.
    Wait. Not stars. Sunbursts of gold in a pair
of wide, green eyes. He blinked, still befuddled, but immensely
relieved to find a recognizable pattern at last. Andromeda—the
princess constellation—laid out clearly in the form of faint
freckles across the bridge of a finely crafted nose.
    “Is that real?” His tongue felt thick, but
he reached up to brush a soft cheek. He checked. His thumb remained
clean and the freckles were still in place.
    “Oh, Molly.” The owner of the freckles drew
back, worry etched across her pretty face. “You’ve addled his
wits.”
    “No.” Worthe struggled to sit up. “I’m
fine.”
    “I’m ever so sorry, sir!” Another young
woman enveloped in white wrung her hands at his side, her bow
discarded nearby. “I meant to hit the door!” She looked to
Andromeda. “I’m so glad you made me blunt the end!”
    “As am I. The poor man will likely have a
bruise, you shot with such force. But never mind. Let’s get him
up.”
    The world tilted again as Worthe sat up.
Mist rushed in to blur his vision. Groaning, he felt gingerly along
the back of his skull.
    “Oh, that’s quite a lump!” Andromeda
exclaimed. “Peggy, will you run for ice?”
    The nymph hurried away, leaving her grapes.
Frowning, Worthe counted five young ladies surrounding him—all
draped in white linen—except for his Andromeda. He squinted to see
that she wore sprigged muslin in a light green that showcased those
spectacular eyes and contrasted nicely with soft, chestnut
curls.
    “Can you stand?” she asked.
    He nodded. A mistake, as nausea tried to
wash over him, but he found it easy to ignore as she pressed close
to help. The princess Andromeda possessed ample curves to go along
with her sun-burst eyes and intriguing freckles.
    She held him steady as they made their way
inside, never faltering as they passed through a wide entry and
headed for a parlor on the right. “It makes sense, Andromeda,” he
said through the fog. “You must have been both beautiful and strong
to survive