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bird rose, fully fledged, from the ashes of the old.
    A most unusual piece. She wondered whether he had chosen the pin for the significance of the design, or merely because it was pretty. He didn't look the sort to be attracted by the merely pretty.
    Who was the man? Why did he feel somehow familiar to her? And why, out of all the young girls arrayed in white, had he asked her to dance? For she had seen him ask no one else.
    If he had approached her with an eye to a possible bride, he was surely unique, for he'd barely glanced at her, except for that one icy, searing glance. Kit knew from her past experience that whatever the culture, men generally showed a great deal of interest in the physical attributes of the women they took to wife. In some places she had lived, even the woman's teeth were inspected as a matter of course —not that Kit would stand for being inspected like a horse at market! But a little interest would not have gone astray.
    Kit watched as he inclined his head ironically to someone on the other side of the room. She followed the direction of his gaze. An elegant woman in an exquisite lilac silk gown glared at him, stamped her foot and turned her back on him. Kit recognised the woman: Lady Norwood, the mother of Lord Norwood.
    Kit wrinkled her brow in perplexion as Lady Norwood, exuding indignation with every step, stamped away to join her cronies, leaving the tall dark man to saunter away into the crowd. What on earth was all that about?
    Lady Norwood was a widow, notorious, according to Rose, for keeping company with rakes and ne'er-do-wells. Was the tall man one of her companions? Had they had a falling out?
    Rake or ne'er-do-well? He did not seem to fit either description. He seemed more like a big dark arrogant watchdog; a little fierce, a little harsh, a little cold. But watchdogs guarded things. And people. Who or what was he guarding?
    And why was Lady Norwood so angry with him?
    She was not quite sure how she felt, but there was no doubt about one thing; she felt more alive than ever. The simple evening of pleasure before her had suddenly turned into a most intriguing event.
    "Devenish, old fellow. Didn't think to find you in Town. Thought you preferred rustification —know I do." The blunt, loud voice came from just behind Kit. She
    turned her head but could not observe the speaker. She was resting between dances, sipping a glass of sweet ratafia, while her partner went to fetch her an ice. Her seat was next to a pillar draped with netting and twined with drooping greenery; on the other side of the pillar,, two men stood talking.
    "Shockin'ly dull affair, ain't it? If I'd realised there was going to be so many of the infantry invited, I wouldn't have come. Lord! When did marriage-bait get to be so young — tell me that, Dev?"
    The other man laughed wryly. "I'm afraid it is not the debutantes who are getting younger, Marsden, but —"
    Marsden! Her father had mentioned a Marsden... Kit wriggled closer, eavesdropping unashamedly.
    "Devil take you, don't say it, man! Bad enough to realise I've been fifteen years leg-shackled —fifteen years—can you credit it?" Marsden signed audibly. "Reason I'm come to the Metropolis—promised the lady wife I'd escort her, celebrate the event in London—celebration! At one of Fanny Parsons's balls—commiseration more like!" He added eoaxingly, "I say, old man, you wouldn't care to slip out for a while and pop in to White's for a rubber of whist?"
    His companion laughed. "A tempting thought —but no, I cannot. I am engaged for the next waltz."
    "Good Gad! Who with?" asked Marsden bluntly. "Never took you for a caper merchant, Dev." There was a short pause. "Never say you're going to dance with one of those fillies in white —dlon't do it, man! Don't get yourself leg-shackled!"
    His companion snorted. "Were I in the market for a wife —which I am not—I would not put myself down for a waltz with a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation."
    Kit