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for which I am very thankful.”
    “Ma’am.” Rafe bowed over the duchess’s hand. He had only to look at this woman, he thought, to see what Kyria would look like in thirty years. The Duchess of Broughton was as tall as her daughter, with equally red hair, save for a strand or two of white woven through it, and much of her former beauty still showed in the strong bones of her face.
    “Yes, good show,” a man said, coming up beside the duchess and reaching out to shake Rafe’s hand. “Duke of Broughton. Pleased to meet you. Uncle Bellard speaks highly of you.”
    “Thank you, sir. I think very highly of him, too.” Rafe had met the duke’s uncle two months earlier, when he and the scholarly old gentleman had helped Stephen and Olivia find the source of several bizarre incidents that had plagued Stephen’s ancestral home, Blackhope Hall.
    “He wants very much to see you,” the duke went on, “but you know Uncle Bellard—he doesn’t much like these large gatherings.”
    Rafe could well imagine that the diminutive scholar, a very shy and bookish man, did not feel at ease in a crowd.
    Broughton cast a distracted glance around the room and gave a small sigh. “Can’t say as I much like them, either.”
    “I know, Papa.” Kyria linked her arm affectionately through her father’s. “You would much rather be outside in your workshop.”
    The duke smiled a little, getting a distant look in hiseye. “Got a new shipment of potsherds today. You must come down and see them, Kyria. You, too, um…”
    “Mr. McIntyre, Papa,” Kyria put in.
    “Yes, of course. Mr. McIntyre.” He nodded pleasantly and strolled away, his hands clasped behind his back, his head turned down.
    “Please don’t be offended,” Kyria said. “Papa knows who you are. It’s just that trivial things like names tend to slip his mind, especially when there are antiquities to be considered. I’m sure he is thinking about his shipment. Mother will be lucky if she can keep him here until supper.”
    Kyria cast a sideways glance at him, saying, “If you are brave enough, I can introduce you to the rest of our family.”
    “Lead on,” Rafe responded lightly. “I dare anything.”
    She walked with him over to where a black-haired woman sat deep in conversation with an older man. When Kyria said her name, the woman glanced up vaguely. Then her face cleared. “Ah. Kyria. Oh!” She stood up. “Are you all right? Smeggars said—”
    “Smeggars fusses too much,” Kyria said firmly. “I am fine. Thisbe, allow me to introduce you to Mr. McIntyre. He is Lord St. Leger’s best man.”
    “His what…Oh, yes, of course, the wedding. I had forgotten. Dr. Sommerville and I were having such an interesting discussion concerning the allotropes of carbon. Did you know—”
    “I’m certain I do not,” Kyria interjected hastily. She turned toward Rafe and said in explanation, “Thisbe is a scientist.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” Thisbe said, reaching out toshake Rafe’s hand. She was tall, like Kyria, but her hair was as black as night and pulled back in a no-nonsense fashion, and her clothes were plain rather than elegant. Not as beautiful in the face as Kyria, there was nevertheless a certain arresting handsomeness in her strong-boned features, and her blue eyes shone with intelligence.
    “You are the silver magnate, aren’t you?” she went on in the disconcertingly blunt way that Rafe was beginning to expect from the members of the Moreland family. He had thought Stephen’s Olivia unusual, but he was beginning to see that the entire brood was decidedly different.
    “Yes, I suppose I am,” he replied. “Or, rather, I was. We sold our mine.”
    “And what are you doing now?”
    “I decided to take a tour of Europe, and I started by going to visit St. Leger. Of course, when he told me he was getting married, I had to stay on.”
    Thisbe nodded. “I hope it was no problem to delay your travel.”
    “None whatsoever. My plans are very