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white with heavy draperies at the windows and flocked wallpaper patterned with roses and vines. Clutter covered every exposed surface. On lacy crocheted table coverings sat porcelain figurines and daguerreotypes in intricategilt frames, and oil family portraits hung on the walls. In the midst of all this feminine frippery, Gerard couldn’t shake the feeling of being swallowed up by the sumptuous decor. On the other side of the parlor, three older couples and the daughter of the house waited for them.
    Stoddard headed straight for a woman in lavender silk who sat on a chair by the cold hearth. “Mrs. Foster, I’d like to present my cousin.”
    The ritual of introductions proceeded according to form. Gerard sized up the Fosters, a middle-aged couple who appeared to be in comfortable circumstances. The husband was tall with side-whiskers, and his wife an older version of her daughter. The other two couples were of similar age and appearance.
    “Mr. Ramsay,” Tippy Foster, sitting near her mother, greeted him brightly. “I’m so happy you’ve ventured to the barbarous frontier.”
    “Xantippe,” Mrs. Foster said reprovingly.
    “Miss Foster, I see that you have not lost any of your sprightly charm,” Gerard said, wishing he could say what he really meant.
    As if she read his mind, the girl chuckled. “You are very adroit, sir.”
    An intimate glance passed between Stoddard and Tippy, and Gerard fought to hold his courteous smile in place.
    “Miss Blessing,” the butler intoned from the doorway.
    Gerard turned and found the Quakeress standing there. The woman appeared to be ushering in daylight. The oil lamps seemed to dim and the overdecorated room to pale. He mentally stepped back.
    The Quakeress moved purposefully into the parlor. She did not try to float across the room in that affected, aggravating way most young women did. Her measured, forthright gait irked him all the more.
    And every head turned to watch her. Two of the ladies moved toward her with smiles and pleasant phrases on their lips, startling Gerard. A radical female would not have been welcome in any Beacon Hill drawing room.
    Or was that true?
    He had heard of people who had presence, but he had never known what that meant. Now he recognized it firsthand, though it still defied definition. He tried to analyze what about her seemed to reach out toward others. She was admittedly good-looking, and she dressed very simply but expensively in gray-and-white silk with a white widow’s cap over her chestnut hair. Nothing outstanding that in itself should have called attention to her. If he could understand what her attraction was, perhaps he could counter it.
    Because he would bet she was the one who’d lured Tippy Foster into radical ideas, and a beautiful girl with radical ideas was evidently the type that snared Stoddard. A bitter taste leaked over his tongue.
    “Gerard Ramsay, we meet again.” The widow offered him her hand like a man, behaving as if she were unaware that she was the center of attention in the room.
    It irritated him, so he responded with an older and even more formal courtesy, taking her hand, bending over, and kissing it. “Madam Suffragist.”
    She chuckled.
    The lilting sound grated on his nerves, and he tried tocome up with another way to catch her off guard. “How is the crusade for women’s rights proceeding?”
    “Slowly, much too slowly.” Then she took back her hand and moved toward her hostess, effectively cutting him out.
    He watched her, his annoyance deepening. Any other woman would have been chagrined at his provocative greeting and would have tried to downplay her radicalism. Why didn’t she?
    “I’m sorry not to arrive on time, but I was detained,” the Quakeress said.
    “Your work is very important,” Mrs. Foster replied. “Don’t apologize.”
    The other ladies murmured similar sentiments, sounding sanctimonious.
    Her work? What else didn’t he know about this woman? A particularly painful spot in