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Except Mrs. Claude Statton, who appeared pale and hardly left: her husband’s side. And an elegant, mysterious stranger whose odd, too-Irish name soon made the rounds: Tavish Finn.
    Adelle Snow Archer rustled over to Darcy. Her dress, light blue satin brocade trimmed with pink ribbons, elaborate lace, and looped up with royal-blue velvet roses, seemed to precede her. There were women who seemed to inhabit a gown by divine right, and then there were those who seemed to be temporary squatters. Adelle was of the latter variety. As the young widow’s fortunes improved, Adelle had begun to abandon the conservatism of her upbringing and dress like the newly rich she’d once shunned. But Adelle was having a wonderful time in her new dress, and even the disapproving look on the face of Claude Statton didn’t dim her smile.
    Darcy returned the smile, ignoring the slight pang of jealousy that always pricked her when she saw Adelle. It was pure meanness, Darcy knew, and she hated herself for it. It was just that Adelle was so full of life. Next to her, Darcy felt so dry, so desiccated, so envious of Adelle’s freshness, Adelle who was ten years her senior, thirty-seven, and like a blooming young girl next to Darcy, a dried-up old maid who happened to be married.
    Adelle smiled her public smile, gracious, with a tilted head and wide eyes. Her tiny light brown curls quivered as she shook her head at Darcy. “What an evening! I declare I haven’t stopped dancing since I arrived. If only I had a glass of champagne, my life would be complete.”
    Claude took the hint. He bowed. “If you’ll allow me.”
    Adelle dimpled at him, then watched him go with narrowed eyes. “He hasn’t left your side all evening, Darcy. Don’t you want to dance?”
    â€œNot at the moment,” Darcy said. “I’m enjoying the spectacle.” She didn’t want to discuss Claude’s insistence on hovering near her tonight. How could she begin to explain in a crowded ballroom everything that was wrong? She felt ready to scream at his constant presence by her side. She despised him now, for at last she felt fully justified in doing so.
    Her house had become a prison ever since he’d caught her downstairs weeks ago. Although she had slipped down the next day to retrieve her cloak and boots, they had disappeared. They hadn’t reappeared in her closet, and she only hoped that some servant had found them and, thinking them forgotten and worth risking dismissal for, had carried them off to her room.
    She had spent a long night and a day going over the conversation she’d overheard, and she longed to ask her father about it. But she knew somehow that Edward would not want her to know such things, no matter how untrue. It would embarrass him merely to have to contradict them; to defend himself against such calumny was demeaning. But how could she live with Claude until the spring? Over and over the questions revolved. She felt exhausted with the force of her hatred and the weight of Claude’s newly heavy attention to her every move, her every diversion.
    â€œRemember the days when we knew everyone at a ball?” Adelle asked, her small bright eyes roaming over the room. “Why, there wouldn’t be more than a face or two you didn’t know—indeed, you were lucky if there were. And Aunt Catherine is still disapproving of me for wearing my Paris gowns the same season I get them. Times are changing, and I do welcome it. I find it exciting to wear new clothes, to see new faces.” She leaned closer to Darcy. “And prominent among them is Mrs. Columbine Nash,” she said behind her fan.
    â€œYes, Father introduced me to her.”
    â€œNo!” Adelle’s round eyes grew even rounder. “Uncle Edward goes too far. Why, Mrs. Nash is divorced, though that’s not the only source of her notoriety. Would that it was. What did she say?”
    Darcy put her