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glorious members of the beau monde stepped down into the courtyard to sweep in through the grand entry of Blackdown House.
    Sarah stood in the shadows and tried to breathe normally, though a rapid staccato beat in her veins. The tall, burly footman who had been sent to accompany her stood at her elbow.
    As Mr. Devoran had planned, she was completely hidden beneath a dark cloak, the one worn by the maid who had arrived as promised at Brockton’s Hotel. Should anyone be watching, it would appear that the woman had delivered a message, then left again to rejoin the footman who waited for her in the street.
    So Sarah felt physically safe enough, in spite of her harshly beating heart and tingling spine. It wasn’t simply the prospect of the ball that was so unnerving, not even one given by a duke. It was the idea of surrendering her quest to Guy Devoran’s control without guide or anchor.
    In spite of the shepherdess costume, or perhaps because of it, whenever he glanced at her with those intelligent, laughing eyes, he was bound to find her wanting.
    She took another deep breath.
    Some of London’s less respectable citizens had gathered at the gates to watch. The grand mansion sat in its own grounds, as if it had been plucked from the countryside to flaunt its superiority over the neighboring streets. As the town residence of one of the most powerful peers in England, perhaps the Duke of Blackdown’s London house had reason to boast. After all, he also owned a castle at Wyldshay in Dorset. The facade and setting were intimidating, precisely because they had been designed that way.
    Yet Sarah’s headgear required perfect posture, as she demanded from her pupils when she taught them to dance. With a wry appreciation for all of her own childhood lessons in deportment, she stared at the glittering home of one of the most powerful members of the peerage and kept her head high.
    Already masked, Neptune and Athene—complete with owl—passed up the steps. Meanwhile Sir Lancelot and Titania were climbing down from their carriage.
    The crowd cheered and called out comments, trying to guess identities. A circle of liveried menservants kept them at bay. Yet every member of the rabble was clutching a mug of ale, a meat pie, and a small purse set with blue ribbons. So another kind of party was taking place in the street.
    Sarah Callaway belonged to neither of these worlds. Both the watching crowd and the glittering aristocrats were as foreign to her as the men of Patagonia, who were said—or so her geography book claimed—to be of gigantic size.
    As if acknowledging her lack of status, the footman hustled her around to the back of the house. The stable yard was another hubbub of activity. The man winked solemnly as he handed Sarah over to the care of a maid, who rushed her into the house past the frantic preparations in the kitchens, then into a small anteroom.
    The maid bobbed a curtsy and left. The noise and commotion stopped instantly once she had closed the double doors behind her.
    Sarah stood and waited, feeling very alone.
    The room cocooned her in silence.
    After a few moments of absolute quiet, she looked about. A painting of a bareheaded knight in full armor hung above the fireplace. She walked over to stare up at it.
    A breeze from the edge of the world unsettled the knight’s hair and streamed through his mount’s mane and tail. An imaginary forest rioted in the background, decorated with flowers and wildly curling leaves. A tall keep, flying the St. George dragon banner, rose from amongst the trees. Beyond them lay the sea.
    Emphasized by the severe lines of the man’s face, dark, compelling eyes gazed back down at her.
    An odd longing seized her soul.
    Sarah could almost hear the drag of the surf on the shingle and smell the salt-sweet fragrance of the flowers.
    Closer to her heart, she could sense the presence of the man, as if the knight might step down from the painting at any