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dressing-table mirror for a moment. Then, with a shrug of defeat, she began to unbutton the green long-sleeved gown.
    Because she'd taken the time to change to the lavender gown, Kate was the last to join the group assembled in the drawing room before dinner. Pausing in the doorway, she glanced round the room There were not many familiar faces. Of course she knew the elderly butler, Pritt. He'd been in the family since long before Kate was born. He was now serving glasses of sherry to a trio of ladies sitting near the fire—her aunt Madge, a tiny but distinguished-looking elderly lady in a purple velvet half-cape, and her mother. Kate noticed that her mother had dressed for this occasion in a puce-colored lace gown and, instead of her widow's cap, had placed a jeweled comb in her hair. Aunt Madge must have warned her that the evening would be special. It pleased Kate to see her mother looking so stylish and enjoying lively conversation without her ever-present needlework in her hands.
    On the far side of the room she spied Deirdre, seated in an armchair. Perched on the arm was Lord Ainsworth. But Deirdre was not conversing with him. Her head was turned toward another young man, a bushy-haired fellow who was leaning over the back of her chair. Ainsworth seemed to take notice of Kate's arrival, but she, though she would have liked to know if he recognized her, found herself unable to meet his eyes. She knew full well, as she dropped her eyes from his, that her act was cowardly. This behavior—quite like a simpering miss—was not her usual style. What's wrong with me? she asked herself.
    She had no time to analyze this distressing reaction, for her uncle spied her at that moment. "Ah, Kate," he cried jovially, "there you are at last!" He rose from the sofa where he'd been sitting with an impressive looking gentleman and came across the room to her. "Let me make you known to everyone."
    Uncle Charles put an arm about her waist and led her to the group at the fireplace. Addressing the unknown lady in the purple cape, he said, "Your ladyship, may I present my niece, Miss Kate Rendell? Kate, this is Charlotte, Lady Ainsworth."
    Kate, wondering if this might be Lord Ainsworth's mother, made a bow. Her ladyship was a tiny, wizened woman who nevertheless sat up straight as a queen, the majestic effect enhanced by her bright eyes, her abundant white hair tucked under a widow's cap, and the velvet cape that covered her narrow shoulders like a royal mantle. In the manner of a benign monarch, she smiled up at Kate and held out her hand. "I'm delighted to meet you, my dear," she said warmly. "I've heard much in praise of you."
    Kate felt herself blush as she took the wrinkled hand. "You shouldn't take my mother's word for my character, your ladyship. She's bound to be partial."
    "It was not from your mother that I heard it," her ladyship said with a twinkle.
    "Oh?" Kate responded with real interest. "Who could have—?"
    "Come Kate," her uncle cut in rudely, "you must meet the others."
    Kate could do nothing but bow again and follow where he led.
    She was next presented to the elderly gentleman who'd been conversing with her uncle, Sir Edward Tyndale. His dignified manner, overly formal attire, and powdered hair showed him to be determinedly old-fashioned. Sir Edward rose and kissed her hand gallantly, just as he'd probably done for half a century. Yet there was something in his expression—a livery brightness in the eyes—that made Kate like him at once.
    His son, the Honorable Leonard Tyndale, was the fellow who'd been standing behind Deirdre's chair. His mop of auburn hair topped a cheerful face, full cheeks sprinkled with freckles, an upturned nose, and a mouth showing a decided propensity to smile. His manner, too, was unaffected and good-humored. The enthusiastic way he came forward to shake her hand put Kate immediately at ease with him. The two Tyndales, she decided, would be pleasant company.
    Then Uncle Charles turned to