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with her.
    "Quite well," he assured her. "At least in health," he added, after a moment. She was nonplussed to find him gazing down seriously at her, and wondered at the flicker of pain in his dark eyes. "I have little experience of children, yet it's clear to me she's unhappy." Lonely, he wanted to say. But to admit that the child was lonely, when everyone from the butler to the lowest scullery maid doted upon her, implied something wanting in himself.
    "I think it's to be expected. The child still misses her parents, and her world now is vastly different from the world she knew. It will take time."
    As she smiled up at him reassuringly, his throat tightened.
    "I hope that is all it is..." His voice trailed off as he forced himself to look elsewhere—anywhere else—and thus met Lady Honoria's quizzical glance. He didn't mention that Lucy had asked for "Missbella" several times. Or that she had taken to none of the doting staff as she had taken to Miss Latham. Or that he had berated himself a thousand times for his behaviour that day at the dressmaker's—for had he been kinder and more patient, he might have learned Miss Latham's secret, and would not have this sad little ghost wandering aimlessly among her new toys and frocks. He mentioned none of these things, but they gnawed at him as he asked after Miss Latham's family and sought her impressions of London, now that she'd spent some weeks in town.
    He was surprised to discover that her view of London had little to do with the balls and routs, the dinner parties and assemblies, the fashions and latest on-dits that occupied the minds of the women on his aunt's "list."
    Isabella Latham was a different species, who spoke intelligently of books and art and even—gracious heavens!— politics; who could not for the life of her remember Brummel's latest witticism or Caro Lamb's most recent misbehaviour.
    As he led her back to her aunt (and the infernal Basil), he puzzled over this odd young lady. Clearly, she had no thought of herself as a belated debutante—in marked contrast to Miss Elderbridge, now in her seventh Season. To Isabella Latham, this London visit was a practical matter of overseeing her cousins' first Season: no more, no less. Apparently, her small crowd of admirers was, to her, a puzzling nuisance, and (except for Basil) about as troublesome to her equanimity as ants at a picnic. A curious, clear-headed, competent female, he thought... so why did she look so devilishly unhappy and vulnerable as Basil bent to whisper in her ear?

Chapter Four
    "Well, my love, it seems you have decided to take the shine out of your cousins' debut by snatching up all their beaux beforehand."
    Isabella looked up in surprise from the neat hem she was stitching. She had thought her mother was asleep on the sofa among her many pillows.
    "Mama, whatever are you talking about?"
    Maria sighed. "It wants less than a week until our grand ball, and the house has been so overrun with your suitors that one hardly knows where to turn. I have not had a moment to myself to think."
    What her mother possibly needed to think about, Isabella could not fathom. Lady Belcomb and Isabella had shared all the labour of preparing for the ball and making peace among the staff, while Mama's sole contribution had been an opinion of the colour of Alicia's gown.
    "I do not recollect our being overrun by anything but servants, Mama. They are always so dreadfully in the way."
    "Don't be coy with your mother, Isabella. Here is Mr. Trevelyan stopping by nearly every single day with his friend—the one who prates so interminably of horses." Another sigh. "Your father never showed the least interest in horses, Isabella, I am relieved to inform you."
    Nor had he ever evidenced much interest in anything else , thought Isabella. Not his business, nor his daughter; and barely his wife—though (she glanced at the still beautiful woman reclining languidly among the pillows) Mama may not have been the most stimulating of