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the house, alit with candles, he said, “Have you buttoned up your coat, Richard? I once attended one of these routs and forgot to fasten my coat. As I was going up the stairs, I turned the wrong way, and suddenly another fellow coming down the stairs found himself wearing my coat. I never did get it back.”
    Laughing, the two elegant gentlemen entered the house, squeezed into the hall, and began the trek up the stairs to greet their host and hostess, Lord and Lady Stone.
    Sheridan had his quizzing glass in one hand, ready to depress the attention of any mushrooms, and his silver-handled cane in the other. It was warm, too warm, and sweat trickled between his shoulder blades.
    “Should have come earlier,” he muttered over his shoulder.
    Richard said, “Wouldn’t have done any good. Even if we had been the very first guests, it would have been devilish unpleasant getting back down the stairs. The other drawback, of course, is that we actually might have been forced into polite conversation with our hostess.”
    Sheridan chuckled at this, nodding in agreement. He then turned his attention to putting one foot in front of the other while trying to avoid the press of other elegantly dressed guests. Glancing up the stairs, the candles in the sconces on the wall dazzled his eyes.
    It was then that he saw her, the woman from his afternoon daze. Her blue gown, shimmering in the candlelight, covered a form that was round in all the right places. The curls bobbing up and down were golden, and her eyes—a celestial…
    “Hell and blast!” he exclaimed, dropping the quizzing glass as the vision of loveliness took on an identity.
    Beside him, a matron in a hideous purple turban gasped in feigned shock at his language.
    “What is it?” asked his friend, placing a hand on Sheridan’s shoulder.
    “It’s that dashed silly gudgeon from last night!”
    “I…I am going to swoon,” whined a high-pitched voice just in front of them. The herd of people kept moving.
    “Make some room! Give her some air!” ordered the vision. “Miss Featherstone, take my hand. Oh, my dear girl…I…”
    The insensible girl slumped against Lady Olivia.
    Her blue eyes pleaded for help. With a growl, Sheridan gathered the unconscious Miss Featherstone into his arms, threw her over his shoulder, and turned.
    “Make way! Make way!” he commanded. As if by magic, a pathway opened and he quickly carried the limp figure down the stairs to the hall, not stopping until he had found an empty room—the library, by the look of it. With a grunt, he deposited the girl on the nearest sofa.
    “Oh, thank you, Lord Sheridan. It is most kind of you,” said Lady Olivia, who had followed him into the room. She hovered over the girl, wringing her hands.
    Sheridan scowled at both of them but didn’t speak.
    Richard strolled into the library, granted the prostrate girl an amused glance, and said, “How do you do, my lady? Sir Richard Adair, at your service.”
    That dazzling smile turned to his friend.
    Sheridan growled and said, “Do you have any smelling salts, my lady?”
    “I believe Miss Featherstone carries some with her…in…her reticule.” She looked shocked when Sheridan plucked Miss Featherstone’s reticule from her wrist. “You should not be doing that, my lord. I will…I must protest. It is most improper for a gentleman to open a lady’s reticule.”
    Ignoring her, he opened it and fished through the contents until he felt a small vial. Lady Olivia expelled a gasp of irritation and snatched the bottle from his hands. She waved it in the vicinity of Miss Featherstone’s nose. The girl wheezed, lifted her head, and then fell back against the leather couch. The door opened, and a mature lady dressed in wisps of grey floated into the room.
    “What in the world are you doing in here, Olivia? I lost you. If a footman had not noticed where you had gone, I… Oh, gentlemen. Good evening. I don’t believe we have had the pleasure. I am Miss