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her, and he just said, “You’re probably
right. I’ve long since realized that most mysteries have perfectly benign and
boring solutions. Lady Neeley shall most probably be eating crow before the
week is out.”
    “You don’t think I’m silly for being so trusting?” Tillie
asked, nearly kicking herself for doing so. But she couldn’t seem to stop
asking questions of this man; she couldn’t recall anyone else whose opinions mattered quite so much.
    He smiled. “No. I don’t necessarily agree with you. But it’s
rather nice to share tea with someone whose faith in humanity has not been
irreparably injured.”
    A somber ache washed over her, and she wondered if Harry,
too, had been changed by the war. He must have been, she realized, and she
couldn’t quite believe that she’d never considered it before. She’d always
imagined him the same old Harry, laughing and joking and pulling pranks at
every opportunity.
    But when she looked at Peter Thompson, she realized that
there was a shadow behind his eyes that never quite went away.
    Harry had been at Peter’s side throughout the war. His eyes
had seen the same horrors, and his eyes would have held the same shadows, had
he not been buried in Belgium.
    “Tillie?”
    She looked up quickly. She’d been silent longer than she
ought, and Peter was watching her with a curious expression. “Sorry,” she said
reflexively, “just woolgathering.”
    But as she sipped her
tea, watching him surreptitiously over the rim of her cup; it wasn't
Harry she was thinking about. For the first time in a year,
finally, thrillingly, it wasn’t
Harry.
    It was Peter, and all she could think was that he shouldn’t
have shadows behind his eyes. And she wanted to be the one to banish them
forever.
     
     

Chapter 3
    … and now that This Author has
made public the guest list from The Dinner Party That Went Awry, This
Author offers to you, as a delicious lagniappe, an analysis of the
suspects.
    Not much is known of Mr. Peter
Thompson, although he is widely recognized as a courageous soldier in
the war against Napoleon. Society hates to place a noted war hero on a
list of suspects, but This Author would be remiss if it were not
pointed out that Mr. Thompson is also recognized as something of a
fortune hunter. Since his arrival in town, he has been quite obviously
looking for a wife, although as This Author firmly believes in giving
credit where credit is due, he has done so in a decidedly understated
and unvulgar manner.
    But it is well-known that his father, Lord Stoughton, is not among the wealthier of the barons,
    and furthermore, Mr. Thompson
is a second son, and as his elder brother has already seen fit to
procreate, he is a mere fourth in line for the title.
    And so if Mr. Thompson hopes to
live in any manner of style once he departs the army, he will need to
marry a woman of some means.
    Or, one could speculate, if one was of a mind to do so, obtain funds in some other manner.
     
    LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 MAY 1816
     
    If Peter had known the identity of the elusive Lady Whistledown, he would have strangled her on the spot.
    Fortune Hunter. He detested the moniker, viewed it
more as an epithet, and could not even think the words without nearly
spitting in disgust. He’d spent this past month in London behaving with
the utmost of care, all to ensure that the label was not applied to him.
    There was a difference between a man who sought a woman with a modest dowry and one who seduced for money, and the differential could be summed up in one word.
    Honor.
    It was what had governed his entire life, from the
moment his father had sat him down at the appallingly tender age of
five and explained what set apart a true gentleman, and by God, Peter
was not going to allow some cowardly gossip columnist to stain his
reputation with a single stroke of her pen.
    If the bloody woman had an ounce of honor herself,
he thought savagely, she would not coyly cloak her identity. Only