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as well just yank off his fingernails now.
    Peter subtly adjusted his position so that his back
was more toward the crowds. Then he gave himself a mental smack when he
caught himself glancing over his shoulder.
    He’d found a small group of men he knew from the army, all of whom, he was sure, had come to
    London for the same reason he had, although with
the exception of Robbie Dunlop, none of them had had the misfortune of
having been invited to Lady Neeley’s ill-fated dinner party. And Robbie
hadn’t been chosen for scrutiny by Lady Whistledown; it seemed that
even that wizened old crone knew that Robbie hadn’t the guile to
concoct—much less carry out—such an audacious theft.
    “Bad luck about Whistledown,” one of the former soldiers commented, shaking his head with honest commiseration.
    Peter just grunted and lifted one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. It seemed a good enough answer to him.
    “No one will remember by next week,” said another.
“She’ll have some new scandal to report on, and besides, no one really
thinks you stole that bracelet.”
    Peter turned to his friend with dawning horror. It had never even occurred to him that anyone might actually think he was a thief. He’d been merely concerned with the bit about being a fortune hunter.
    “Er, didn’t mean to bring it up,” the fellow
stammered, stepping back at what must have been a ferocious expression
on Peter’s face. “I’m certain it will turn out to be that companion.
That sort never has two shillings to rub together.”
    “It wasn’t Miss Martin,” Peter bit off.
    “How d’you know?” asked one of the men. “Do you know her?”
    “Does anyone know her?” someone else asked.
    “It wasn’t Miss Martin,” Peter said, his voice hard. “And it is beneath you to speculate with a woman’s reputation.”
    “Yes, but how do you—”
    “I was standing right next to her!” Peter snapped.
“The poor woman was being mauled by a parrot. She hadn’t the
opportunity to take the bracelet. Of course,” he added caustically, “I
don’t know who will trust my word on the matter now that I’ve been
labeled as the prime suspect.”
    The men all rushed to assure him that they still
trusted his word on anything, although one was foolish enough to point
out that Peter was hardly the prime suspect.
     
    Peter just glared at him. Prime or not, it appeared that
much of London now thought he might be a thief.
    Bloody hell.
    “Good evening, Mr. Thompson.”
    Tillie. The night only needed this.
    Peter turned, wishing his blood weren’t racing with quite so
much energy at the mere sound of her voice. He shouldn’t see her. He shouldn’t
want to see her.
    “It is good to see you,” she said, smiling as if she had a
secret.
    He was sunk.
    “Lady Mathilda,” he said, bowing over her proffered hand.
    She turned and greeted Robbie, then said to Peter, “Perhaps
you might introduce me to the rest of your compatriots?”
    He did so, frowning as they all fell under her spell. Or
possibly, it occurred to him, the spell of her dowry. Harry hadn’t exactly been
circumspect when he’d spoken of it on the Continent.
    “I could not help but overhear your defense of Miss Martin,”
Tillie said, once the introductions had been completed. She turned to the rest
of the crowd and added, “I was there as well, and I assure you, the thief could
not have been she.”
    “Who do you think stole the bracelet, Lady Mathilda?”
someone asked.
    Tillie’s lips pursed for a fraction of a second—just long
enough to inform someone who was watching her very closely that she was
irritated. But to anyone else (which consisted of everyone except for Peter)
her sunny expression never wavered, especially as she said, “I do not know. I
rather think it will be found behind a table.”
    “Surely Lady Neeley has already searched the room,” one of
the men drawled.
    Tillie waved one of her hands through the air, a blithe
gesture that Peter suspected was meant to