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Miss Charming. Charlotte caught her eye, and Miss Charming nodded in an approving way.
    â€œAnd where is Mallery?” Colonel Andrews asked.
    Just then the front door banged open and they could hear loud footsteps coming down the hall. A figure passed the drawing room and headed toward the stairs.
    â€œMr. Mallery!” Mrs. Wattlesbrook called.
    He paused, then came back, his stance impatient. He was the tallest of the three gentlemen, striking in a black cloak and riding boots, his long hair held in a masculine ponytail. Charlotte added the word “masculine” to her internal description, because normally she considered long hair on men weird and maybe a little bit sweet. But everything about this man pronounced Masculinity in no-nonsense terms. While the other two gentlemen would look comfortable on a GQ cover, Mr. Mallery didn’t seem likely to feel comfortable anywhere—except maybe a castle on a moor. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and standing on the threshold as he was, he seemed too untamed and, well, dangerous to enter the prim world of the drawing room.
    His look was restless, but he bowed to Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
    â€œMy apologies, madam. My horse stumbled in the field.”
    â€œThat is a shame. Is she all right?”
    â€œOf course she is, or I would not have returned from the stables.”
    Mr. Mallery’s glance took in Charlotte, then his eyes returned to Mrs. Wattlesbrook. He left without another word.
    Colonel Andrews laughed. “There goes the wealthiest man in the county, but twenty-five thousand a year cannot manners buy.”
    â€œIndeed.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook sniffed, but Charlotte observed that her sternness seemed more affected than usual. In fact, the woman was downright pleased.
    The butler entered, but Mrs. Wattlesbrook waved him off.
    â€œWe shall wait for Mr. Mallery, Neville.”
    â€œHe shan’t be long, I daresay,” Colonel Andrews said. “The old boy dresses like he rides—fast and careless.”
    â€œNot careless,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook corrected. “Mr. Mallery is never careless.”
    Colonel Andrews nodded assent.
    Charlotte noticed Miss Gardenside, sitting on a lounge, her feet up, a blanket over her legs. Her face was shiny, her eyes wet, and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief.
    Feeling a little unready for the gentlemen, Charlotte wandered over to the lounge and took a chair beside her.
    â€œCan I get you anything?” Charlotte asked.
    Miss Gardenside smiled. “Oh no, my dear Charlotte. I have never felt so well in all my life. I swear I could dance till dawn, were we haunting dear old Bath again. Stay and talk. I do not mean to be alone.”
    She shivered, closed her eyes briefly, then smiled again as if nothing were wrong in all the world.
    â€œYour brother is the dimpled one there?” she asked, nodding toward where Mr. Grey was speaking with Miss Charming.
    â€œYes. Edmun—” It was such a trial for Charlotte’s tongue to perform both d s. “Edmund,” she said again, forcing the hard consonants. The name was too formal, too heavy. “Eddie,” she tried out.
    His attention turned toward the lounge.
    â€œWe call him ‘Eddie’ at home. Don’t we, brother?”
    He didn’t miss a beat. “Indeed we do, Charlotte. It is good to see you. I would ask you all the news of home had I not received one of mother’s tomes just yesterday. So I meet you well informed on the number of chickens in the henhouse, the dastardly conduct of elderly Mr. Bushwhack at the reins of his new phaeton, and the mud that just will not dry on the path to church. More news than that I cannot possibly imagine.”
    â€œJoin us, Eddie,” said Charlotte, indicating the edge of the lounge. “Miss Gardenside is under the weather and could use some company.”
    â€œConsumption, isn’t it?” he asked, sitting. “The devil take it. But yours is