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off later. Perhaps we ought to have brought the carriage, Caddick."
    Lord Caddick grunted, and Morgan and Rosamond exchanged smiles. They both preferred the barouche.
    What happened at an evening picnic? It was a question Rosamond had asked repeatedly during the past few days. Would it be similar to an afternoon picnic? Would they sit around on blankets, eating chicken legs and lobster patties and sipping wine? Would there be strolls in the forest afterward? But would it not be too dark among the trees? Perhaps, she had suggested, the darkness would provide an excuse to get lost for a few minutes with the gentleman of one's choice.
    If that happened with her, Morgan thought dryly, the gentleman would almost undoubtedly be Captain Lord Gordon. Or the Earl of Rosthorn . . . Now that might present an interesting challenge, at least.
    The Forest of Soignés was like a great cathedral, she decided, breathing in the verdant fragrance of it while the carriage moved onward and thinking of incense. There was very little undergrowth. To either side of the road the beechwood trees soared overhead on smooth, massive, silvery trunks, like mighty marble columns. Their branches fanned out far overhead like an intricately fretted ceiling. The forest inspired awe, as a Gothic cathedral might. One felt in the very midst of something powerful, something mysterious, something beyond the mundane here and now, something that lifted one's spirit to another plane.
    Suddenly Morgan's fingers itched to paint it all-the forest and the spirit within it. Suddenly her life during the past few months seemed very trivial. She missed the countryside about Lindsey Hall and the frequent hours of solitude she valued so much.
    "I wonder," Rosamond said, also gazing upward, "if there will be enough moonlight visible through the branches to enable us to see what we eat? Perhaps the forest was not the best choice of site for a picnic after all."
    But no doubt the Earl of Rosthorn would have thought about that potential problem and found a solution-or at least whoever he had hired to arrange the picnic would have done. Morgan doubted he had lifted a finger in preparation himself. And she was quite right about the one thing, of course. As the barouche approached the appointed picnic site, they could see lanterns-hundreds of them in every color of the rainbow-strung among the branches of the trees.
    Suddenly the forest had a different type of enchantment-a man-made one, more human, more intimate, more romantic. It was just as appealing in its own way as the natural beauty Morgan had just been lost in.
    "It is magical," Rosamond said, her eyes shining. "Like Vauxhall Gardens."
    Small tables had been arranged among the trees, each laid with a crisp white cloth and set formally with fine china and crystal and silver. Each had a small colored lamp glowing at its center.
    But the splendor was not just visual.
    "Listen!" Morgan held up one hand. As the carriage drew to a halt and the rumbling of its wheels and the clopping of the horses' hooves died away, they could hear music. It was being provided by a small orchestra seated on a wooden dais farther back from the road among the trees. A larger wooden floor had been laid below the dais.
    "There is to bedancing !" Rosamond exclaimed, squeezing Morgan's arm tightly.
    Whoever had planned this for him, Morgan thought, had obviously done an expert job. This picnic, she guessed, would be talked about for days, even weeks to come.
    Other carriages were approaching along the road they had just traveled, their lamps ablaze to illumine the way ahead. But numerous guests had already arrived. Among them were several scarlet-coated officers.
    "This," Rosamond declared with conviction, "is going to be the very best entertainment of the Season so far."
    As the coachman set down the steps and opened the door of the barouche, Morgan could see that the Earl of Rosthorn was detaching himself from a group of guests and coming their way. He was