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beginning
to arouse the devil in me.”
    Lily clucked her tongue at him and would have
said more, but her attention was caught by the arrival of some
other latecomers. She fluttered away to greet them like the
distractible butterfly that she was.
    That left Mandell free to wonder about Anne
Fairhaven's strange behavior. What had induced such a proper lady
to roam the streets unescorted, weeping as though her heart would
break? Mandell's curiosity was aroused enough this time to pursue
her—at least as far as the next room.
    She had ducked into a small adjoining parlor
set aside for those wishing for cards instead of dancing. When
Mandell crossed the threshold, he found her standing near the
hearth, observing the play at one table. Mandell saw nothing in
this particular foursome to attract her interest.
    The group consisted in part of a callow youth
and Sir Lancelot Briggs. Briggs gave Mandell a hopeful smile, but
Mandell ignored him, more struck by the other two players. One was
the Lady Anne's brother-in-law, Sir Lucien Fairhaven. A large man
with sun-streaked blond hair, his face was deeply carved with lines
of dissipation.
    But most surprising was the fourth man at the
table, Mandell's grandfather, the august duke of Windermere. His
Grace rarely tolerated the company of fools, so it was a mystery to
Mandell why he would play at whist with any of these men. His white
hair swept back in a queue, his close-set eyes were shadowed
beneath bushy brows. He acknowledged Mandell's presence with a curt
nod.
    Although Anne did not look Mandell's way, she
was obviously aware of his approach. She stiffened as he came up to
her.
    “How fortunate,” he said in low tones. “It
would seem we meet again, my Lady Sorrow.”
    “Don't call me that,” she whispered, trying
to sidle away. “I had hoped you would not recognize me.”
    “I would have had to have been drunk not to.
I liked your hair better down. It looked more golden in the
moonlight.”
    “Do go away,” she said. “I am trying to
concentrate on the game.”
    Mandell glanced idly at the table, when
suddenly he realized what held her attention. Someone at the table
was cheating and doing it badly. The card being dealt by the youth
was scratched, a botched attempt to mark the deck. It must come to
the notice of the entire table in a moment.
    The question was who was responsible. Briggs?
No, the fellow lacked the wit to be other than honest. The spotted
youth? He had obviously been losing badly, trickles of sweat
mingling with the blemishes on his brow. As for the jaded Sir
Lucien, he had accumulated an impressive pile of paper and coins in
front of him.
    Whoever was guilty, Mandell knew his
grandfather would not take kindly to the discovery he was playing
with a cheat. Disgrace for one of these men was imminent. The
marked card had been shuffled his grandfather's way. The old man's
eyes were far too keen to miss it. But just as the duke reached for
the card, Anne overturned a glass of wine perched on the table. The
gesture was awkward, and Mandell could tell, quite deliberate.
    The wine splattered in a splash of dark
purple across the table and over the cards. Three of the men jerked
back, only the duke remaining unperturbed.
    Sir Lucien cursed, sopping at the mess with
his handkerchief while one of Lily's efficient footmen hastened
over with a napkin.
    “Anne!” Sir Lucien spluttered, giving her a
vicious glare. “You clumsy little—”
    Mandell felt something cold and lethal stir
inside him. Sir Lucien had an ugly voice. Mandell did not think he
quite liked the tone of it.
    But before he could do or say anything, his
grandfather stepped into the breach.
    “It was not Lady Fairhaven's fault,” the duke
said. “I fear I jarred her hand. Certainly there is no need for
such an ill-bred display of temper, Sir Lucien. I think you should
beg the lady's pardon.”
    The man had not been born whom the old duke
could not browbeat. Sir Lucien flushed and looked like a