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Her scream died on her lips. “Emery,” she blurted.
    Her brother stood with arms folded at his chest eying her with the proper degree of suspicion. “Gemma,” he drawled. “What are you doing wandering about at this hour?”
    Oh, blast and double blast on Sunday. How to explain her furtive sneaking to a person who’d long known to be wary of that very sneaking? Emery winged an eyebrow upwards. Why could she not have been one of those ladies with clever responses? Instead, she stood, unblinking like a dratted owl perfectly caught by her brother. “Is it late?”
    “It is,” he repeated, his ever-narrowing eyes conveyed his wariness.
    “There you are.”
    Brother and sister swung their gazes as one to Beatrice who stood with her hands propped on her hips and a smile wreathing her guileless face. Salvation came in the most unexpected, but most welcome, form as Beatrice strode forward. The mischievous twinkle sparkling in her cornflower blue eyes belied that perception of innocence.
    Some of the tension drained from Gemma.
    The consummate gentleman, Emery dropped a bow. “Lady Beatrice.”
    As though they met in a formal parlor and not in the empty corridors of the duke’s largely slumbering household, Beatrice curtsied. “Lord Smithfield, may I steal Gemma away?”
    He studied Beatrice through suspicious eyes a moment and with a slow nod, took a step back. “Of course. Please, do not let me interfere with your enjoyments.”
    Fighting a wave of guilt, Gemma leaned up on tiptoe and pecked her brother on the cheek. “Goodnight, Emery.” Then, sliding her arm through Beatrice’s, she allowed her friend to lead her onward.
    “Gemma?” Her brother called out, bringing the ladies back around. Gemma stared questioningly at him. “Behave.”
    A guilty heat slapped her cheeks and she mustered a smile. “Don’t I always?”
    “No,” he said automatically, swiftly killing her false grin. “You do not.” He touched the brim of an imagined hat. “Lady Beatrice.”
    The ladies waited a moment and then resumed their path in the opposite direction.
    “That was close,” Beatrice muttered under her breath, stealing a look over her shoulder. “You must take greater care.”
    Again, the duke’s steward slipped into Gemma’s thoughts and her lips tingled with the remembered feel of his mouth on hers. At the peculiar look Beatrice shot her, Gemma forced a response. “I know.”
    Giving a pleased nod, Beatrice marched them with military-like precision and purpose through her father’s sprawling home. They descended the stairs and reached the main landing. Then, all hint of flawless, too-proper miss thrown aside, Beatrice grabbed Gemma by the hand and tugged her along. “You do not have much time,” she whispered. “Robert is alone in the billiards room.”
    Gemma furrowed her brow. Generally, gentlemen retired for drinks with the other men, desiring an escape from polite company. Or, that had been her observation as a younger sister, anyway. It was as though there was some unspoken, unwritten masculine pact among those titled lords to avoid marriage-minded ladies. “Are you certain he’s alone?”
    “Quite.” Glossing over the skepticism in Gemma’s question, Beatrice continued. “He takes drinks there by himself. More so since P-Papa…” She coughed into her palm.
    Pain tugged at Gemma’s heart and she captured her friend’s fingers, giving them a slight squeeze. The words “I am sorry” were so absolutely futile and useless when presented with the unspoken sadness blanketing this house.
    “Come, none of that,” Beatrice said, and winked. “I’d focus on happy things like rainbows and rides through the countryside at midnight and your pursuit of Robert.”
    A strangled laugh lodged in Gemma’s throat. What sorry days, indeed, when a lady was the one to bring a gentleman up to scratch. She wrinkled her nose. Though, in truth, there was something empowering in seizing control of one’s