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a certain gentleman. Cassandra is playing matchmaker.”
    “I suppose someone has to.”
    “My wife’s sentiment exactly. Since Southwaite lacks subtlety on such matters, and his two aunts’ tastes are hardly those of a young woman’s, Cassandra has turned her own attention to the duty. As a result, the only person at that table who was not family or close friend was a man invited for Lydia’s better acquaintance.”
    Which man? He almost asked. Cassandra had ended up with Ambury, who had loved and left many before her, so her own tastes might not be appropriate either. Not that it was any of his business, of course.
    “Then, after all of Cassandra’s arrangements, Lydia begged off at the last minute. Said gentleman—a Scot of good blood and vast wealth of the MacKinnon family—came expecting to impress the sister of an earl, and ended up sitting next to Cassandra’s dotty aunt Sophie. So while also awkward, Lydia’s late change of heart was a relief for Cassandra.”
    “And a fine dinner was had by all. Did he impress her?”
    Ambury laughed. “You know Lydia. Making her better acquaintance these days is like dragging a cart through mud. She was polite. She favored him with three smiles, I believe. Yet I fear the poor fellow thought he was talking to someone half dead. I do not understand her. No one does. She was such an imp as a girl. Now, the ladies say they see life in her all the time, in private. The rest of us, however . . . As for that poor dinner partner, it must have been a very long meal for him.”
    She
had
been an imp as a girl. Animated, loud, and often naughty. Very different from the Lydia she showed the world now. Unless she was gambling. Otherwise she hid behind that aloof mask and cloaked herself in a hard shell. He wondered why.
    “Did you mind that you were not invited?”
    Ambury’s question startled him out of his thoughts. “Why would I mind?”
    “We were all there otherwise. I just thought you—”
    “Since you were all there otherwise, that means Kendale was too. While you and Southwaite have forgiven me in your own ways, he has not.”
    An awkwardness descended, such as always did when any of them broached the subject at hand even obliquely. The truth was that a year ago he and Ambury would not have been riding together, let alone discussing social niceties. They had all been friends for many years—he, Ambury, Southwaite, Viscount Kendale, and Baron Lakewood. But everything had changed the day that Lakewood died—at Penthurst’s hands.
    “There was much about that day that surprised me,” he said to Ambury. “The matter that brought Lakewood and me to that field was not worth being killed over.”
    “I am relieved you speak of it, finally,” Ambury said. “I know more than you think.” His remarkable blue eyes, usually filled with sparks of humor, now flashed colder lights.
    “Have you been investigating?” Ambury had a talent for such things. He had even conducted investigations for pay, very discreetly, when his father, the Earl of Highburton, had severely restricted his income.
    “I have resisted the temptation. However, let me say that I now understand what you meant when you once told me Lakewood was not what he seemed. He could be opportunistic, and even dishonorable, I am sorry to have learned.”
    A few drops of rain fell now. They did not spur their horses, however. This topic, finally opened, begged for more airing.
    “Southwaite now believes that Lakewood put himself in the way of your shot,” Ambury said. “He thinks it was a kind of suicide, so his name might never be sullied.”
    Penthurst had come to the same conclusion after reliving those moments hundreds of times. He had deliberately aimed wide, so Lakewood would have the chance to stand down still. Instead it appeared Lakewood had moved toward the aim.
    “As I said, the accusations I made hardly warranted suicide. They were dishonorable, but not damning. He could have survived it. Other