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be enjoying breakfast now. She should have checked in on him last night, but she’d had the insane notion that if he awoke he would be able to look at her and know the sort of mischief she’d been up to with Avendale, had even wondered if he might have caught the scent of the duke on her skin.
    Guilt could certainly make her irrational.
    She rolled out of bed and began to prepare for the day: washing up, brushing her hair and pulling it back, holding it in place with a ribbon, donning a simple blue dress that required no assistance. As soon as she was satisfied with her appearance she wandered down to the breakfast dining room.
    â€œHello, dearest,” she said to Harry as she walked in. He was four years her junior, not that many would guess that, as life had not been particularly kind to him and the hardships had taken a toll. Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “How are you this morning?”
    â€œWell,” he replied, his eyes sparkling with joy as he gave her the smile that never failed to warm her heart.
    He sat at the head of the small square table. Sitting opposite him so it would be easier to carry on a conversation, she lifted the teapot and poured some of the brew into her cup. A few covered dishes rested on the table. As it was only the two of them each morning, they kept the meals small and simple. No sideboards laden with assorted items. They could not afford the waste.
    â€œDid you have fun last night?” he asked.
    She dropped four cubes of sugar into her tea, stirred. “I did indeed. Although I missed you terribly, not to mention our reading. I’m most anxious to discover where Gulliver’s travels take him next.” Her reading to him was their nightly ritual. “I shall stay in tonight.”
    â€œTell me about the place you visited,” he urged.
    â€œThe building was incredible, the ­people adorned magnificently. We shall begin as I walked through the doors.” Then recalling every detail memorized, she set about to paint a vivid portrait of the night, which she hoped would give him a memory he would never be able to acquire on his own.
    â€œI wish I could see it,” he murmured when she was finally finished.
    â€œI wish you could, too, my love. I’ll draw pictures for you later if you like.”
    He gave a barely perceptible nod, before returning his attention to his food. She knew sketches were a poor substitute, but she could not risk his ruining her plans. Their future depended on them.

 
    Chapter 3
    â€œY ou are beginning to make my employees uncomfortable with your lurking about in the balcony.”
    Avendale had been up here, scouring the crowd, making note of who entered, who left, for the better part of three nights now. He glared at Drake. “Shouldn’t you be off tending to your wedding?”
    â€œPhee and her aunt are managing that. I merely need to acquire the license, so I have time to see to my business. Right now the club is a novelty, its acceptance still questionable. However, I did not invite women to join so men could engage in voyeurism. You’re going to damage the reputation of my establishment, of what I’m trying to achieve, if you continue in this vein. I shall be forced to relieve you of your key.”
    Ignoring the rebuke and the threat, Avendale asked, “What do you know of Mrs. Rosalind Sharpe?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œYou don’t know who she is, yet you invited her to your ball?”
    â€œThe name is somewhat familiar.”
    â€œThe lady in red,” Avendale said impatiently. “I introduced her—­or rather she introduced herself—­to you in the gentlemen’s salon.”
    â€œAh, yes, I remember now. I’m afraid I was rather preoccupied with other thoughts that night.”
    â€œSo how did she come to your attention?”
    Drake brushed his fingers through his long, dark hair. “Her solicitor sent me a