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was promenading about the room on the arm of her future sister-in-law—waited until Corsham paused at his side with significant looks and throat-clearing, in the obvious hope of being presented to Miss Downes, performed that office, and had the satisfaction of watching her being led out for a quadrille while hergrace and Bridgwater were still marshaling their forces of prospective partners for the merchant’s daughter.
    Corsham, Lord Francis thought in some satisfaction, was in possession of property and ten thousand a year. His mother was a draper’s daughter, his father a second son of a second son. Fortunately he had had a wealthy aunt who had doted on him and left him everything on her demise.
    An eminently eligible match for Miss Cora Downes.
    “My thanks, old chap,” his grace said at his elbow. “I owe you a favor. Fortunately the girl seems not quite vulgar, would you not agree?
Rustic
might be more the word. One can only hope she will improve under my mother’s guidance. Though one does hope too that she does not make a habit of tripping over her feet.” He grimaced.
    Lord Francis chuckled. The sound seemed strange to his own ears. He wondered when he had last laughed.

3
    HE D UCHESS OF B RIDGWATER HAD ALREADY PRONOUNCED herself well satisfied. There was no question about her satisfaction with Elizabeth and Jane, of course. Elizabeth had moved almost immediately into the illustrious circle of her future in-laws and had stayed there. Jane had been rediscovered by last year’s admirers and had been discovered by several more, who had been properly presented to her by her brother. But then Jane, even apart from her beauty and youth and sweetness, was the daughter of a duke.
    No, it was with Cora that her grace was really expressing satisfaction. Apart from the unfortunate fact that she had tripped over her feet at the sight of Lord Francis Kneller’s turquoise splendor, and that one heavy lock of her hair had fallen down about her shoulder during the third set, another round of vigorous country dances, and that she had trodden on her own hem at the end of the same set and ripped the stitching out of a stretch of it—apart from those slight mishaps, of which her grace made light, she had behaved quite becomingly. And up to and including the supper dance, she had had a partner for every set except the waltz, which she was not allowed to dance because certain dragons—the patronesses of Almack’s, apparently—had not yet given her the nod of approval. Which was all a parcel of nonsense,as far as Cora was concerned, but her grace looked faintly alarmed and very slightly haughty when she mentioned the fact.
    It seemed that Cora had taken well.
    She took none of the credit to herself. The ladies who spoke with her—there were several—were friends either of her grace or of one of the girls. The gentlemen who danced with her were presented to her by either his grace or Lord Francis Kneller. All of them, she suspected, had had their arms twisted up behind their backs—even if only figuratively speaking—as an incentive to oblige her.
    And some of the credit too, she had to admit, was due to the extraordinary story that was circulating. She was a great heroine, it seemed. She had saved the life of Lord George Munro’s son—the child was second in line to the Bridgwater title—at considerable risk to her own life. His grace was deeply in her debt. Everyone referred to the story. Everyone looked at her almost in awe—just as if she were someone special.
    It was really rather embarrassing. Especially when she recalled how very foolishly stupid she had been to shriek out and plunge into the river the way she had. She had not been heroic at all—only brainless, as Edgar had pointed out afterward while she was mourning over the bedraggled remains of her bonnet. He had taken her and bought her a new one the following morning—before the duchess descended upon her and bore her away to find her a husband from