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remote likelihood, coupled with the even more improbable possibility that her mother would permit such a visit, swept the fanciful notion from her brain. “Who is it?”
    “Mr. Whitby of Whitby and Essex, miss. He has asked to speak with you.”
    “My mother’s attorney wishes to speak with me?” Her mother had never seen fit to include Fran in any of her frequent consultations with Mr. Whitby. Pawns were rarely allowed legal counsel. That the man waited for her now must mean he had something private to discuss. Something for her ears only. A cautious delight threatened to spill to her lips. Randolph must have sent a letter.
    “I put him in the gold room,” Harrelson intoned.
    Fran nodded and stood to smooth the wrinkles from her extravagant day gown. Worth had created it and many others specifically for her on their last trip to Paris. She checked her hair in the small wall mirror that Alva had selected for Fran’s room.
    The Winthrops, like the rest of the elite society, only lived in their Newport “cottages” for six to eight weeks in the summer. The rest of the year was spent at their estate in Hyde Park or in their New York town house. Much like her gowns, the Newport cottage had not been designed for comfort. It was meant to impress, or more appropriately, stun a discerning eye with its opulence. The gold room, so named because of carved gilt walls, served as both a reception room and a ballroom. Although other rooms had proportions more conducive to an intimate conversation, the pure opulence of this room took a visitor’s breath away. Thus, it was used to flaunt the owner’s advantage when serving as a reception area. Alva had always maintained appearances were paramount, and in anticipation of tomorrow’s ball, the gleaming surfaces had been polished profusely.
    Fran, however, felt none of the confidence the room’s designer had intended. Instead, her stomach fluttered as if a dozen hummingbirds had taken residence.
    “Mr. Whitby.” She nodded with a quick, casual curtsy. The elderly man’s full white beard absorbed the room’s warm gold reflection as if he had stumbled into a fountain of youth. Or perhaps the anticipation of Randolph’s letter had made the world young and fresh and beautiful. She knew he would write. She could rely on Randolph. Just as she had been taught, she kept the smile in her heart and not on her face. “You asked to see me?”
    “Yes. Thank you for obliging, Miss Winthrop. I hesitate to disrupt your mother at such a busy time.”
    A small sense of annoyance registered in Fran’s chest, knowing as she did the reason for her mother’s activity. “How may I assist you?”
    Whitby scowled. “Yes, indeed. I brought some papers that require her signature. Papers that she had insisted be drafted in the most extreme urgency. Now I’ve been informed that I cannot deliver them due to her costume fitting or some such activity.”
    “I see.” Fran worried her lip with a sense of unease. In all her years, she could not recall a single time that her mother turned away Mr. Whitby, who had served as a close friend and confidant.
    “I wonder if you could take these papers to her?” Whitby asked. “I would not trouble her if not for her very insistence on their necessity.”
    “Yes, yes, of course,” Fran replied absently, taking the offered sheath of papers neatly tied with a blue ribbon.
    Whitby looked down, as if embarrassed to meet her gaze. As an invited guest to the ball, he knew its purpose and most likely her desperation to avoid it. “There is no hurry to return the papers once they are signed. I’ll send someone in a day or so to collect them. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Winthrop.”
    He collected his hat and turned to leave. His imminent departure pulled Fran from her maudlin thoughts of the upcoming nuptials.
    “Mr. Whitby?” she asked, delaying his departure. “Have you received any news from Mr. Stockwell? Has he completed his business affairs in