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that it was still night. The light shone from the connecting door between her room and Miranda’s.
    “Miranda?”
    “Yes, it’s me.” The mattress shifted slightly under Miranda’s weight as she sat down. “Phadra, you have to make me a promise.”
    “Promise?”
    “Yes. I need your help.”
    Phadra rubbed her face, trying to wake up. “For what?”
    “I need you to go with me to the exhibit at the Royal Academy tomorrow.”
    “Of course. Fine,” Phadra agreed, already laying her head back down on the pillow.
    “Good,” came Miranda’s voice. Her silhouette was defined sharply against the light coming from her room. “Then you can keep Grant Morgan occupied at the exhibit while I keep my assignation with Lord Phipps.”

Chapter 3
    T he next afternoon Grant, anxious to get to know his fiancée better, was impatient to be on his way to Evans House to escort Lady Miranda through the exhibit at the Royal Academy. However, he felt the delicate matter of preparing Miss Abbott’s furniture and belongings for auction should be handled by him personally.
    He rapped with the head of his walking stick on the black lacquered door of Miss Abbott’s smart London townhouse. The sound echoed inside the building. Behind him, waiting patiently, stood two gentlemen from a respectable auction house.
    He smiled at them.
    They smiled back.
    He rapped again…and smiled at the gentlemen.
    He was just getting ready to rap on the door a third time when the door opened slowly—but Grant wasn’t prepared for the apparition that met his eyes.
    A Turkish pasha, dressed in yellow-and-blueharem pants, a brocade jacket, and a turban decorated with turquoise ostrich plumes, stood in the doorway. In the sonorous tones of an English butler, he asked, “May I help you?”
    Grant looked from the tip of the man’s nodding plumes down to his good, sturdy English shoes and their shiny buckles before he found his voice. “I’m with the Bank of England. I’m here on behalf of Miss Phadra Abbott.” He held out his card.
    Taking Grant’s card, the Turk asked eagerly, “How is Miss Abbott? Jem and I have been worried.”
    Grant didn’t know what to make of the man’s familiarity. He looked over his shoulder at the two auction-house men. They waited patiently, acting as though it were not unusual for him to be having a conversation with a butler dressed for a masquerade. “May I come in?” Grant asked.
    “Oh! Yes, sir, please enter.” The butler held the door open wider.
    Grant stepped into the cramped space that passed for a hallway in most London homes. Besides the butler, there was a footman in the same outlandish garb, who moved up onto the first step of the staircase as the auction-house men crowded in behind Grant. “These gentlemen are from the auction firm of Booth and Peabody. They are here to appraise the contents of this establishment.”
    The eagerness left the butler’s face. “Miss Abbott isn’t returning?”
    “No,” Grant replied soberly.
    “She’s fine, isn’t she?” the footman, whom Grant surmised was named Jem, asked.
    Surprised that both servants were more concernedfor their mistress’s welfare than for their own, Grant answered, “Yes, she’s fine, although she has suffered a temporary financial setback.” He didn’t quite understand why he felt it necessary to honey-coat the exact truth. That thought brought to his mind another unpleasant task he had to perform. He turned to the butler. “I need a word in private with all the servants.”
    “There’s just myself and Jem, sir. Miss Abbott would bring in a cook and a maid if she was holding a salon, but other than that, Henny, Jem, and I managed most matters for Miss Abbott.”
    “And your name is?” Grant asked.
    “Wallace, sir.”
    “Wallace, which room shall we use to talk in private?”
    The butler pulled his turban off his head to reveal a shock of snow-white hair. He nodded at a door. “There’s the receiving room.”
    “Please give us