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pile of paper back, seized the snuffbox, and thumbed it open. Inside was not just a lock of hair, but an entire ringlet; a silky black spiral several inches long. Gently, Quin wrapped it round his index finger as he had done perhaps two or three times a day in the beginning. But not so often of late. And not at all, surprisingly, since meeting Esmée. Was that, perhaps, the definition of hope?
    Impassively, he studied it in the lamplight. He realized with a measure of relief that it stirred nothing in his heart now. The beautiful ringlet was…just a lock of hair. A trifling bit of sentiment, like his cache of bad poetry. A reminder of what a fool a man could be, were he not careful. But Quin had become very, very careful. Ah, yes. Despite the shock he had received in Piccadilly, his heart had come, it seemed, full circle.
    Once, however, this hidden treasure had meant the world to him. But he had been so young then; barely past his teens, in fact, when he had fallen so helplessly in love, and with a woman who had not the time to spare him so much as a passing glance. But he had worn her down, more fool he. And he had stolen the silken ringlet from the floor of her dressing room on a night which was forever fixed in his memory. Yes, he had taken it as a sign of hope.
    Dimly, he became aware of the longcase clock in the downstairs hall mournfully sounding the hour. A very late hour. Swiftly, he replaced the lock of hair, and shoved the drawer shut. It was time to fetch Esmée. Time to think only of the future. He drew on his freshly starched neckcloth and began meticulously to tie it.
    The theater, when they arrived, was rapidly filling. He escorted the ladies to their seats, which were situated in one of the much-coveted boxes on the lowest level of the ring, so that they would have an excellent view. But before the program had even started, Lady Tatton began to draw her shawl a little closer and tug at her gloves, her teeth almost chattering as she did so.
    Twice Quin offered his coat, and twice her ladyship refused it, looking more miserable by the minute. Esmée tried to maintain a cheerful attitude. “I wonder if they will have clowns tonight?” she remarked. “I have never seen a real one, you know. I shall likely be all agog and embarrass you both quite thoroughly.”
    Wynwood reached out and gratefully squeezed her hand. He began to talk of the various bits of entertainment they were to see, much to Esmée’s delight. But no line of conversation would dissuade her ladyship from her discomfort.
    “I wonder, Wynwood,” she finally said, “if we mightn’t be warmer up a little higher? And perhaps safer, too. I have heard the horses’ hooves often throw sawdust in one’s face, and the clowns perhaps throw worse.”
    Quin came at once to his feet. “I shall find someone, ma’am, and enquire as to whether we might be moved.”
    But finding someone was no simple affair. Astley’s Amphitheatre was not precisely a luxurious entertainment. Instead, it was a place where the ton actually deigned to rub elbows with lesser mortals for the sake of an hour or two of shamelessly unrefined amusement. But Esmée had very much wished to come. And during the whole of their betrothal, it was the only thing Esmée had actually asked him for.
    Lady Tatton, however, was clearly having second thoughts about rubbing her elbows against anyone below the rank of baronet. She would have to be reseated, or they would know no peace. Quin went out and made his way along the rear of the circle of stalls, seeing no one official in the surging crowd. Farther around the circle, however, were narrow corridors leading to stage doors and dressing chambers. Surely they were attended by someone?
    He was debating returning to the main entrance when he spied a lovely little acrobat dawdling near one of the corridors ahead. Though her back was turned to him, her costume of feathers, pink satin, and frothy netting revealed a wealth of feminine curves,