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monstrous hat, the sweet curve of a strong but utterly feminine jaw blurred by a black web of veil. Best of all had been those magical few moments before he'd known who and what she was when ignorance truly had been bliss, and he'd stared at her like a child on the lookout for a falling star, wishing with all his might for the wind to lift up that veil and reveal the woman beneath.
    But if he accepted Dandridge's bargain, he would be exposing far more than the lady's face. "Why must it be her?" he asked, the words sticking in his throat.
    "Caledonia Rivers is young, she is well-born, and unlike her suffragist
sisters,
she possesses a reputation that is presently above reproach. As president of the London Society for Women's Suffrage, she is one of three suffragist leaders to meet privately with the prime minister before their infernal bill is brought back before the Commons at month's end." Dandridge paused to take out his handkerchief and mop the sweat from his brow. "Bring her down and you bring the whole bloody Movement down with her. Reveal her for the foul slut she is and any self-respecting Member who otherwise might have been persuaded to cast his vote for extending the franchise will withdraw his support. The bill will die in the House without ever making it to a final reading. But mind you there must be no ambiguity, no uncertainty at all. The photograph must be damning, indisputably so. I mean to see Caledonia Rivers not only ruined but vanquished. Vanquished, St. Claire, I'll settle for no less."

    Callie's aunt-by-marriage, Charlotte--Lottie--greeted her inside the entrance of her townhouse on Half Moon Street. In a single glance, she took in her niece's ruined hat and rumpled, mud-stained clothes, and gave a rueful shake of her elaborately coiffed silver curls. "Good heavens, Callie, you look as though you've been run over by a coach and four."

    Callie looked up from working cold-stiffened fingers out of her gloves. "Now don't fuss, Auntie."
    "But I'm concerned about you, my dear. You work too hard by half. It wouldn't hurt you to take some time for yourself, get out a bit. The new Gilbert & Sullivan operetta is playing at the Strand and the
on dit
is that it's positively delicious."
    "Honestly, you're as bad as Teddy." Callie reached up to unpin her hat. Glad to be rid of the beastly thing--what had she been thinking to let the milliner talk her into such a monstrosity--she handed it to their maid, Jenny, along with her gloves.
    All brisk efficiency, Jenny set the articles on the hall table and moved to help Callie with her coat. Frowning at the stains, she tossed the coat over her arm. "I'll take this upstairs and give it a good brushing." As she started toward the stairs, a treacherous scrap of white fell from the coat onto the parquet tiled floor.
    Face afire, Callie dove for the handkerchief but Lottie, spry for her age, reached it first. "Oh my, what is this?" Straightening on creaking knees, Lottie looked from the crumpled linen to her niece, her lovely, lined face an open question. "Whoever is H.S.?"
    Feeling like she'd been caught with her hand in the honey pot, Callie found herself babbling, "No one . . . a man . . . I met in the square. Not met really. Bumped into, I suppose you could say." She glanced at Jenny, eyes bright as buttons. "Admittedly I'm selfish as winter is long, but what I'd like most now is to pour a nice cup of scalding tea directly down my throat." Hoping the maid would take the hint, she put an arm about her aunt's slender shoulders and steered her toward the parlor.
    But Lottie was not about to let her off that easily. The older woman had scarcely settled herself on the silk-covered settee before insisting, "Do tell me more about this H.S. How were you introduced? What sort of profession does he practice? Is he in sympathy with the Cause?"
    With a sigh, Callie sank into the overstuffed wingchair by the fire, her habitual spot. "Truly there's nothing to tell. His name is Hadrian St.