“Dorrington has not changed in one hundred years,” Rohan sighed over his glass of ale. “Babies are born, grow old and die, but the families remain.”

“Carrying on where their fathers left off,” Emory agreed, watching the crowd milling around the packed ballroom. Despite the masks, he picked out the Biddens with their carrot red hair and the Trents’ characteristic baboon length arms.

“Bakers still bake, cobblers still cobble, farmers till and plow.” Rohan set down his glass of ale and frowned at the musicians stumbling, already worse for drink. “Why are we still here?”

“Tired of me, old friend?” Emory asked.

Rohan grunted and then nodded toward the door where Petra stood, holding the arm of Falstaff. She looked stunning in the blue gown, as nearly all the Dorringtons took note.

The villagers expected a match. Surely, the future earl would marry the wealthy, mysterious beauty; it was all anyone spoke of.

Typically Emory didn’t listen to gossip, but tonight he heard it swirling around him. He set down his drink with enough force to shake the table.

Dorrington remained a small village a stone’s throw from London. All those who frequented social events inevitably rubbed shoulders. Which is why Emory kept his shoulders to the sideline. In a world where children grew to parents, he couldn’t risk recognition. He safeguarded his solitude. The sleepy village had grown in the past decade. Shops, farms, and a host of other businesses sprouted like weeds along the smelly river port, over the hills, and out into the countryside. A few even came close to his territory. He grimaced, at the thought of neighbors. He’d have to disappear again. Soon.

“What is Petra Baron doing here?” Emory asked. What had caused her to leave wherever she’d come from and rouse him from seclusion? How had she managed to get him to a ball? In a mask?

“An even better question, why are you at a masquerade ball?” Rohan echoed his thoughts.

Emory sighed. It had once bothered him how Rohan had an uncanny ability to read his mind, but he’d long grown used to Rohan and his ways. “You know I need to speak to her.”

“A task I happily would have undertaken in your stead,” Rohan muttered, bemused.

As usual, Rohan was right. Emory should have asked Rohan to make the request. Anne, given her new…giddiness, Emory couldn’t depend upon, but he completely trusted Rohan. “I should leave.” Emory stared into his ale, his voice heavy.

“No, you should stay,” Rohan said, settling back against his chair and propping his fat feet in front of him. He wore a mask and his frock, which did little to disguise his pot-belly.

Emory also wore a mask, but he had changed from his everyday brown breeches to black velvet breeches and a ruffled white shirt. He felt ridiculous and not just because of the peacock feathers in his hat. His attendance had been wildly imprudent. He and Chambers had been practically nose to nose at Hampton Court, and his appearance at the ball would be all the more suspicious.

The musicians picked up their fiddles. The men, obviously self-trained, burst into a rousing rendition of Barbra Jean. Perhaps they were the best Falstaff could do on short notice. Their noise mingled with Emory’s jumbled thoughts. He would go mad if he stayed. He pushed away from the table to seek out Petra.

“Will you dance?” Rohan asked, laughing.

Emory sent him a withering look and bumped into a woman with furiously batting eyelashes. He brushed past with a quick apology and scanned the room for Petra, but instead his gaze landed on Anne.

Anne typically had a calm, practical, almost level-headed approach to her plots of revenge, but when he had last seen her, she’d seemed almost flighty. Why?

He flushed, because he knew. Young Falstaff. Or rather, Young Falstaff’s feelings for her. Her feelings for him. The emotions had changed her from the sad, angry fighter he’d known, into a lovesick girl. This worried him. He didn’t wish her further pain.

Speaking of pain, he ran his finger along his collar, pulling at the ruffles. He hated constantly changing fashion in general and ruffled collars in particular.

Mrs. Livingston and her daughter, Jane, had spotted him. If they recognized him, so would Chambers. He’d managed to skirt the attention of most of the villagers, but somehow he’d fallen into Mrs. Livingston’s path and she refused to let him be. Tonight she wore a ruby red dress with faux jewels studded across her enormous bosom. Jane, who lacked her mother’s impressive prow, looked hot and uncomfortable in a yellow dress that gave her a jaundiced appearance. The feathers on her mask matched the color of her skin, giving her a washed out raccoon look. He tried not to watch as they twittered behind Mrs. Livingston’s fan.

His being here, hobnobbing with gentry, this was Petra’s doing. He should be angry with her, but he felt desperate to see her. Alone.

Petra tried to keep track of Anne and Garret, but they kept weaving in and out of the dancing couples. From the whispers she’d heard, no one recognized Anne in the late countess’ ball gown and everyone wanted to know about the mysterious stranger dancing with the future earl.

Petra clung to the back wall, trying to eavesdrop and yet be invisible, but a growing collection of men bounced around her. Who were these guys and why were they hounding her? Had Garret sent flunkies? Irritation flashed through her. He’d promised that she wouldn’t be a wallflower, his word, and an interesting one, that obviously meant some sort of party pity person. What had he told his… what were they, these guys? Friends? Dorchester with the concave chest, Littleton with the hair sprouting from his ears, the duke of something with a wart on the side of his nose. Who were these people to Garret and what did he expect her to do with them? Dance, she supposed, but she had other ideas. She sighed, looking over the crowd for Emory.

“Excuse me, Miss.” A guy with a ruddy-cheeked fresh-scrubbed look touched Petra’s elbow. He had red hair brushed off his forehead and freckles dotting his skin. “Would you do me the honor?” He held out his hand.

“Honor? Oh, you mean dance.” She wouldn’t look him in the face. “No, I’m sorry,” she said, addressing his boots. “But no. I’ve a headache.” True. Technically, her head didn’t hurt, but these guys were a headache. Besides, she didn’t dare dance in this odd parade of bows, curtsies and the occasional foot stomp. She wondered what these people would think of the Royal High school prom.

“Perhaps I might fetch you lemonade?” he asked.

Petra smiled. “That would be awesome.”

“Awesome?” Behind the mask, his eyes looked confused.

“Hum…lovely?”

After the guy left, Petra felt a touch on her arm and she knew who it was even before he spoke in her ear.

“That’s the fourth partner you have turned down,” Emory said.

Petra attempted a laugh to cover her rising temperature. How did he do this to her? Why did his touch skyrocket her blood pressure? When did he get this power over her? She kept her voice light. “You’re keeping score? I thought you’ve been too busy lurking in dark corners to keep track of my dance card.”

She looked down at the card in her hand with its lines and signatures. She didn’t know exactly how it worked and she’d been too embarrassed or afraid to ask. She wished Mary had come with her, so that she’d have at least one friend in the crowded room. She looked at Emory in his black velvet breeches and feathered mask. Was he her friend, or something more?

They both watched the ruddy boy weave through the crowd bearing the lemonade like a lantern. “And now you will have to chat with him to repay his kindness, and he looks about as conversational as a turnip. Or a beet.”

Petra, refusing to be teased, pointed across the room at Anne and Garret. She’d convinced Garret to wear a red scarf and vest thingy and she’d told Anne to wear the red dress. “They match.”

“Is that your doing?” Emory’s mouth turned down.

“You know it’s Garret’s doing.”

“And where did Anne find a gown at such a late hour?”

Petra sniffed. “I think they look sweet.”

“It will never do.”

“Why not? I mean, I know they’re young.”

“Everyone here expects him to marry you, the wealthy, mysterious stranger.” Emory leaned forward and murmured in her ear.

The whisper of his breath on her throat sent her blood swooshing which she tried to ignore. She opened her mouth to protest.

He stepped back. “You did not know?”

She shook her head. “I’m as dull as a turnip or a beet, remember?”

“Your beauty is the subject of all of Dorrington’s gossips.”

“Then I’m glad I can provide some entertainment.” She swallowed and tried to turn the conversation to something less personal. “How about you? Did you find any of my information useful?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the approaching Mrs. Livingston.

Petra followed his gaze and laughed. “Is she why you’re hiding out with me?”

“There is little I prefer to hiding with you.” He took her arm. “Perhaps we should have this conversation on the terrace.”

“The terrace?” A nervous laugh, bordering on a giggle, escaped. She abhorred giggling, but she couldn’t stop. “Isn’t that where lovers go for scandalous activities?”

Emory ran his fingers through his hair. “I promise no scandalous behavior.”

Petra frowned. “Well, that’s disappointing. If you won’t promise scandalous behavior then I think I want to stay here and watch you face off with Mrs. Tremendous Tatas.”

Emory scowled and groaned. “Pray tell, what are tremendous tatas?”

“Do you really need to ask?” She laughed when he blushed.

“Outside, lest we’re overheard.”

“So you admit it,” Petra said. “You are hiding.”

“As are you!” Emory said.

Petra tried to recall the social rules of Laurel’s Regency romances. “I remember young women became somehow tainted if go on terraces or into alcoves with men.”

“I thought you hadn’t a memory.”

She balked.

“A walk in the garden then?” he persisted. “We have walked in gardens before.”

“I will not marry you, really marry you, no matter who finds us where.” She knew she shouldn’t go. She knew her resolve, when it came to Emory, was weak. He was like chocolate, a sticky mess, impossible to resist.

“Good.” Laughing, Emory took her elbow and led her through the back of the room. Above the center of the dance floor hung a chandelier strung with innumerable candles and pieces of cut crystal, but Emory stayed where the chairs lined the walls, mindful to stay in the corners where flickering sconces did little to break the darkness.

The double doors stood open, and a cool breeze blew down the deserted hall. Petra took a deep breath. It felt good to be free of the perfume and body odors that filled the ballroom. The music, blaring and jingling, was now muted to background noise, and she found the tension in her shoulders easing. A cool moist breeze blew in from the river and played with her curls. The night air felt good.

“Wait here,” Emory said. Seconds later he returned with a heavy cloak that he threw around her shoulders. It smelled of leather and cloves.

Emory stopped beneath an arbor, swearing beneath his breath. “Chambers saw me when I retrieved my cloak. I hope the mask had been ample disguise.”

Rose buds dotted the thorny vines climbing the trellis. In a few weeks the buds would blossom, but for the moment, they were pinched closed, each a promise. Heady-scented honeysuckle spread over the soggy ground. Petra swallowed as a dark figure in a swirling cape emerged from the manor’s wide double doors and paused on the steps. He looked over the garden and Petra saw his porcupine eyebrows and the long shadow he cast over the stone walk. She took a deep breath and clutched Emory’s arm.

“Follow me,” she whispered, pulling at Emory’s sleeve. She raised the hood of the cloak and hurried around the manor, unaware if Emory had followed. Careful to keep her footing on the uneven bricks, she stopped at the kitchen garden’s picket fence. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw Emory right behind.

Emory pulled her to him as she lifted her skirts and attempted to step into the garden. “There’s a fence for a reason,” Emory said.

“Yes, to keep out rabbits.” Petra shook off his arm.

Emory tightened his hold, forcing her to straddle the knee-high fence which snagged her skirts and exposed her ankles. He watched Chambers and then turned back to Petra.

Petra climbed to the far side of the fence and Emory followed. Keeping her face averted from the approaching Chambers, she whispered, “Tell me what happened in Hampton Court. You went, didn’t you?”

“You there!” Chambers called from across the grounds. “A word!”

With her head turned she whispered, “You should see what he wants. He might get suspicious if you don’t.”

“He already is suspicious. We met at Hampton Court.”

Petra’s jaw and stomach dropped. “What will you do?”

“As I have previously planned. The true question is, what will you do?”

“Me? Why?” Petra asked, nerves jangling. “Is our being together in the dark garden, how did you say it, damaging to my reputation?”

Emory released her elbow and pulled the hood of the cloak to cover more of her face. Tucking her hair into the hood, he asked, “You would rather I leave you alone in the dark?”

Petra waved her arm in the general direction of the crowd emerging from the manor’s double doors. The moon beneath the clouds had risen to its zenith. The hour was late, and departing guests trooped down the broad steps and lingered on the walk. Carriages stood waiting in the moonlight, horses shook their harnesses and stamped their hooves, impatient to leave. “I’m hardly alone.”

Suddenly from inside the manor came a clamor of bells and the beating of a drum. Chambers, who had stood on the edge of the departing crowd, disappeared in the crush.

“What’s going on?” Petra asked, watching the villagers rush into the manor.

“There must be an announcement.” Emory took her arm and guided her toward the stables. “Come.”

Petra shook off his hold and started toward the ballroom, but he captured her hand. “I thought you wanted to hear about Hampton Court,” he said.

She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I do, but aren’t you curious?”

“Perchance, but I would not risk another meeting with Chambers.”

When cheers and applause erupted from the manor, Petra felt like she’d missed the final touchdown of a close football game.

“We will never have a better opportunity to speak,” Emory said.

She raised her eyebrows. “Really? Why not just break into my room again and we can talk there.” She smiled when he started. “Who else would return my quilt?”

He flushed, and turned.

“Did you eat the food as well?”

Emory studied the moon, but after a few moments, he replied, “Tam ate the food.”

“Tam the gypsy?” She moved to stand in front of him.

He folded his arms. “They prefer to be called Roma.”

The music and the noise of the crowd rose to a deafening level. Petra cocked her head at the manor and asked, almost yelling, “Don’t you want to know --”

Emory shook his head, frowning. “I believe I already know.”

“You do? What is it?”

“Young Falstaff’s announced his engagement.”

Petra stared at the manor wishing she could see inside. She had an image of a crumpled Anne lost in a dark corner, pompous Garret standing on the platform with the plain and rich Miss Bevan. “Poor Anne.”

Emory looked grim. “Indeed. She’ll have a hard time of it.”

Anger flashed through Petra. Why would Garret spend the evening dancing with Anne when he knew he would marry Miss Bevan? Why would he lead her on, buy her tarts, commission her tapestries when his marriage to the Bevan estate was a signed and sealed deal? “I guess his dad will be happy.”

Emory looked surprised. “No. He’ll be furious, which is exactly why Young Falstaff acted during his father’s absence.”

“Do you mean he’s marrying Anne?” Petra’s voice nearly squeaked. “How can he, they just barely --”

“When an earl, or in his case, an almost earl, decides what he wants, he generally gets it.”

Petra closed her open mouth. It sounded so like herself. “But she’s so sensible; I’m surprised she said yes.”

Emory barked a small laugh. “Do you suppose he asked for her hand?”

“Wait. What? He didn’t ask? He just assumed she’d say yes?”

“If he’d asked her, as you said, perchance she’d refuse.” Emory took her hand and led her to the side of the manor where it was quieter. Away from the crowd’s clamor she heard crickets, a hoot owl, and animal noises coming from the stables.

“Young Falstaff had to act quickly while the timing worked in his favor. How opportune to have his father and her father away at the same time. He’ll have the bans at the church drawn up before their return.”

“You make it sound like a bad thing. I know it’s quick, they must hardly know each other, and they are very young.”

Emory looked out over the manor’s lands. “His family, particularly his father, not to mention the neighboring gentry and friends will cause her hell and she’ll be cut off from her own people.”

Petra waved at the manor. “The neighbors sound happy – extremely happy.”

“I am sure Falstaff uncorked his father’s wine cellar in celebration. Be sure, my lady, Anne’s days of trial will come.”

“Well, if he loves her --”

“He has spent a total of ten minutes of conversation with her, how can he know if he loves her?”

A dead feeling crept over Petra. “He should marry whoever he wants,” she said.

“Some matches are impossible.” Emory looked bleak, and Petra wondered if he were no longer talking of Anne and Garret.

“Improbable, not impossible,” she said, quoting Laurel. She touched his hand. “I’m going to assume they’ll be happy. Being happy is a head game.”

During her mother’s illness, Grammy Jean had taken her to a counselor to “help you make sense of your changing world.” Doctor Hartman, a middle-aged motherly sort with a mustache and a fondness for peppermints, liked to speak in platitudes. Petra, though only eleven, had rewritten a few. She who dares wins became she who tries dies, and seize the day turned to sneeze the day.

Back then, she had hated visiting Hairy Hartman. She had much better things to do with her after-school hours than chat up with some old, weepy woman. Odd that now, in another time and place, Doctor Hartman would suddenly make sense. She shook herself out of the memory, determined not to give in to the mopes—another of Hartman’s phrases—or the dopes.

She turned to Emory. In the gentle starlight, he was beautiful and he was here. And so was she. True, she didn’t know how long she’d stay. She knew she couldn’t take him with her when she left, but according to Hartman, she should be happy right here, right now, doing something she knew was important to the world, not just in her world, but the world in general… meaning everyone.

“What happened at Hampton Court?” she asked.

He moved away from her. She knew he didn’t want her involved in his save the Bible crusade. Well, too bad.

“They had trouble getting the kegs in the cellar, but eventually they did.”

“You just watched?”

Emory stiffened under her implied criticism. “The King needs to discover the plot and those involved. We have to wait for the right moment.”

Petra sniffed.

“Unfortunately, I believe Chambers saw me.” Emory shrugged.

“But if he really thought you were a threat, he would have come after you.”

Emory took a deep breath. “Not necessarily. It is likely that the Earl will hold Chambers at least partly responsible for Young Falstaff’s engagement. I would hazard a guess that at this moment Chambers is furious with Young Falstaff. Of me, he may have suspicions, but of Young Falstaff he has concrete reason for anger.”

“We should go to Hampton Court.”

Emory shook his head. “My lady, there is no ‘we’, and I am not in any danger.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re Mr. Immunity.”

He smiled and borrowed one of her phrases. “Something like that.”

“But how are we going to stop Chambers?”

“You must watch Chambers and let me know when he leaves again.” He pulled her to the side door and lifted her hand. Gently, he kissed the inside of her palm. “I will stop Chambers. Until then, goodnight, Petra.”

He turned to leave, footsteps scrunching on the pebbles that led down the path. In the dark moonlight, the world seemed quiet and still on this side of the manor, but on the other side of the manor there would be the crowd of villagers. And Chambers.

“Wait, no,” she called after him. “How will I let you know?”

“You may send a message through Anne,” he said over his shoulder.

Petra scowled. Anne again. Why did Anne get to play go-between? “Where are you going?”

Turning back, he reached around her to push open the kitchen door and then he pushed her inside. “To bed, of course,” he said, shutting the door behind her.