“I heard Mama telling Sally to stay within earshot, in case Mr. Hislop tried to kiss her,” Phoebe said. “Sally said he was a hateful man, and Mama agreed, but she said that she couldn’t insult him.”

Lucien’s stomach was undergoing a slow burn. “You led me to believe that Mrs. Ewing had female spies,” he said, turning to Louise.

She flushed. “Most of them are women. But Mr. Hislop seems to be invited everywhere. And we don’t have to pay him for his fashion accounts. It’s just that he—he—”

“He’s a bounder,” Lucien said. He was startled by the icy tone of his own voice. “Is Emily meeting with him now?” He didn’t notice that he’d called Mrs. Ewing by her first name.

Louise was still looking at their guest measuringly. It seemed to Lucien that her eyes had softened a trifle.

“Mr. Hislop generally arrives around eleven o’clock each Tuesday morning, doesn’t he, Phoebe?” She stood up. “I trust that you will find a time to proffer your invitation to my sister, Mr. Boch?”

Lucien immediately rose. “I believe I am free on Tuesday morning,” he responded. Their eyes met in perfect accord.

“Then I wish you well in your endeavors.” Louise curtsied, a regally beautiful curtsy—the curtsy of a young woman who had been groomed for the highest society rather than for the shabby room in which they stood.

A few minutes later Lucien frowned at the silk lining of his carriage. They were an odd pair, the thin, intelligent Thorpe sisters. Where was Mr. Ewing, if indeed he ever existed? It seemed to him entirely possible that the said Mr. Ewing was a phantom. Emily had a startled, naive look, not a widowed look.

He should know; he had that widowed look. Suddenly he felt too old even to contemplate an evening with the lovely Mrs. Ewing. He was old—almost forty now—and weary and…very widowed. And yet his marriage to the kindly Felice seemed so long ago. He could remember Michel much more clearly. Michel’s plump little cheeks and rosebud mouth were lodged in his heart, and the memory still jumped to his throat at odd moments.

Lucien swore under his breath and thumped on the roof of his carriage. He instructed his coachman to change direction and take him to his club. He had learned not to go home to an empty house when memories caught him unawares.

Of course he couldn’t ask Emily Ewing to the Fester ball. For one thing, she was apparently a social outcast and would likely feel uncomfortable. And for another, she was entirely too young. She deserved someone with a young soul, not someone burdened by painful memories and endless regret.