They rose together. Dolly and the earl both wanted to accompany them in order to acquaint Mrs. Fowler with the illustrious history of the artworks, but she put them off, insisting that they must not desert their distinguished guests for such a nobody as herself. Lord Sidmouth, who seemed a perceptive gentleman, said that he would be glad to view the gallery but only after another cup of tea. So Callie and the nobody were allowed to depart without a full escort.

The long, gloomy promenade at Shelford, with paintings on one wall and a line of tall, narrow windows on the other, offered an excellent location for a tête-à-tête. The weather still waxed inclement, and hisses of rain added to the usual echoes, creating a suitably murky background for any private exchange. Mrs. Fowler nodded and walked slowly along, pretending an interest in the historical account that Callie pretended to give her, but when they reached a safe distance from the drawing room door, the petite lady paused and turned.

"The duchesse told me that you're hiding her son here," she said hurriedly, interrupting Callie's mono tone on the comparisons between the Gainsborough portrait of her great-grandmother and the Reynolds of the same subject.

Callie bit her lip. She glanced along the gallery to make sure they were still alone. She gave a quick nod.

"Where is he? I must see him," Mrs. Fowler said.

Callie could not bring herself to say that he was staying in her bedroom. But the woman had every right to see her husband, of course.

When she hesitated, Mrs. Fowler said anxiously, "Can you arrange it?"

"Yes." Seeing her fretfulness, Callie felt a sharp wave of guilt. She debated and discarded a number of possible meeting places in her mind. Even the carriage house wouldn't be safe, as all the vehicles were being readied to fetch guests for the masquerade. "Oh!" An impulsive thought came to her. "Mrs. Fowler, can you come by a costume of some sort? A mask?"

The other woman looked at her and then smiled mischievously. "Can you get me a ticket?"

An instant after she made it, Callie was already regretting the suggestion. Anyone must recognize Mrs. Fowler, it seemed to her, even masked. And it meant that Trev would have to be abroad at the masquerade too—a thought that appalled her. "I'm not certain. Where are you staying? If I can, I'll have it sent."

"Thank you!" Mrs. Fowler clasped Callie's hand between hers. "I haven't a room bespoken, I fear. Is there an inn?"

"The Antlers," Callie said. "In the village."

"Oh, I do thank you!" Then she fumbled in her reticule and pulled out a note folded over so many times and covered with so much wax that it was only a lump. "Give him this." She pressed it into Callie's palm. "You are a heroine to do this for us! Thank you!"