Sophie smiled at her mother and rose, clutching Braddon’s velvet coat with bloodless fingers. Braddon was such an accommodating person, she thought gratefully, as he whisked her out of the room full of chattering couples. No one was talking about anything but the disappearance of Daphne Boch, Patrick Foakes, and Daphne’s brother, Lucien. The general consensus was that Lucien had challenged Patrick and they were at this very moment exchanging the names of their seconds.

Meanwhile, Sophie had thought of a second line of attack. “You see, Braddon,” she said, scooting about on the coach seat so that she was sitting just next to her soon-to-be husband, “what we need is a scheme, a way to escape all the endless formal parties and tedious engagements that will bore us silly for the next four months … unless we come up with a scheme.”

“A scheme,” Braddon repeated.

Surely there was a kindling of interest in his eyes?

“I thought you could acquire a large black cloak,” Sophie said enticingly. “And perhaps, if you knew where to find such a thing, you could rent one of those false beards that actors wear.”

“By Jove, I know just the thing!” Braddon was excited. “But whatever for?”

“For our elopement,” Sophie cried. “After we are married, naturally, we will settle down to a life of domesticity. No theatricals. In fact, we will likely attend the theater only rarely. This would be a last dash of excitement—and all we need is a brilliant scheme to carry it off!”

“Ahh,” Braddon breathed. Visions of a rented wig and a curled mustache danced before his eyes.

“Because,” Sophie said earnestly, “if we let our mothers dominate this period in our life, they will try to run every aspect of our married life as well. Why, my mother has announced the intention of spending every waking moment with me once I am a married lady.”

“Really.” Braddon’s tone was hollow.

“Yes, and I expect it will only get worse once we have children. Because both our mothers will be constantly at our house, expecting to be entertained by the children. We must take this move toward freedom.”

Braddon was a bit confused. Where did freedom come into the whole thing? “I don’t see why I have to obtain a cloak.”

“You need the cloak so that no one will recognize you when we elope,” Sophie said. “People look only at clothes. In a cloak and false beard, you could be anyone!”

There was a moment’s silence. “That may be true,” Braddon said, “but I still don’t see why—”

“If we don’t elope,” Sophie broke in a bit wildly, “we might as well not marry at all. In fact, if you don’t come to my house tomorrow night, I won’t marry you, Braddon Chatwin!” To Braddon’s dismay, his betrothed seemed to have a hysterical streak, and the way she was clutching his arm, she was sure to crush his velvet coat.

Visions of his mother’s face when he told her that Sophie had broken off the engagement raced through his mind. Yet perhaps more significant, growing in his heart was a fervent longing for greasepaint and for the sticky glue used to affix a false beard to one’s face. There was such delight in swirling a large black cloak. No one looked at him condescendingly or called him “silly Slaslow,” or even less complimentary nicknames, when he was dressed all in black.