When, rather than strolling the graveled pathways as was the normal means of locomotion in a garden, the gentleman skulked about the shrubberies, racing from one clump to another, dodging behind topiaries shaped as fantastic beasts, finally emerging close to the stone steps leading up to the veranda at the rear of the house, surely any watcher would be well within his rights to express surprise.

Truly, the gentleman was acting in a peculiar manner. From where he crouched next to the steps, he suddenly stood, fluffed up his ruff, tugged his doublet down over a pronounced belly, pulled a handkerchief out of his codpiece and brushed the dirt from his dainty white hands, and finally, after a quick look around to make sure no one was looking, hiked up his Persian silk stockings. What anyone would have been driven to say when this same portly man was arrested in midstep by the sight of a dark-haired young woman bursting from the house and hurtling down the stairs is lost to us, but certainly the conversation that followed, hushed and whispered though it was, in all likelihood was not what would have been expected.

“Caro,” the gentleman intoned urgently as the young woman dashed by him. Lady Caroline stiffened at the repeated hiss of her name, turning slowly to give the beruffed figure a cold and cutting glare.

“Sir, I do not have the honor of your acquaintance.”

“You most certainly do. You piddled in my sand pit when you were only three. I remember quite distinctly how Matthew laughed when Nurse blamed me.”

The silent, still figure of Lady Caroline, dressed charmingly in the wide panniers, rose silk, and silvered lace of her mother’s era, came to life again under the influence of that familiar, if annoyed, voice. “Char? Is that you?”

The portly man moved from the shadow of the balustrade onto the middle of the steps. “Yes, it is me, just where the devil have you been? I waited at that gate for an eternity! You were supposed to unlock it at half of midnight, Caro! It’s well after midnight now!”

“I’m terribly sorry, but dearest Algernon insisted on having a waltz with me. Charlotte”—Caroline squinted to make out her friend’s face in the shadow—“I thought your costume was to be of Good Queen Bess? You appear to be dressed as a man.”

“Yes, yes, I changed my mind. I thought I would be less conspicuous if I were dressed as Henry VIII.” She twanged the leather protrusion curving gracefully from her groin. “No one who knows me would ever expect to see me in a codpiece.”

“No, indeed,” agreed Caroline with alacrity. “Say what you will about your propensity for shocking the ton, codpieces are simply not part of your everyday apparel.”

“And yet, in fairness,” Charlotte admitted, “I must say it is very handy. Because I was so late waiting for Mme. Beauloir to deliver my costume, I did not have time to dine at home. Tremayne Three was kind enough to give me one of the horses’ apples, which fit quite snugly in the codpiece. It is of no wonder to me that men wore them for so many years—they’re much handier than a reticule!”