At one point, though, I looked for him and instead locked gazes with an older man staring at me quite openly from across the room. He stared as if he knew me, with the boldness of one too old to care about propriety. Not leering, but intensely interested. Curious. He had something to say. I could see it haunting the windows of his eyes.

A tap came on my shoulder. I spun with a smile meant for Richard, but it was another man—the Marquis D’auberney. I’d seen him about London here and there but had never made his acquaintance. Nor did I wish to, for he was a fugue in some minor key with awkward arpeggios and heavy-handed high notes. I returned his look of interest with a polite one of disdain.

Which he apparently took as an invitation. Of course he would. Let him try—he wouldn’t get far with me. He bowed, and I caught sight—thank heavens—of Richard just beyond. Our eyes met over the marquis’s shoulder and understanding passed between us. My wonderful longtime friend sauntered near, hands clasped behind his back, offering greetings in passing but keeping his eyes on me.

“You must excuse me,” I said to the marquis. I couldn’t abide the thought of standing so near to him that I could taste his breath. “I’m afraid I’ve emptied my glass.” Meaningless banter irked me, and I suppose that was another of my oddities. I turned my back on the marquis to take a fresh glass from a passing waiter, hoping the man would find another guest to bother.

Instead, the foolish man remained and raked me with a look. “How is it I don’t remember encountering you among this company before? You’ve a rare look of intelligence in your eyes, and that hair . . .” He stopped just short of fingering the dark red tresses curling over my shoulder. “I don’t often encounter such a lady.”

I leveled my gaze at him, polite smile in place. “You only attract what you are.”

His face split in a silly laugh. He thought I was joking. Flirting, perhaps. “I believe it would be more pleasant to talk in the gardens. Won’t you join me?”

“I’m afraid this isn’t the time,” I said. Richard was closer now, just over the man’s shoulder and a few yards back. Listening. Watching from the corner of his eye. Another sip as I waited.

“It’s an ideal time to escape. They’re about to start the music.”

I frowned, lowering my glass. “You’ve something against the pianoforte?”

“Heavens, no. Not when it’s played by a musician of some quality. Tonight, unfortunately, we’re burdened with the dubious talents of a Miss Vivienne Mourdant. You’ve heard of her, I assume?”