Jesus. He tore himself away from the window, pressed his back to the brick wall, and closed his eyes. Clearly, he was in dire need of sleep. Any qualms he’d had about tonight’s plan evaporated like a morning mist. He needed to speak with Miss Kendall.

He raked a hand through his hair and straightened his jacket before stepping onto the terrace and making his way toward the double doors leading to the ballroom. He remained outside but managed to flag down a gangly footman who circulated among the guests serving drinks.

The young man approached and bowed politely. “May I be of service, my lord?”

Reese thrust a hand into his pocket and withdrew the note he’d written before leaving the house. Handing it to the footman, he said, “Deliver this to Miss Kendall, please.”

“Miss Kendall?” the lad said, shrugging.

“She’s standing across from the orchestra.” Reese nodded in her direction. “Wearing the brilliant green gown.”

The footman followed Reese’s gaze, and when he spotted her, his eyes widened in obvious appreciation.

“Your discretion is appreciated,” Reese added, dropping a coin into the young man’s palm. “But the sooner you can give her the note, the better.”

With that, Reese withdrew into the shadows … and went to wait for Miss Kendall in the garden.

“Champagne, ladies?” A whip-thin footman flourished a tray, offering fizzing glasses to Fiona, Lily, and Sophie. Fiona declined, but Lily and Sophie eagerly helped themselves to crystal flutes. They had just raised their glasses in a silent toast when the footman surreptitiously handed Sophie a small, folded paper. “For you,” he said under his breath before weaving his way through the crowd.

Something in the footman’s demeanor caused Sophie to keep the paper concealed in her fist. If Fiona or Lily noticed the odd exchange, neither said anything. But then, perhaps they were distracted by the arrival of their handsome husbands, who hoped to steal them away for a dance. When the sisters hesitated, Sophie waved them onto the dance floor. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll take the opportunity to check on Mama.”

While she waited for her friends to melt into the throng on the dance floor, the paper burned a hole in her palm. She, Sophie Kendall, was not the sort of young woman who routinely received mysterious missives. She’d never inspired a gentleman to write her romantic poetry. She’d never even passed a note to a classmate in the schoolroom.

She supposed the note could be from a member of the Debutante Underground, but that would amount to an infraction of rule number two, and she’d never had a member reach out to her outside of their established meeting time.