“Well, I stopped at White’s just before coining here, and the latest theory proposes the possibility that Charles Brightmore is in fact a woman. Indeed, I heard…”

The gentleman’s low-pitched words were drowned out by a trill of nearby feminine laughter. Catherine inched closer, all but pressing her ear to the screen.

“… and if it’s true, it would be the scandal of the century…” She heard some more unintelligible mumbling, then, “… hired an investigator two days ago to get to the bottom of this. He comes highly recommended… ruthless, and will ferret out the truth. In fact-oh, bloody hell, my wife’s caught sight of me. Hang it, look at her, fluttering her eyelashes at me. Shocking, that’s what it is. Appalling. And altogether frightening.”

Catherine peeked around the edge of the screen. Lady Markingworth stood at the edge of the dance floor, her rotund proportions ensconced in an unfortunate shade of yellowish green satin that cast her complexion with a distinctly jaundiced hue, her brown hair arranged in a complicated coiffure involving sausage curls, ribbons, and peacock feathers. With her attention fixed on the opposite side of the screen, Lady Markingworth was batting her eyes as one might if caught in a dust-ridden windstorm. Then, with an air of determination, she marched toward the screen.

“Egad,” came a horrified, panic-filled whisper that Catherine assumed belonged to Lord Markingworth. “She’s got that damnable gleam in her eye.”

“And it’s too late to escape, old man.”

“Bloody hell. A plague on that bastard Charles Brightmore’s house. I’m going to find out who this person is, then kill him-or her. Slowly.”

“There you are, Ephraim,” said Lady Markingworth, her greeting followed by a girlish giggle. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere. The waltz is about to start. And how fortunate that Lords Whitly and Carweather are with you. Your wives anxiously await you near the dance floor, my lords.”