Throat clearing and several harrumphs followed this announcement, then the scuffle of shoes upon the parquet floor as the group moved away.

Catherine leaned against the oak-paneled wall and drew a shaky breath, pressing her hands to her midsection. Slipping behind the screen in search of a moment of sanctuary from the hordes of party guests had taken a very unexpected turn. All she’d wanted was to avoid the approaching Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth, both of whom had dogged her footsteps since the moment she’d arrived at her father’s birthday party and separately attempted to maneuver her into a tкte-а-tкte. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth had been followed closely by Sir Percy Whitenall and several others whose names escaped her, all of whom bore unmistakable-and unwanted-gleams of interest in their eyes. Good heavens, her official mourning period for her husband had ended only days ago. She could almost hear her dear friend Genevieve’s voice warning her just last week, The men will come out of every nook and crevice. Such is the fate of a single heiress.

Damnation, she wasn’t single-she was a widow. With a nearly grown child. She had not believed she would generate such male… enthusiasm so quickly. If she’d suspected, she might well have been tempted to continue wearing her widow’s weeds.

Yet by avoiding her unexpected suitors, she’d inadvertently eavesdropped upon a conversation far more disturbing than the male attention. Lord Markingworth’s angry words echoed through her mind. The possibility that Charles Brightmore is a woman… if it’s true, it would be the scandal of the century.

What had he said that she’d missed? And what of this ruthless investigator hired to ferret out the details? Who was he? And how close was he to discovering the truth?

… I’m going to find out who this person is, then kill him-or her. Slowly.