He'd promised he wouldn't seek out her identity-he hadn't promised he wouldn't persuade her to reveal all to him.

Her name. Her face. Those long legs. And more.

"Well? How did it go?"

Raising her veil, Alathea stared at the group of eager faces clustered about the bottom of the stairs. She had only that instant crossed the threshold of Morwellan House in Mount Street; behind her, Crisp, the butler, slid the bolts home and turned, eager not to miss any of her tale.

The question had come from Nellie, Alathea's maid, presently wrapped in an old paisley bedrobe. Surrounding Nellie in various stages of deshabille stood other members of Alathea's most stalwart band of supporters-the household's senior servants.

"Come now, m'lady, don't keep us in suspense."

That from Figgs, the cook-housekeeper. The others all nodded-Folwell, Alathea's groom, his forelock bobbing, Crisp, joining them, carrying the rolled promissory note she had handed him for safekeeping.

Alathea inwardly sighed. In what other tonnish establishment would a lady of the house, returning from an illicit rendezvous at four in the morning, meet with such a reception? Quelling her skittish nerves, telling herself that the fact he'd kissed her didn't show, she set her veil back. "He agreed."

"Well-there now!" Thin as a rake, Miss Helm, the governess, nervously clutched her pink wrapper. "I'm sure Mr. Cynster will take care of it all and expose these dreadful men."

"Praise be," intoned Connor, Serena's severe dresser.

"Indeed"-Alathea walked forward into the light thrown by the candles Nellie, Figgs, and Miss Helm were holding-"but you should all be in bed. He's agreed to help-there's nothing more to hear." She caught Nellie's eye.