Prologue

"Diana, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Mother," Diana fibbed.

Bridget Fletching, the Countess of Preston sighed heavily.

"Diana," she repeated. "Would you please pay attention?"

"Yes, Mother," she repeated, aiming for more sincerity into her tone.

"Look at Lady Grace," her mother exhorted, drawing Diana back into the one-sided conversation. "Just look at her."

This, at least, Diana could do happily as Lady Grace Miller, daughter of the Duke of Graham, was not only the undisputed star of the Season but was also Diana's dear friend. Universally considered a diamond of the first water, Grace always had a full dance card, always wore the perfect gown, and was always surrounded by a crowd of eager suitors. Grace was the perfect debutante, but Diana was desperately glad not to be like Grace. She didn't know how her friend bore up under the constant attention.

But Grace was fun-loving in a way that Diana would never be. She enjoyed the game of flirtation and enjoyed bantering with gentlemen.

"You could be like that," the Countess went on as they watched Grace, absolutely perfect in a pale blue gown only a shade lighter than her eyes, her light brown hair occasionally flickering a burnished gold in the candlelight. "You have even befriended her—it's the one savvy move you've made this season, Diana. Why can't you emulate Lady Grace?"

Diana wanted to comment that this would be rather like an ass imitating a thoroughbred but knew the rejoinder would not be well received.

It wasn't that Diana thought she wasn't pretty. She was well enough to look at, something she'd always recognized with an air of pragmatism. Her eyes, an uncommon mossy green, were notably fine.

But Grace was beautiful in the way the moon was beautiful; you couldn't help but notice it, couldn't help but bask in its light.

Diana did not wish to cast enough light for basking, thank you very much. She'd much rather cast just enough light to illuminate the pages of a book. Preferably alone and in a comfy chair. Saying as much, however, might kill her mother.

"You're right, Mother," she said as the dancing on the floor began to wind down. "In fact, why don't I go greet Grace now? Perhaps she'll have some advice on how I can attract a suitor."

The Countess looked suspicious about this acquiescence—as well she should, Diana thought, as it was absolute nonsense—but nodded.

"Good," she said firmly. "I know this is not easy for you, Diana, but your only purpose in life is to marry well."

Diana turned away before her face could reveal what she truly thought of that bleak pronouncement.

"Of course, Mother," she said, hurrying off.

She did not, of course, attempt to approach Grace. What was the point? The musicians were already striking up the first notes of the next dance, and Grace would be occupied. She always was.

Indeed, from the corner of her eye, she saw her friend take to the floor with the Duke of Hawkins. Hm, well, he was a bit old for Grace, closer to the age of their fathers than the girls themselves, but Diana had it on good authority that Grace didn't intend to marry this Season in any case. She was, as she had put it with a mischievous laugh, "surveying her options."

Diana bit back a smile at the thought. How pleasant to think that, for once, a lady held the reins of a courtship. Diana could enjoy that, even if she was not the lady in question.

"My goodness," she called as she approached her two friends, Miss Emily Rutley and Lady Frances Johnson. "If it isn't the very wallflowers I was hoping to see!"

"Hello, Diana," Frances said, only the tiniest hint of dryness in her tone. The daughter of the Marquess of Reed had a razor-sharp wit that she rarely let show, unless she was amongst her friends.

"Really, Diana," scolded Emily, her tone almost motherly. At twenty, Emily, daughter of Viscount Drowton, was old for a debutante, having delayed her debut by two years to help care for her younger twin sisters after their mother's death. Either natural inclination or those two additional years of responsibility had made Emily the proper one of their little quartet.

"You ought not call us ‘wallflowers,'" she chided, even as she clasped Diana's hand in greeting. "Someone might hear you."

"And think I'm wrong?" Diana asked, waving her arm at the space behind Emily and Frances…which was, of course, the wall to the ballroom.

"And diminish our popularity," Emily corrected. "We needn't give others any reason to consider us undesirable."

"How's your card looking this evening, Em?" Diana asked, taking her place besides her friends against the wall. The ballroom was, as the gossip rags would term it, an absolute crush. All she could see of the dance floor was the occasional flash of movement.

"Not good," Emily said with a quiet sigh. "I've only two dances spoken for, and they're both country dances," she complained. "Hardly helpful for striking up conversations."

Diana gave her friend a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"We need Grace to come make introductions to some gentlemen," Frances opined, going up on her toes to peer out over the crowd. She was a full head shorter than Emily; when the two stood together, it only furthered the impression that Frances was a faerie in a ballgown rather than a woman full grown. "Where is Grace?"

The music had stopped, the floor clearing for the pause between sets. Emily, too, craned her neck to look. "I don't see her," she said.

"Well," Diana added, "heaven knows she won't be able to see us, tucked back here as we are." She grabbed Emily's hand, trusting that Emily would grab Frances in turn, and dragged them closer to the middle of the room until they reached a better vantage point.

She frowned. "I still don't see her," she told the other two, scanning the crowd for Grace. Their friend had worn jeweled hairpins tonight which should make her easy to spot, but…

The musicians let out the warning strum that signified to dancers to move toward the dance floor. Silk skirts and starched cravats flowed around the friends like a river around a boulder.

A prickle of unease traveled down Diana's spine as she continued searching. This was, she told herself, utter silliness. The room was densely crowded, that was all. And it wasn't as though Grace had any obligation to return to her friends between dances. She merely did so frequently.

Maybe Grace had rejoined her parents, Diana told herself. Except there were the Duke and Duchess of Graham, the image of the upright politician and his demure wife. Diana spotted a pale blue dress from around the Earl of Moore. Her heart leapt with relief, but no. That was Cecily Milton.

"Do you see her, Diana?" asked Frances, still perched on her toes.

"Excuse me." A polite cough heralded the arrival of a gentleman.

The trio turned to look at Mr. Lionel Cartwright. He was an unassuming fellow with wire spectacles, and he smiled shyly at the group.

"Have you seen Lady Grace?" he asked them. "She and I are due for the next dance, but I'm afraid I cannot locate her …" He trailed off politely.

The prickle became a full-blown knot of tension in Diana's stomach.

She pasted on a smile. "Oh, Mr. Cartwright, I am so sorry," she said. "Grace stepped on her hem and had to hie to the ladies' retiring room. She bid us to make her apologies and asked if you would be so kind as to dance with Lady Emily for this set, instead."

Diana hoped this wasn't one of the two dances for which Emily had already secured a partner.

Mr. Cartwright, for his part, extended his hand to Emily with an easy smile. "Of course," he said graciously. "Lady Emily, if you would do me the honor?"

"Of course," she returned.

Mr. Cartwright led her to the dance floor, Emily casting a look of dismay over her shoulder as she went. When the pair were out of earshot, Diana and Frances bent their heads together.

"Where is she?" Diana hissed.

Frances' eyes were wide. "She wouldn't have forgotten about Mr. Cartwright." The man was no highly eligible bachelor, but Grace didn't put on airs. She wouldn't abandon the man if she'd agreed to dance with him.

"Perhaps she forgot," Diana said, the words sounding false on her lips. "Maybe she needed some air."

"It is terribly close in here," Frances agreed, sounding like she was trying to convince herself.

Diana's heart was in her throat as the pair peeked out onto the veranda which was empty aside from a young gentleman smoking a cheroot. Diana fought the urge to wave aside the malodorous smoke, but she was too worried to dwell overmuch on inconsiderate men and their vices. They checked the ladies' retiring room and found a passel of gossiping noblewomen and their maids but no Grace.

When they returned to the ballroom, Emily was waiting anxiously. "Did you find her?" she asked.

"I saw her earlier," Diana said, thinking back. "Two dances ago now, I think? She was with the Duke of Hawkins."

Frances, apparently too upset to be shy, wrinkled her nose. "Him? He's old enough to be her father."

Emily looked anxious. "He's also rather…forceful," she added. "He hovers around Grace quite a lot and isn't terribly gracious about it when she pays attention to other people."

Diana caught her friend's meaning immediately. "You don't think he would…?" She didn't dare finish the sentence, not even in her own mind.

"No," Emily said hastily, but Diana wasn't certain the other woman believed it. "But perhaps he pressured her to accompany him for a walk?"

Frances gnawed on her lip in a way that looked painful. "Maybe we should check the gardens?" she suggested.

Emily blanched, and even Diana hesitated at the thought of the impropriety. Three unmarried women didn't hie off to traipse around gardens in the dark. But they couldn't tell anyone else that Grace was missing. Grace's reputation would end up in tatters if they did.

"I think we should," Diana said, forcing conviction into her tone. "We shan't go far from the house. Just far enough to call for her."

Emily nodded, and Diana could tell that she, too, was struggling to remain calm. "Surely anyone who…took her for a walk would release her, once he knew we were looking."

Diana nodded, more out of optimism than conviction.

The trio headed back toward the veranda, determination propelling their steps forward. The night air was cool, damp with mist, and after the heat of the ballroom, it should have been refreshing. As it was, body tight with worry, the cold breeze felt like an unpleasant touch against Diana's skin.

You read too many Gothic novels, she scolded herself. The veranda was totally empty, the torches that illuminated the outer edges of the garden few and far between. She paused at the stairs that led to the grass below. A small hand—Frances' most likely—clutched her elbow.

"Are you sure—" Frances began.

And then a scream rent the air, sharp and shrill with panic. The friends did not hesitate, instead bolting into the garden toward the sound. Even as she ran, though, her slippers sliding precariously against the dew-damp ground, Diana felt a sinking feeling that she was already too late as the scream disappeared into the night, ephemeral as a wisp of smoke.