“Fair enough,” Diana said, serenely taking a bite of ice, all traces of emotion suddenly, mysteriously absent.

“How do you intend to contact him?” Emily asked curiously—she had been observing without commenting for several minutes now. “Sending a letter seems rather risky, and it’s not as though you can just show up at his theater . . .”

“I think,” Diana said slowly, “that my useless brother may for once prove to be beneficial to me.”

“I can’t believe I let you convince me to do this,” Penvale said for at least the third time in the past five minutes. It was dinnertime the following evening. The day before, they had proceeded directly from Gunter’s to Diana’s home, where they had sent a frantic note to Penvale at his club. He had appeared less than an hour later, looking mildly alarmed, but his expression had rapidly changed to one of irritation upon joining them in Diana’s elegantly appointed sitting room and learning what was being asked of him.

“Hauled out of my own club,” he continued, setting down his drink and beginning to stride back and forth from one end of the room to the other. “Forced to lure a man I barely know to my sister’s house, and obliged to phrase it all in such a way that he no doubt thinks she’s interested in having some sort of liaison with him—”

“Who says I’m not?” Diana asked, smiling innocently at her brother. “I’m a widow, after all, and I’ve been distressingly well-behaved since Templeton died.” She heaved a heavy sigh, which had the result of displaying her impressive bosom to even greater advantage in her evening gown of crimson silk; Violet personally thought Diana might have saved the effort for the gentleman whose favor they would shortly be attempting to curry.

“Good lord, Diana,” Penvale said severely, giving his sister a stern look. “You might do well to look for someone a bit less notorious, at the very least. You’re new to this business, after all.”

“Yes,” Diana said, batting her eyelashes. “And I’ve a lot of lost time to make up.”

Penvale retrieved his drink and took another hearty swallow. “I regret this already.”

“Well, it’s too late for that,” Violet said briskly, although privately she was beginning to have a few misgivings. Diana’s idea had sounded so reasonable in the bright sunshine outside Gunter’s, safely ensconced in her barouche, all this seeming more like a game than anything else. Now, however, she was beginning to feel rather foolish. Her plan to trick James into fretting over her health had seemed perfectly acceptable when she had fabricated it a couple of days before, stewing in her own anger, but now that she would be forced to confess it to a perfect stranger, she was not feeling quite so certain.

Penvale’s reaction upon learning of her scheme had not been encouraging.

“I am feigning a case of consumption,” she had informed him, with as much dignity as she could muster, when it had become apparent that some sort of explanation would be required to ensure his cooperation.

“You’re what?” he had asked incredulously, staring at Violet as though she had grown another head.

“I am teaching him a lesson,” Violet said. “It’s all down to you anyway, Penvale. Your bloody note started all of this fuss.”

“Had I known how much trouble that letter would cause me, I should have stood stoic and penless even had Audley been bleeding to death before me,” he muttered.

“That is a charming sentiment indeed,” Violet said. “But in any case, I am going to show my husband exactly what it felt like to stand in that coaching yard and have him tell me it was none of my concern whether he lived or died.” She crossed her arms, her confidence bolstered by a wave of renewed indignation. “Men!”

Penvale had put up a few more protestations, of course, as men are wont to do, but when Violet had finally informed him that she would be doing this with or without his consent—and with all sorts of whispered threats from Diana when Penvale threatened to inform James of their plans—he had agreed, albeit with bad grace.

From there, things with Lord Julian Belfry had advanced rather more rapidly than she’d expected. They’d summoned Penvale in order to ask him if he could extend a dinner invitation to Belfry when next he saw him. Penvale, however, informed them that he’d been playing cards with the man at White’s—“before I was so irritatingly forced to depart”—and that if he were permitted to go back about his business, he could no doubt make the invitation that very afternoon. Another couple of hours later, and a note from Penvale had arrived, informing them that Lord Julian Belfry would be pleased to dine with Lady Templeton the very next evening, should the invitation stand.

Fortunately, Diana had already planned to have Violet and Penvale for dinner that same evening, and it was little trouble to inform her cook that one more would be joining them. So it was that at eight o’clock the following day, Violet found herself in Diana’s sitting room, awaiting the arrival of the man she hoped would assist her.

“What did Audley say when his supposedly ill wife set off for a dinner party?” Penvale asked wryly. He ran a hand through his hair, which was the exact same honeyed shade as Diana’s. He was a very handsome man, tall and fit and broad of shoulder, though Violet had never paid him that much attention growing up. He had been Diana’s exasperating elder brother, never an object of her romantic fantasies. And that was just as well—while he was not so much of a libertine as Jeremy (but then, who was?), he still seemed to display little interest in matrimony.