"Darling,
"
cooed Lady Diana in the voice that always reminded Annabelle of her father
'
s dovecote at the bottom of their garden in Yorkshire, "I swear you take the shine out of every other gentleman in the room. Isn
'
t he the handsome one, Annie?
"
Dalmar smiled a lazy smile, and Annabelle snorted indelicately. From the corner of her eye, she watched as the Earl made a slow assessment of the girl through the veil of his lashes. That he fancied himself something of a connoisseur of females had never been in doubt. With a studied indifference she could scarcely sustain, Annabelle greeted The Beauty.
Dalmar
'
s greeting was more effusive. "Diana! Goddess of the moon,
"
he fairly purred, and he brushed the tips of her fingers with his lips. "Tonight you outshine the moon itself. What do you say, Annie?
"
"There isn
'
t any moon tonight,
"
she blurted. Three pairs of eyes trained upon her. Lamely she explained, "It
'
s been overcast all day.
"
A stab of annoyance flashed through Annabelle at the amused, almost complacent twinkle which lurked in Dalmar
'
s eyes. She was jealous and he knew it. Worse, she
'
d been churlish to Lady Diana for no good reason. It wasn
'
t the lady
'
s fault that she had the good fortune to be young, titled, rich, charming, and beautiful beyond compare. Everyone liked the girl. Even
she
liked the girl.
Trying to make amends, Annabelle voiced the next idle thought which flitted into her mind. "It wouldn
'
t be fair to the rest of us ladies if you had brains, too.
"
Dalmar choked on his laughter, and Annabelle wished the floor would open beneath her feet. Thankfully, Lady Diana could pluck a compliment out of thin air.
"You
'
re too kind,
"
she murmured and dropped those enormous eyes becomingly.
Annabelle was saved from further embarrassment by a young blade who solicited her hand for the next dance—a waltz, she was relieved to discover. And since this was a very informal private party, no young lady was denied the pleasure of treading her toes to the beat of the wicked, voluptuous dance which had taken the ballrooms of Europe by storm.
Over her partner
'
s shoulder, she surveyed the dozen or so couples who crowded the small space which had been turned into an impromptu dance floor. She still found it hard to believe that she had consented to this spur-of-the-moment affair. She was not by nature an impulsive person. Quite the reverse. Her calendar was carefully plotted weeks in advance; her attention to detail, meticulous to a fault. She never expected to enjoy her own parties. She was too conscientious a hostess to forget herself for a moment. Yet here she was, tripping the light fantastic, as Milton would say, as if she hadn
'
t a care in the world.
Her eyes traveled the throng of people. Of the scores who filled her small house, she did not think she was acquainted with more than a handful. It was Lady Diana who had brought most of them with her. In effect, it was Henrietta and Lady Diana who were hosting the party. Everything had been thrown together at the last minute and, wonder of wonders, no one seemed to be suffering one jot. Truth to tell, Annabelle
could not remember when her guests had enjoyed themselves more. There was a lesson for her here, somewhere, mused Annabelle.
"May I say how very becoming you look in that frock, Mrs. Jocelyn?
"
she heard her partner say.
The compliment quite took the sting out of Dalmar
'
s perceived neglect of the niceties. She knew she had never looked better in her daffodil silk with its overdress of gold-shot gauze. It did wonderful things for her nondescript hair which wasn
'
t quite brown, nor yet black, now that the dye was wearing thin. He had not spared his compliments for the other ladies. Why was he so niggardly with her?
"You dance the waltz divinely,
"
said young Mr. Loukes.
Cliché
, thought Annabelle, but quite acceptable for all that. She smiled into Mr. Loukes
'
s bland brown eyes. He was no more than a boy, really. But if he wished to practice the finer points of the art of flirting, she was quite prepared to indulge him.
Batting her great sooty eyelashes, Annabelle murmured, "Why Mr. Loukes! I bet you say that to all the girls!
"
"No, ma
'
am,
"
he answered seriously. "I always make it a point to pass up the eligibles in favor of the older ladies when the waltz is announced.
"
At Annabelle
'
s blank look, he added by way of explanation, "Debs my own age don
'
t know the steps. They don
'
t get enough practice, you see, on account of Lady Jersey. They
'
re like to lose their vouchers to Almack
'
s.
"
It was after that inadvertent set-down that Annabelle became the life of the party. Unsparing of her advanced years, and ignoring pinched toes, aching muscles, and especially Dalmar
'
s mocking, knowing glances, she applied herself to learning the steps of every blessed country dance Henrietta introduced for the delectation of their guests. Not even the moon goddess herself could outshine her in gaiety.
By the time the last guest had taken his leave and Bertie and Henrietta had trudged up the stairs to bed, Annabelle felt sure that the smile on her face had petrified. Wearily she traipsed through the ground-floor public rooms, taking inventory. She was pleasantly surprised. Though she was sure that Greek Street had never witnessed such a wild, unholy party, the
damage appeared to be minimal.
In the drawing room she plunked herself into the plump cushions of a white satin sofa. With shoes discarded and hair askew, she closed her eyes and reflected on the folly of trying to keep up with the young.
It was how Dalmar found her some few minutes later.
"I thought you
'
d gone,
"
said Annabelle, quickly rearranging her hair. She blessed the caprice which had made her resist the impulse to loosen her stays. "But I
'
m glad you
'
re here. You never did tell me what the magistrates at Lewes had to say.
"
"It was as I thought,
"
he said carelessly, and took the chair beside her.
"Yes?
"
She gave him an expectant look.
"They didn
'
t know where to begin searching for those two blighters. I
'
m afraid they got clean away. But that
'
s not what I wish to speak to you about. There
'
s something of greater importance that needs to be said.
"
His expression was hooded, his voice grave. Annabelle became instantly alert.
"What could be more important than finding the men who attacked me?
"
she asked incredulously.
Impatiently, he answered, "They are of no moment! Will you listen to me, Annabelle?
"
She could only stare at him, and after a pause, he went on more deli
berately, "About the diaries…"
"Oh no! Not that again,
"
she blurted out. "Look, Dalmar, as far as I
'
m concerned, we
'
ve exhausted that as a topic of conversation.
"
"It
'
s not a topic of conversation. It
'
s a bone of contention,
"
he said fiercely. After a moment he went on more levelly. "Annabelle, this is your last chance to surrender them gracefully. After this, I
'
ll wrest them from you, by fair means or foul.
"
Annabelle had never got round to confronting Dalmar about the theft of the diaries. In point of fact, when her temper had cooled sufficiently, she was more than half convinced that she had misjudged him. Not that she doubted for a minute that he was capable of such outrageous conduct. But from what she
knew of his character, it seemed more in keeping that he would boast of his success if he had bested her—as she would do if their positions were reversed. There was a rivalry there between them which neither was slow to exploit. In her opinion, it was part of the attraction which held them together.
But in two weeks, Dalmar had not once, even obliquely, baited her with his victory. And now his own words absolved him. Like a ferret on the scent of a rabbit, he was still hot on the trail of the diaries, thinking that she had them in her possession.
In a manner of speaking, she supposed that she had. In the fortnight since the manuscript had been stolen, she had religiously reconstructed almost a half of it. But she was wiser now. She kept the work under lock and key in a drawer in her bedchamber. She did not think that any thief would go undetected if he tried to burglarize her house in Greek Street. She had taken the precaution of alerting a few chosen members of her staff to be on the watch for suspicious strangers.
Not for a moment did Annabelle distrust anyone of her immediate acquaintance. She was convinced that the malefactor was one of the many titled gentlemen who were portrayed in Monique Dupres
'
s memoirs. And the field of suspects was so wide that it seemed to her the task of discovering who had done the deed was hopeless.
All this she might easily have confessed to Dalmar if she had not believed that his imme
diate response would be to say
I
told you so
in that superior way she so much detested. If he only knew it, she thought irritably, she was far more likely to give up the idea of publishing the diaries if he stopped hounding her. He just could not see that it was his high-handed methods that made her dig in her heels. She could be just as intractable as he.
She said nothing of what she was thinking. In some perverse way, though inside she trembled at the thought, she was curious to see how far Dalmar would go to get the diaries. Moreover, his supreme confidence and his arrogant assumption that she was no match for him rankled. It brought to mind Bertie
'
s passionate avowal, "It
'
s a man
'
s world.
"
Her eyes narrowed on the figure of the Earl. Unhappily for
Dalmar, in that moment Annabelle saw beyond the particular gentleman who was sitting at his ease in her drawing room. He was the archetype, a representative of that predatory species which she labeled, rather derogatorily, "men in general.
"
In their ranks, she numbered Edgar, Sir Charles, and Colonel Ransome. She knew the breed well. And recent events had only confirmed her conviction.
"I give you fair warning, Annabelle. I won
'
t be swayed from my course by my affections.
"
"Dear, dear! That
does
sound serious,
"
she answered flippantly.
"You
'
ll be laughing on the other side of your face when next we meet if you don
'
t surrender those diaries this instant.
"
"Did anyone ever tell you that you are a poor loser?
"
she drawled.
"Hand over those diaries!
"
he shouted.
"Certainly not! Those diaries are private property—mine, to be exact. Bailey
'
s has nothing to do with them.
"
Deliberately, falsely, she baited him. "They
'
ll be ready in a day or two to go to the printers, and in very short order, Monique Dupres
'
s memoirs will be selling like hotcakes from Land
'
s End to John o
'
Groats.
"
Thunderstruck, he stared at her.
Adding insult to injury, she said in a kindly tone. "Now don
'
t get your hackles up, Dalmar. No one will hold you responsible. I
'
m not having them printed here. They
'
ll be done by another firm, so you see, if there
'
s any trouble, you and Bailey
'
s will be completely exonerated.
"
His face contorted into a mask of fury. "And that
'
s your last word?
"