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people had seen before, she was witty and intelligent, rich, and she’d snagged one of London’s premier bachelors, and a Devil, no less. Eleanor had heard a great deal about the Saint’s Devils from both Harry and her beloved brother-in-law, Roger, not to mention from Wiley, her constant bodyguard over the last few months.
    The original Devil, Sir Hilary St. John, who had found her on Harry’s doorstep months ago, was even now keeping pace with her on the other side of the room, like a jaguar stalking his prey. He was watching her watch everyone else while he sipped his champagne and smiled enigmatically at her. She had the discomforting feeling that he wanted to expose all her secrets. Learn the very heart of who she was and show the world.
    Dressed all in black, he resembled a curate, or an executioner. There was an air of barely restrained menace about him; she was amazed the other guests didn’t back away from him carefully as he passed. She’d noticed it immediately when he’d entered the drawing room tonight. But Harry’s guests apparently did not have her sense of self-preservation. They flocked to him, only to be brushed away negligently, like flies on a summer afternoon. The ladies, especially, watched him with heated gazes and undisguised longing, which he ignored.
    He infuriated her with his watchful stare, and yet he fascinated her, too. He wasn’t at all like the dashing adventurer she’d imagined. The way he moved reminded her of awild animal pacing the confines of his cage. He was as mysterious as they had all claimed, watchful and predatory and closed off. He’d been gone for several months, doing his mysterious favor for an equally mysterious friend—Wiley had insisted it was the prince regent, now king, making a nuisance of himself again—and the few times since when he’d come to see Roger she had avoided him as much as possible, intimidated by his reputation and the stories Wiley had told her. The dichotomy between the reality of Sir Hilary and her fantasies was simply too much to bear.
    He’d seemed taken aback at her transformation this evening, too. She didn’t think it was that remarkable. She’d gained a little weight, of course, with regular meals. The cool February temperatures had brought out the pink in her cheeks. But other than that, she looked very like she had that fateful night.
    Not for the first time, she wondered what Sir Hilary was thinking. She didn’t like the uncertainty of him. With most people she could tell immediately what made them tick. Sir Hilary was too much of an enigma for her peace of mind. He held his thoughts close to his breast, as did she. She’d learned the hard way not to reveal more than was necessary to anyone, lest it be used against her. She’d slipped with Enderby again and again, when she was too tired and hungry and weak to watch what she said or did. He’d used Harry against her more than once. Told her lies about Harry’s death, or a visit from Harry, only to reveal the truth when it suited him.
    Perhaps Sir Hilary had been taught the same lesson once upon a time. No one knew, really. He was disturbingly mysterious. Not even Roger knew much about his friend, other than what Sir Hilary had told him, which was very little. Roger said he had arrived at school at twelve years of age as if he’d sprung from the head of Zeus fully formed. No one knew his background or family, but it was rumored he had royal connections. It was also rumored he was half American savage and that he was a descendant of Caesar, so she couldn’t really give much credence to the rumors, despite his mysterious connection to the new king.
    He had escorted his aunt this evening, Mrs. Gertrude Honeychurch. She was quite nice, and as harmless as a kitten. As plump and friendly as he was thin and aloof, they made quite a pair. But she was an aunt by marriage only, not blood related, and her husband, presumably his uncle, was long dead. Eleanor wished she had the time