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Elizabeth Monweithe made a concerted effort to be absent from her home for the greater part of the day. She shopped at Harding, Howell and Company in Schomberg House, resting to partake of tea and sweetmeats in their first floor restaurant; patronized the new Soho Square shopping bazaar where the stalls were run by female relatives of soldiers lost in the Napoleonic wars as a means of income; browsed through Hatchard’s bookshop in Piccadilly; duly admired the artifacts to be found in the Egyptian Hall; visited the Royal Menagerie at Exeter Exchange; strolled through the Botanic Gardens; and spoke of an intent to visit an exhibition at the Royal Society of Arts in Somerset House only to be told the exhibitions would not begin again until May.
    For the first two days, when she returned to her home feeling tired, dirty, foot-sore, and irritated, her casual question of callers was met with the usual list of her fair sister’s coterie. By the third day, she had begun to wonder if the Viscount had set spies after her and so knew not to call. By the evening of the fourth day, her temper was very uncertain and there existed an unfamiliar pain around the region of her heart. Her explorations of the city’s shopping haunts and marvels would, on another occasion, have filled her with delight and awe. But such was the determinedness of her efforts that her maid was sadly heard to say to her peers below stairs (as she soaked her feet), that her mistress had taken leave of her senses and muttered darkly as to the causes for her mistress’s queer start.
    On the morning of the fifth day, Lady Elizabeth remained at home—her manner pugnacious, her attire elegant—half willing half defying the Viscount to make an appearance. He did not. For once, Lady Elizabeth acknowledged as she stared broodingly out her bedroom window into the small garden at the back of the house that gave way onto the mews, someone had fought against her infamously rigid guard and had managed to score a hit. She knew from the first moment she saw St. Ryne standing before her that he personified the embodiment of her closely held and jealously guarded dreams. Sadly she wished she could have returned his comments with gay and witty sallies designed to entrance. But she could not. She could only cut because it was safer to strike the first blow than to leave oneself open for the populace to destroy.
    He told her he would come to call and to ask her papa for his consent to marry. Lady Elizabeth twisted uncomfortably in her seat. He had not. She leaned her face against the cool glass, her breath misting before her. She frowned heavily as her temper mounted. She’d show him, she thought. She’d show him she didn’t care a jot whether he claimed her.
    She groaned. Why was she even thinking such thoughts? Marriage was not for her. It left one too vulnerable and—and out of control. The whole situation was entirely too ridiculous. She was merely being made the butt of some joke, most likely spurred by a bet in one club or another. At that sickening thought, her anger soared once more and with a very unladylike oath she sprang to her feet, twirled, and flounced out of the room with a swish of her skirts.
    The upstairs maid saw her and shook her mob capped head slightly as she resumed dusting the picture frames in the hall.
    The Viscount St. Ryne had not made an appearance at the Monweithe residence the next day, nor in the succeeding days, because he was not in London to do so.
    Early the next morning, following that fateful rout at the Amblethorps’, he directed a couple of portmanteaux be packed for a visit of indeterminate duration, horrifying his valet with his expressed wish of traveling alone and dispensing with that gentleman’s daily service. He ordered his horses put to his carriage and while waiting told his people, quite casually, that he was off to tour his holdings. In truth he was, but with an express purpose in mind. He was looking for a particular type