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thrust his hand into Lindsey’s bodice to steal the IOU. The recollection was so vivid it made her breasts tighten beneath the embroidered white cotton of her nightdress. A flushedawareness swept her body as if he were standing right here, his fingers burning into her flesh.
    “What’s wrong?” Blythe asked. “Your face is all pink.” Her eyes as round as saucers, she peered avidly at her sister. “Something
did
happen last night. Something romantic. Oh, you must tell me all about it!”
    Lindsey concealed a jab of dismay. The last thing she needed was for anyone to guess about her encounter with Mansfield. Blythe would take the offensive incident and transform it into a spun-sugar confection with hearts and flowers on top. She would have them madly in love by evening and betrothed by the morrow.
    For her sister’s benefit, Lindsey contrived a scornful laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’ve no interest in these hoity-toity gentlemen. And I do hope when you make your own debut you don’t encourage them to steal kisses at every turn. Now kindly allow me a moment of privacy.”
    As she stepped toward the adjoining dressing room, Blythe called out, “Do hurry. I have a secret to tell you. It’s something you’ll find truly hair-raising—”
    Shutting the door, Lindsey cut off her sister. Quite likely, Blythe had exchanged a glance on the street with a handsome gentleman and had read more into it than she ought. Such juvenile nonsense was the usual subject of her confidences.
    Heading to the china washbasin, Lindsey splashed cold water on her hot cheeks. The intensity of that fantasy about Lord Mansfield had rattled her composure. It wasn’t like her to have such a strong reaction to any man.
    Any woman of your station must be keen to claim the title of duchess.
    She clenched her teeth. What a vile, arrogant rogue! One would have hoped that the discipline of military life would have developed in him a high standard of moraldecency. The officers she had met in India had been, for the most part, men of honor. But despite the façade of a famous war hero, Mansfield was a scoundrel, a reckless gamester like so many other gentlemen of privilege. He was the lowest of the low, the sort who appealed to tarts and naïve debutantes, not to a rational woman with a firm plan for her life.
    A plan that had nothing to do with the distractions of men.
    Once she spurned all of her suitors, she intended to live independently, set up her own discreet agency, and solve mysteries for highborn clients. It would be difficult to convince her parents—Mama in particular—but the final result would be worth the effort.
    Going to the dressing table, Lindsey loosened her braid and gave her long dark hair a vigorous brushing. The soothing action sufficed to restore her equilibrium. How silly to let herself be distracted by nonessentials. Mansfield was no more to her than a means to an end. He possessed the IOU that she needed to discredit Lord Wrayford. Sleuthing was a particular talent of hers, and she welcomed the challenge of contriving a scheme to retrieve the document.
    She would have to find out where Mansfield lived, what his daily schedule entailed, and when there might be an opportune time to search his home unobserved. It was a tricky situation since decent young ladies were forbidden from paying an unchaperoned call on a bachelor household.
    Lost in planning, Lindsey headed back into the bedchamber, only to discover it was no longer necessary to fob off her sister with a few choice tidbits of gossip.
    In the middle of the fine Aubusson rug, Blythe stood facing Miss Underhill. The governess was a tall, spare woman dressed in a gray gown that might best be termed her uniform since she wore it every day. The whitemaiden’s cap on her dull brown hair enhanced the sallowness of her complexion.
    Blythe’s lower lip protruded in a pout. “I can’t leave now; I
won’t.
Linds was about to tell me everything that happened at