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bags, my lady?"
    "Yes, thank you," Gabby said, walking past him into the hall. What immediately struck her was how warmly alive the house felt. Despite having had no members of the family in residence for a decade past, it seemed almost to hum with vitality. The marble floor gleamed; the chandelier sparkled; the tall pier glass to her right reflected walls papered in a soft cream and green pattern that looked surprisingly unfaded, and the mirror's ornate frame, as well as the frames of various paintings adorning the walls, were so bright a gold that they might well have been recently gilded. The deep reds and blues of the oriental carpet underfoot were as vivid as if it had been laid down the day before. The banister of the wide staircase that rose steeply on the right was silky with polish. Not the faintest musty scent or odor of mildew could be detected, sniff though she might. Spring flowers in a Meissen bowl added their scent to the smell of beeswax and— dinner? Surely not. Surely Stivers could not have timed their arrival as precisely as that.
    As she drew off her gloves, Gabby realized with a deepening frown that there was even a slight buzz of conversation in the background. It seemed to emanate from beyond the closed pocket doors that led to the salon on the left; the dining room, she supposed.
    "Miss Gabby, Miss Beth, Miss Claire, welcome!" A smile warmed Stivers's usually cadaverlike face as he hurried toward them from the back of the house. "Miss Gabby, forgive me. I have been on the watch all afternoon, and would have been on hand to open the door to you myself, but I was called to the kitchen to settle a slight dispute. That chef of His Lordship's— well, you know how Frenchies can be— has no notion of how to go on in a proper English kitchen. But I handled the difficulty, I fancy, quite well! I only hope that his foreign concoctions suit your palate, Miss Claire." This last was added on a fatherly note.
    "Stivers, you have been very busy. I commend you," Gabby said as Claire murmured something inaudible in reply to this reference to her notoriously delicate stomach. The feeling that something was amiss was growing ever stronger within Gabby's breast. She frowned at Stivers. "But what do you mean, that chef of His Lordship's? Have you purloined someone's cook?"
    The question was meant to be half in jest, but the joyous grin that transformed Stivers's face in response alarmed her to the core. In all the years he had served them— and that was all the years of her life and more— Gabby had never known Stivers to look joyous.
    "No, Miss Gabby. It's His Lordship's chef, that he has brought with him from foreign parts. His Lordship, your brother, the earl of Wickham. He is here, Miss Gabby."
    For a moment Gabby could do no more than stare at the butler in stupefaction.
    "Wickham? Here? Whatever are you talking about, Stivers?" Gabby demanded when she regained command of her tongue. Just then the doors to the presumed dining room were thrown open. What seemed like a positive crowd of dazzlingly dressed people spilled into the hall, laughing and chatting as they came.
    "We shall be late for the farce," complained one woman, a ripe blonde in a shockingly low-cut yellow gown who laughed up into the face of the man to whose arm she clung. He was tall, well built, black haired, clad in immaculate evening attire, and at the center of the approaching throng.
    "My lord," Stivers said with a deprecating cough.
    The black-haired man's gaze swung around inquiringly. Perceiving the newcomers, he, along with the entire party, came to a halt. Gabby was suddenly conscious of being the cynosure of all eyes. Aware of the poor appearance that she and her sisters must present in their travel-stained, outdated mourning gowns, and of the slight scent of sickness that, she feared, clung to them all, she was conscious of an inward shrinking. Then it occurred to her that she was being made to feel uncomfortable by strangers who were