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mind, words that were reinforced by other comments she’d overheard about her parents as she grew to womanhood.
    At eighteen, she’d gone to live with her parents, and what a disaster that turned out to be. She’d learned that it wasn’t only their careers they were pursuing, especially in her father’s case. Women were attracted to him like bees to honey, while her mother found consolation elsewhere.
    She’d returned home to her aunt Daventry’s house much wiser than her eighteen years. She loved her parents, but she never wanted to be like them, or live like them. She wanted the settled life she’d never had as a child; she wanted stability and security, and she’d found those with John.
    Since this was the anniversary of John’s death, and she and her aunt would not be going out or receiving guests, she simply brushed her hair off her face and tied it with a fresh ribbon.
    She was looking forward to spending an evening quietly at home. Her social engagements were becoming something of an ordeal, largely because her friends were determined to see her married again. At almost every function she attended now, there would be an unattached male, usually a widower, who was invited only because he might be induced to offer for her hand in marriage. Her friends meant well, but it was humiliating. It made her feel like a piece of merchandise in a shop window. And there never were any buyers, which was fine by her. If she couldn’t have what she’d had with John, she didn’t want anything.
    When she came downstairs, it was to find a fresh pot of tea waiting for her. The servants were spoiling her today. They knew it was the anniversary of John’s death.
    Her maid had left the day’s post beside the pot of tea. There were two letters. She sat down and opened the one with her mother’s handwriting on it.
    Sir Vivian and Lady Moore were visiting friends in Waterford and were evidently enjoying themselves immensely. There followed a list of the names of their new friends, whom Jo’s mother described in rapturous terms. Jo could have quoted the last few lines of her mother’s letter by rote, she’d heard them so often. There were so many young, smart gentlemen going about, her mother wrote, eligible gentlemen who knew how to charm a woman, and if Jo would only put her mind to it, she could be married within the month.
    This put her in mind of Waldo Bowman, and she wondered what her mother would make of him. She’d probably try to add him to her list of conquests. Mama still thought she was the beauty she’d been thirty years ago.
    There was more to him than one would have known from Chloë’s description. His trademarks were supposed to be his whimsical humor and effortless charm, but he certainly hadn’t bothered to waste them on her.
    He’d invited her to make up a party to go to the theater, no doubt thinking he could worm Chloë’s name out of her. Was he hoping that his charm would work where his threats had failed? She wasn’t such a simpleton.
    The next letter was from Lydia Langston. Jo had never met Lady Langston, but she was familiar with the name. Her ladyship attended many of the events Chloë attended. They were both keen gardeners, and they had become good friends.
    Jo scanned the letter quickly, then read it again more slowly. The gist of it was that no one knew where Chloë was. Chloë was known to be unpredictable and she might have met up with friends and gone off with them. All the same, one would have thought she’d send word to her servants—and they were the ones who had suggested that her ladyship write to Jo. To set all their minds at rest, her ladyship wrote, if she knew where Chloë was, would she please reply by return post? And if she didn’t know, what should her ladyship do next? All things considered, maybe Jo could come up to town and sort this out?
    Jo shook her head. There was so much Lady Langston had left out. How long had Chloë been missing? Who had last seen her? What did