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evening.”
    Rathbone watched a footman open the door of the library, his expression making it clear he was prepared for virtually any sight which might await.
    But as it happened, there was nothing at all to be seen immediately. The library was in utter darkness. Even the fire on the hearth had been extinguished. Victoria stepped cautiously inside, trying in vain to peer through the deep gloom. From the depths of the room she heard the sound of a handle being cranked.
    “Aunt Cleo?”
    The response was a brilliant arc of dazzling whitelight. It blazed forth from the center of the darkness, casting the group of people gathered into a small circle inside the room into stark relief for one flaring instant. The small crowd gasped in amazement.
    A second later the giant spark vanished and a resounding cheer went up.
    Victoria smiled toward the open door where Rathbone and the footman stood. “Nothing to worry about tonight,” she assured them. “The members of the society are merely playing with Lord Potbury’s new electricity machine.”
    “Vastly reassuring, Miss Huntington.” Rathbone answered dryly.
    “Oh, Vicky, dear, you’re home,” a voice sang out of the gloom. “Did you enjoy yourself at the Athertons’ rout? Do come in. We’re right in the middle of the most fascinating series of demonstrations.”
    “So it would seem. I regret I missed some of them. You know how much I enjoy electricity experiments.”
    “Yes, I know, dear.” The shaft of light from the open door revealed Victoria’s aunt Cleo as she came forward to greet her niece. Lady Nettleship was almost as tall as Victoria. She was in her early fifties and her tawny hair was elegantly streaked with silver. She had lively eyes and the same vivid, animated quality in her features which had historically characterized the women in Victoria’s family.
    That quality lent an impression of beauty, even to a woman of Aunt Cleo’s years, where an objective eye could discover little true perfection. Cleo was dressed in the height of fashion, as always. Her gown of ripe peach was styled to reveal her still-slender figure.
    “Rathbone, do close the door,” Lady Nettleship said briskly. “The effect of the machine is far more impressive in darkness.”
    “With pleasure, madam.” Rathbone nodded to the footman, who shut the door in obvious relief, and the library was once more plunged into thick darkness.
    “Come in, come in,” Cleo said, taking her niece’s arm and guiding her through the gloom to where thesmall group still clustered around the electricity machine. “You know everyone, here, do you not?”
    “I believe so,” Victoria said, relying on her memory of the brief glimpse of faces she’d had a moment earlier. A murmur of greetings rumbled from the shadows. Visitors to Lady Nettleship’s house were accustomed to such inconveniences as being introduced in the middle of a Stygian darkness.
    “’Evening, Miss Huntington.”
    “Your servant, Miss Huntington. Looking lovely tonight. Quite lovely.”
    “Pleasure, Miss Huntington. You’re just in time for the next experiment.”
    Victoria recognized these three masculine voices at once. Lords Potbury, Grimshaw, and Tottingham comprised her aunt’s faithful circle of admirers. They varied in age from fifty in Lord Potbury’s case to Lord Tottingham’s nearly seventy years. Grimshaw, Victoria knew, was somewhere in his early sixties.
    The three had danced attendance on her aunt for longer than Victoria could remember. She did not know if they had initially been as interested in scientific explorations as their lady was, but over the years they had certainly developed a similar passion for experimentation and collection.
    “Please, do carry on with your demonstrations,” Victoria urged. “I can only stay for one or two and then I must be off to bed. Lady Atherton’s rout was really quite exhausting.”
    “Of course, of course,” Cleo said, patting her arm. “Potbury, why don’t you