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It went against the grain, but Cassie allowed Mr. Duncan to help her up the hill. The breeze grew stronger, and the clouds came thicker as they climbed.

By the time Sir Adrian and Henry reached the place where the wall met the steep slope, Charlie had returned with the two coachmen. The duchess’s man lay flat in the grass and stretched his arms down the slope, while the other men grasped his ankles. Sir Adrian helped Henry turn to face the hill and stand, and finally to reach up until the coachman grabbed the boy’s hands. The men at the top began to pull the coachman back from the edge, and Henry got his feet under him against the hill. In the blink of an eye, the boy was over the top and safely in his father’s arms, sobbing his relief.

As the first raindrops fell, Sir Adrian stood outlined against sky and cloud, tall and straight, like some performer in Astley’s circus. Cassie could not look away. He might be Sir Adrian Cole to the world, but in her mind, he must be Raven. Mr. Kydd’s account of their boyhood adventures which she had taken as fantasy must be true. Raven moved swiftly along the top of the wall and where it fell away to the lower level, he crouched and dropped lightly down into the broken arch. He lowered himself over the edge and worked his way down the face of the wall. Only when he reached the ground and took up his coat and boots, could she turn away.

The party at the top of the hill moved quickly to their picnic spot under the oaks, the two coachmen in advance. As they went, Mr. Montford scolded, and the boys, scratched and sun burned, bore their father’s anger. Charlie stopped once to cast up what appeared to be the remains of strawberry tart. The picnic area was empty when they reached it except for Mrs. Montford’s serving girl, who explained that the carriages awaited them. The two coachmen hurried on down the hill.

Cassie reluctantly accepted Mr. Duncan’s arm. At least he was still cross with her, so no conversation was required. For once she had no reason to regret her faltering walk, but Raven did not catch up before they reached her grandmama’s carriage. She had no chance to tell him of her meeting with Jay Kydd. In the rain, no further delay was possible. The carriage top had been put up, and Mr. Duncan handed Cassie in beside his mother. The ladies exclaimed at once about the stain on her gown from her bloodied knee.

Chapter Thirteen

On entering Lady Huntingdon’s ball, Raven was obliged to stop and exchange pleasantries with a number of guests, including his friend Ned Farrington. It was the first moment since his arrival in London that he’d stood still. Even in his dreams he’d been running and then crawling, scrambling down a narrow, dark passage. He hadn’t had that dream in years, and he could only suppose that it returned because he’d climbed that Roman wall. At the time the incident brought back memories of Wenlocke and the others, but since Raven’s return to the city, he’d remembered the earlier time on his own before the gang had taken him in.

Or maybe it was London itself that had brought on the dream. He’d grown used to the quiet of the country and the freshness of its air. London didn’t sleep. By day, the whole vast city labored. By night, the rich partied under brilliant lights, while others plied unsavory trades in the dark, and the weary slept uneasily.

Lady Huntingdon’s ballroom was warm and brilliant with light. The babble of talk and music was loud. The competing scents of perfume and persons made a mix that even the pots of white blooms around the perimeter of the room could not disguise with their powerful fragrance. Judging from the crowd, Lady Huntingdon could call her ball a crush. He and Ned stepped away from the reception line to stand just above the ballroom.

“Did you find a place in the country to suit you?” Ned asked.

“Verwood, do you know it?” Raven let his gaze scan the room. It was easily eighty feet in length. A dance was in progress, and the center of the room looked like a swirling sea of pale silks and black evening wear with feathers bobbing on the surface. He could not see Amabel.

“Verwood’s not the duke’s seat, is it? I thought he had a place in Kent.”

“He does. The hall is a small property he deeded to his mother, the dowager, when he succeeded to the title.”

“Right.” Ned nodded. “I know the name. There’s some old scandal attached to it.”

“Anything I should know?”

“I doubt it. Just a bit of old tittle tattle. Where is the lovely Amabel?”

“I’m looking.” Amabel would be dancing, not languishing about waiting for him. If he did not spot her at once, it was not that he’d forgotten her, only that one bobbing, feathered female head looked very much like another.

“I leave you to it, then.” Ned clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m off for the card room.”

The set ended, and as the floor cleared, Raven spotted Amabel. She wore the white silk of a debutante, her gown low across her shoulders and fitted to her waist. Peach silk ribbons threaded through the lace of her bodice gave a glow to her complexion. Her golden curls were caught up in more peach ribbons on either side of her face. Silk dancing slippers peeped from beneath her ankle-length skirts. She came straight to him, and he released a breath he’d been holding. He had been right after all to return to London. She was everything he wanted, fair and lively, with dancing blue eyes in a heart-shaped face, and a quick, lightness of motion that brought her to his side in a flash.

Across the room, the companions she’d left behind simply gaped after her.

“Where have you been?” she tapped his arm with her fan. “I thought you were coming to the Drummond party.”

“I meant to be there,” he said. “There was a fire…” It had been another test of the new Cole engines. This time the fire had spread from a cloth warehouse to a street of crowded lodgings.

“A fire? Oh well, I suppose that will do for an excuse.” She linked her arm in his, and they began to walk. “It has been so dull here without you.” Her mouth contracted into a little moue.

“I doubt that you’ve been dull. Not you. You never could be dull.”

“But aren’t you afraid to be away from me?”

“Should I be?” He shook off a fleeting recollection of gray eyes under dark brows in another face.

“I have had offers, you know.” She peeped up at him.

“Have you?” He looked down into her perfect face with its smooth cheeks and smoky lashes under the elaborate coiffure, which she could never manage on her own.

She tapped his arm with her fan again. “You knew I would. How could I not? It is only what is expected in a girl’s first Season. It’s a feather in a girl’s cap to bag a viscount or an earl. But no one like you.”

“Are you telling me there’s a queue?”