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for Helen’s constitution.”
    “I do not think surprise is a good thing for anyone in my family.”
    “But if he will not visit on his own…”
    “Promise me, Eugenie.” Lucia looked up into her friend’s eyes. “No more surprises.”
    “Oh, very well.” Eugenie folded her hands in her lap. “I promise I will not undertake any more surprises.”
    For some reason, the promise did not provide the sense of relief Lucia would have liked.

Chapter Seven
     
    Edmund felt the tension drain from his limbs as he climbed the familiar steps to 18 Hanover Square. His home. His mother would be napping, more likely than not, at this time of day. He would have to speak with no one other than Franklin, unless he so chose. After this morning’s ordeal, where family and staff alike stared at him in apprehensive silence, an afternoon of merely unpopulated silence would be most welcome.
    But it was not to be. He realized that as soon as he opened the door—and should have thought of it long before, so that he could have detoured to the club instead. Some clue would surely have given it away, had he only paid more attention. Footprints in the thin layer of dust on the marble steps, the hint of perfume in the air or merely the sensation that the door had been opened too many times that morning.
    They were here. The Samaritan’s Club. A weekly gathering of ladies from the neighborhood who met to drink tea, eat sweets and plot to save the world from the excesses of its own evil desires. After just one more cup of tea, of course.
    And they were all here, right now. For all he knew, they were at this moment planning to undertake his restoration as their next project. The sound of many women talking at once, generously peppered with laughter, streamed down the stairs from the drawing room. He expected the door of the room to fling wide open and the women to cascade down right behind their voices, all eager for a glimpse of the man who ruined the Adrington soirée.
    But the drawing room door remained very much closed.
    “Good morning, sir.” Franklin materialized to take Edmund’s cloak and hat. “I am sorry I did not see you approach.”
    “Not to worry, old man. You know I prefer to open the door for myself.”
    “Yes, sir.” The butler nodded with a frown. “But Lady Rutherford, sir, has expressed a distinctly different preference.”
    “On numerous occasions. Yes, I am well aware.” Edmund glanced up the stairs. “But I am sure she did not see the violation this time.”
    “No, sir, I believe not.”
    “I suppose you had better tell her of my arrival.” Edmund sighed, dreading the interview ahead.
    “I suppose so, sir.” Franklin echoed the sigh as much as his sense of propriety would allow. “Will you wait here, or shall I tell her you’ve removed to your study?”
    Edmund paused, at first tempted by the thought of taking the escape Franklin offered. Then he envisioned his mother descending the stairs in haste to see him while the “Samaritans” trailed behind her and proceeded en masse to invade his sanctum. “I’ll follow you up,” he decided.
    “Very good, sir.” Franklin disappeared for a moment before returning sans hat and cloak. His absence at such times was of such a brief duration that Edmund often wondered whether the butler simply dropped the garments on the floor in the next room. They always reappeared in exemplary condition when needed, however, so he saw no reason to worry the point excessively.
    Edmund followed Franklin up the stairs, several paces behind, of course, heartily wishing he could simply keep going up the next flight and disappear into a bedroom. His head had started to hurt again. He probably should rest, or he would never be able to think clearly. And he needed to think clearly because he still had not chosen a confidant.
    Franklin rasped on a door with his knuckles so softly it sounded as if a tiny lapdog was unsuccessfully scratching against the door to gain