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exclaiming over the farce they had all just witnessed. The women and girls set about being dramatically appalled while the gentlemen were crafting bons mots they could repeat at their clubs.
    Mr. Montcalm squeezed Caroline’s shoulder. It was a simple, but intimate gesture. She glanced up to be greeted by a mischievous smile. Despite how close they stood, the garden shadows were still too thick here for her to tell what color his eyes were. This disappointed her strangely. Mr. Montcalm jerked his head toward the topiary-lined path behind them. Caroline nodded and he bowed, and held out his arm for her to take.
    While the slowly dissolving crowd laughed with each other about the recent unexpected and bawdy scene, Philip Montcalm laid his hand over hers, and Caroline strolled deeper into the garden with the Lord of the Rakes strolling easily beside her.

Six

    M rs. Gladwell’s gardens were designed on the same scale as her house—expensive, expansive, and exquisitely ostentatious. Beds of flowers and ferns surrounded grand old trees to simulate nature, had nature suddenly decided to become both exacting and tidy. This naturalizing tendency, however, was offset by the razor-straight rows of hedges shaped into cubes and cones.
    In addition to its other ornaments, Mrs. Gladwell’s garden was decked out with marble and wrought-iron benches said to have been brought directly from the imperial palace of Versailles—after the peace, of course. One of the wrought-iron variety decorated an arching grove of poplar trees at the path’s edge. It was here that Mr. Montcalm led them.
    Caroline’s head was still spinning from the boisterous scene she had just participated in. What had she been thinking to step between strangers like that? It was entirely against accepted manners to interfere with a private quarrel, no matter how publicly undertaken. She should have stood back and pretended to be shocked with the rest of the ladies. What must Mr. Montcalm think of her?
    Whatever he was thinking, Mr. Montcalm’s expression remained calm and pleasant as he extended his arm so that Caroline could be seated on the bench. She opened her mouth to speak, to explain, although she wasn’t entirely sure where to start. But her escort held up his hand. Instead of sitting beside her, he ducked around behind the trees, only to emerge a moment later.
    “We are in the clear,” he said as he settled himself down and draped one long arm across the back of their bench. “But in the light of recent circumstances, it’s best to be sure, don’t you agree?”
    “Indeed.” Caroline strove to match his insouciant tone. “What I can’t understand is that if a man is not worth five hundred a year, why would he be worth such a scene?”
    “Now, if it was five thousand a year . . .” Mr. Montcalm waved his hand casually.
    “Or a title?” suggested Caroline.
    “Especially a title,” he agreed.
    Caroline blinked once at Mr. Montcalm’s solemn expression. Then she began to laugh. It was beyond ridiculous. She had thought she was being so clever about how to begin her first intrigue. Even as she shivered on the terrace waiting for him to receive her note and token, she’d felt certain she could manage the whole encounter. It would be like one of the plays she and Fiona used to act out in her attic, or one of the pretend calls she’d played at with Mother. But all her plans had been wiped away by two outraged and dishonest lovers from behind a rosebush. What else was there to do except laugh?
    To Caroline’s relief, Mr. Montcalm joined in. He had a good laugh, and gave himself over to it willingly. His eyes crinkled in a charming fashion, and his smile . . . his smile was even more fascinating up close. Caroline fumbled at her sleeve for the little lace handkerchief she’d tucked there to blot the tears streaming down her cheeks.
    Mr. Montcalm caught up her hand and, to her surprise, laid a large, practical handkerchief against her palm. The