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“I’m afraid she had a falling-out with her father and had to find her own way in the world.”

“She did—does—take great care with Lady Heloise,” Margaret said. Clara caught the slip and wanted to pounce on it but restrained herself. “The marquis does not like for her to go far. He worries about her.”

“I see. That must be difficult for a young lady.” Clara added one more pin to her hair, keeping her eye on Margaret in the looking glass. “He must be used to it, after welcoming Miss Yarwood in his house as well. I’ve not met her.”

“She had a fever and went to Brighton for her lungs.”

“I wonder if that’s where my cousin went as well. Does he have a house there?”

“I do not know, my lady.”

“Ah well, little matter.” It did not feel like a little matter. “Could you tell me which is Miss Taunton’s bedroom? I should like to leave her a gift I brought.”

“She took the governess’s old quarters up in the nursery.”

Not the rooms in the guest wing, as she’d been told. The ones that had felt wrong and strangely empty.

Interesting.

“She left you something, Miss,” Margaret added. She pulled a key from her basket.

Another blasted key.

“Thank you, Margaret, that’s very helpful.”

In theory.

*

Clara took a detour on the way to the drawing room. If her calculations were correct, as well as her perusal of old drawings of the Hall, the locked door in the secret passageway led somewhere in this direction. Past the conservatory, not quite as far as the ballroom.

A closed door, right where she had predicted it should be, if the corridor did not simply go on and on. Also a possibility.

This one held more weight. For one thing, her new key fit the lock. Turned with a satisfying click. Even the handle moved.

But the door still did not open.

Clara arrived at the drawing room in a white ball gown like every other white ball gown she had ever worn: simple and unremarkable. She could have been a debutante or a dowager for all of the personality it had.

But underneath, her stocking ribbons were the very prettiest red silk.

Always.

It was important to remind herself that Miss Vinegar was a camouflage, lest she turn into her truly. It was a definite danger. But Miss Vinegar would not wear red silk. The Nightingale would refuse to wear anything else. Somewhere in between, Clara made her stand.

Selene, naturally, wore a gown entirely of red silk. No wonder everyone whispered that she must be the Nightingale.

Clara glided through the ballroom, currently set up with gaming tables for those who wished to practice before Devil’s Night. Peacock feathers sprouted from the flower arrangement, some gilded and taller than her. The chandeliers glittered over card tables, welcoming players to vingt-et-un, whist, macao. Wagers were placed on the roll of a single die—extraordinarily high wagers, too many of which came down to unwed daughters to pay.

She could not help the purse of her lips. Lord Whitlow sneered back at her.

The room was loud with laughter and shouts and music, thick with the burning of beeswax candles and perfume. Not even remotely tempting. Honestly, Clara would have preferred a book in the library.

And she would cut off her own arm before admitting that to anyone here. Not that they did not already think it. Which was hardly the point.

She felt Bram’s eyes on her as she took a turn about the room, more interested in noting which doors had locks, which cabinet drawers, which decorative marble-topped tables. Sybil might have hidden anything anywhere.

By the time Clara reached the end of the long ballroom, Bram had made his way to her side. He did not gleam or glitter, and yet he drew her eye far more easily than a hundred gold feathers under a hundred crystal chandeliers. “You do not look impressed,” he remarked.