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       ELIZABETH BAILEY

      grew up in Malawi, returning to England to plunge into the theater. After many happy years, she finally turned from “dabbling” to serious writing. She finds it more satisfying, for she is in control of everything: scripts, design, direction and the portrayal of every character. She lives in Surrey.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

       Chapter One

       T he sensation came of stark disbelief. But Lord Delagarde was only aware of blankness invading his mind. To steady himself, he carefully gripped the mantel with neatly manicured fingers. Resting his other hand on his hip, he examined the offending apparition seated on the gilded chair at the other side of the fireplace, so boldly confronting him in his own front parlour.

      She did not look like the daughter of an Earl. The green pelisse and a glimpse of some dark stuff gown beneath were frankly dowdy, and no female of distinction would be seen dead in such a bonnet. Poke-fronted and unadorned, its bilious mustard hue framed an unremarkable face, out of which a pair of grey eyes regarded him with an unblinking gaze that was, in his present delicate state, singularly unnerving.

      What she had said seemed so incomprehensible that he wondered if perhaps his ears had deceived him. ‘I don’t think I quite understood you. Once again, if you please.’

      ‘Certainly.’ Her voice was clear and light, and free from any trace of consciousness. ‘I require you to arrange my debut.’

      ‘You require me…to arrange your debut,’ he said slowly, aware that the words must make sense, if only he could shake off this feeling of unreality. ‘Yes, I thought that was it.’

      ‘It was,’ she agreed, adding in a matter-of-fact way, ‘So that I may be settled in life.’

      ‘Settled…’ He put a hand to his head, conscious of a slight ache. There was, he supposed vaguely, a faint hope that the entire scene was a figment of his imagination. Perhaps he had not really been roused from his bed at a hideously early hour, been obliged to scramble into his clothes and come downstairs—unfortified by anything more substantial than a few sips of hot chocolate—to be faced with an unorthodox visit from a female of unknown origin, who threw at him this preposterous demand. She required—required!—him to arrange her debut.

      Yes, he must be dreaming. Or else last night’s imbibing had unhinged his brain, subjecting him to this extraordinary hallucination. It spoke again, rousing Delagarde from his abstraction.

      ‘You are not dreaming,’ it said.

      Delagarde had not been aware of speaking aloud. ‘I must be,’ he protested, ‘or else I have run mad.’

      The hallucination looked him over with a wide-eyed innocence belied by its next words. ‘It is more likely that you are suffering from a morning head. Be assured that my appearance here has nothing to do with the liquor in which you overindulged last night.’

      Delagarde blinked, and regarded her with rising indignation. ‘Are you insinuating that I was inebriated?’

      ‘Weren’t you?’

      ‘No, I was n—’ He broke off, resolutely shutting his mouth. Why was he responding to such a question? He glared at the girl. ‘Even if I was, it is no possible concern of yours.’

      ‘No,’ she agreed, taking the wind out of his sails.

      ‘Then what possessed you to mention it?’ he demanded belligerently.

      ‘To help you.’

      ‘Help me?’ Blank again.

      ‘To show you that you are neither mad, nor dreaming,’ she explained.

      This time Delagarde put both hands to his swimming head. ‘We seem to be going round in circles,’ he complained.

      ‘There is nothing complicated about the matter, as you will realise when you are more yourself.’

      Which, Delagarde reflected, might not be for some little time. He began to wish he had not allowed his valet’s disapproving comments to pique his interest. The young female, Liss had reported in fastidious tones, had announced herself to be one Lady Mary Hope, and had declared that she would not leave the premises until she had seen Lord Delagarde.

      ‘Why the devil did Lowick let this female enter the house in the first place?’ Delagarde had demanded, bleary-eyed.

      It appeared that it was the porter, new to the Viscount’s service, who had taken this fatal step. To his lordship’s irritable inquiry as to why the butler had not then shown her the door, the valet had replied haughtily, ‘The young female having been allowed in, my lord, and taking up a peculiarly intransigent attitude, expressing herself in such terms as no real lady—’ He had caught himself up, and coughed delicately. ‘Suffice it, my lord, that even Mr Lowick did not feel he could force her to leave without laying violent hands upon her. Which, my lord, he was loath to do, in the remote contingency that her claim of identity might be proven.’

      Which it was not, Delagarde remembered suddenly. He frowned at the girl. ‘How can I be certain that you are indeed Lady Mary Hope?’

      ‘Who else should I be?’ she countered.

      ‘How the devil should I know?’ retorted Delagarde, pardonably annoyed. ‘You might be anyone. An adventuress…a schemer, imposter—I have no idea.’

      ‘Humdudgeon!’

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