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serious. Miss Johnson has jilted me.’

      ‘She intends to marry someone else, someone far more congenial.’

      He screwed up the note. ‘We shall see about that! Her father has agreed to the match. He wants my name and status.’

      Sophie rolled her eyes. What did he expect after the way he had behaved, cavorting with all manner of loose women, being insufferably rude to Cynthia and, worst of all, boasting about it to members of his club? ‘I believe it is Miss Johnson’s wishes that are paramount here. It is her life, rather than her father’s or her mother’s.’

      She only hoped some day she’d meet a man who would make her want to forget her life and responsibility, but who would also be her friend. Why wasn’t she deserving of a Great Romance? All of her friends had and all she’d discovered was alternative uses for hatpins and frying pans!

      ‘You gambled and you have lost, Sir Vincent. Here is where I say goodbye.’

      ‘We shall see about that!’ He threw the crumpled note down on the ground.

      ‘You are too late. Miss Johnson has eloped.’

      ‘Scotland, it will be Scotland. Her father should never have come to Newcastle.’

      ‘You will look like a fool if you go after her. Do you wish to be taken for a fool, Sir Vincent?’

      Sir Vincent froze.

      Sophie breathed easier. Nothing would happen to her now, but she could buy Cynthia a few more precious minutes.

      ‘I’m no fool, Miss Ravel.’

      ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Sophie cleared her throat. ‘A notice will appear in The Times and a number of local papers in the morning, stating that your engagement is off. You will have to find another bride, Sir Vincent.’ Sophie started towards the door. ‘It is time I returned to the dance. I have a full dance card this evening.’

      ‘This is all your fault!’ He stepped in front of her, blocking her path. ‘You will have to pay, Miss Ravel. You have done me out of a fortune. Nobody does that to me!’

      ‘My fault? I’m merely the messenger.’ An uneasy feeling crept down Sophie’s spine. He still stood between her and the door to the ballroom. She needed to get away from this situation as quickly as possible before something untoward happened. Carefully she measured the distance to the outside door of the conservatory with her eyes. It was possible, but only as a last resort. She’d much prefer to walk back into the ballroom rather than going through the French doors. ‘And having delivered my message, I shall get back to the ball. I doubt we need ever acknowledge each other again.’

      ‘You are in it up to your pretty neck.’ Sir Vincent turned a bright puce colour and shook his fist in her face. ‘You will be sorry you ever crossed me, Miss Ravel. I will not rest until I’ve ruined your life.’

      Sophie tapped her foot. ‘Cease to threaten me this instant. You have no hold over me. Let me pass.’

      His hand shot out, capturing her arm. ‘I am not through with you.’

      ‘Unhand me, sir. You overstep the mark!’ Sophie struggled against his hold.

      ‘Can you afford a scandal, Miss Ravel, despite your wealth? You may wear your ice-cold hauteur like armour, but do you truly think that will save you?’ His vice-like hand tightened on her upper arm.

      ‘I am well aware of what society requires. My reputation is spotless. You cannot touch me.’ Sophie twisted her wrist first one way and then the next. She had been naïve in the extreme when she had consented to elope with Sebastian Cawburn several years ago. Luckily, her guardian Robert Montemorcy and the woman who became his wife had intervened and had the matter successfully suppressed. Every night she said an extra prayer of thanks that Henrietta Montemorcy had entered her life.

      ‘Yet you allowed yourself to be alone with a man in a conservatory. Tsk, tsk, Miss Ravel.’

      Thinking about Henri redoubled Sophie’s determination. She brought her arm sharply downwards, broke free and pulled the French doors to the garden open. ‘This is where we part.’

      As she stepped down, she heard the distinct sound of ripping lace. One more reason to loathe Sir Vincent—she had really loved her new gown, particularly the blonde lace. She didn’t stop to examine the extent of the tear, but picked up her skirts and scurried out into the garden. The cool evening air enveloped her and she moved away from the light and into the velvet darkness.

      Sophie pressed her hands to her eyes and tried to think. What next? She’d circle around the house and go back into the house through the terrace. Easy enough. With a bit of luck, no one would notice. She could make her way to the ladies’ withdrawing room, do the necessary repairs and then plead a headache and have a carriage called. Thankfully, her stepmother had been unwell tonight and so it would be all the explanation required.

      Her foot squelched in a muddy pool and cold seeped through into her foot. Another pair of dancing slippers ruined and these ones were her favourite blue-satin ones.

      Behind her, she heard footsteps. Sir Vincent called her name. He was closer to the house than she. He was going to head her off before the ballroom, Sophie realised, and a cold fist closed around her insides.

      She could imagine the scandal if she suddenly appeared dishevelled and escorted by Sir Vincent. She knew precisely what happened in these sorts of situations and Sir Vincent was not in any mood to be a gentleman. The whispers would reverberate through Newcastle society before morning—the proud Miss Ravel has slipped.

      It wouldn’t stop there—the rumours would spread throughout society within a fortnight. She faced the very real prospect of ruin. Despite her earlier brave words, could she be sure of her stepmother’s support? Being part of society meant everything to her stepmother. Unfortunately the Montemorcys were out of the country. She was truly on her own … this time.

      She turned sharply and headed out into the dark of the garden. Two could play a waiting game.

      ‘You can be a fool, Sophia Ravel,’ she muttered to herself, stepping into another puddle. Her intricate hairstyle of small looped braids combined with curls tumbled down about her shoulders. ‘Would Cynthia have done this for you? Or would she have found an excuse at the last moment? How could you have forgotten the pencil incident at school!’

      Sophie gritted her teeth. It was too late to worry about what-might-have-been.

      Behind her, she heard the sound of Sir Vincent’s heavy breathing. ‘I will find you. I know you are in the garden. I do so like games of hide and go seek, Miss Ravel.’

      In the gloom of a May evening in Newcastle, she could see his black outline. She was going to lose, and lose badly.

      She pivoted and ran blindly back towards the house and bumped straight into a well-muscled chest.

      ‘Where are you going?’ a deep rich baritone said as strong arms put her away from the unyielding chest. ‘Are you running away from the ball? Has midnight struck already?’

      Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. All might not be lost. Silently she offered up a prayer that this man would be a friend rather than a foe.

      ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘You must help me. For the love of God, you must save me or else I shall be ruined.’

      Richard Crawford, Viscount Bingfield, regarded the dishevelled blonde woman in his arms. The last thing he wanted or needed was to save some Cinderella-in-distress. But what choice did he have? He could hardly turn his back on her, not after he’d heard her ragged plea.

      ‘If it is in my power, I will help.’

      Her trembling stopped. ‘Do you mean that?’

      ‘I do. Are you some escaping Cinderella, fearful of missing her fairy godmother’s deadline?’

      ‘Hardly that.’ Her hand tried to pin one of her braids up, but only succeeded in

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