Matters did not improve in the dining hall. She was seated at the nether end of the table across from the young Easton siblings. Montgomery was at the other end, the guest of honor to Lady Lingham’s right. His blond hair flashed in the periphery of Annabelle’s vision whenever he attentively leaned closer to the countess.

Peter Humphrys lifted the metal cup next to his wineglass to his nose and inhaled. “Mint julep,” he announced, and happily smacked his lips. “Careful, miss. This cocktail contains a hearty dash of bourbon.”

She picked up her cup. It was cold to the touch and the contents smelled like peppermint.

At the far end of the table, Lady Lingham’s tinkling laugh said the countess was having a fabulous time. They looked good together, she and Montgomery. Toothy or not, she was the female to his male, equally austere, refined, inscrutable; they were the Adam and Eve of the aristocracy.

Annabelle’s hesitant nip of mint julep quickly turned into a hearty sip. Icy sweetness trickled down her throat, treacherous because she couldn’t taste even a trace of liqueur. Perfect.

“Do the flora of Wiltshire differ much from what you observe in Kent?” asked Peter Humphrys.

“I’m not sure. I find they are both equally snowed under at present, Mr. Humphrys.”

He gave a startled grunt. Eyebrows rose in their direction. The Easton girl smirked. Annabelle drained her mint julep cup and gestured to a footman for a refill.

The curate leaned closer as if to impart secrets. “There is a lovely copse next to the vicarage,” he said. “In spring, I often observe the great spotted woodpecker there, the Dendrocopos major.”

She stretched her lips into a smile.

“Do you like birds, Miss Archer?” He sounded hopeful.

“I adore them. Woodpeckers especially.”

If she were a normal woman, she’d throw her cap for the clergyman. Eligible bachelors—meaning kind, employed, unencumbered by a wife—were a rare commodity. But she had indulged in a summer of passion, and it had left her changed. In the words of Sappho, Eros shook my mind, like a mountain wind falling on oak trees. She had eaten the apple; she could not return to humility. Desire had ruined Peter Humphrys for her.

Elsewhere at the table, polite and meaningless conversation took an unusual turn.

“Of course they are trying to get women the vote,” Lord Marsden said. “They know only idiots vote for them. Mark me, should women get the vote, the Liberals will never leave power.”

His wife’s thin hand crept across the table toward his sleeve on a mission to placate. Marsden ignored it. “Idiots,” he repeated.

“Careful, Tuppy,” said Lady Lingham from her end of the table, “there are quite a few perfectly witty women present tonight.”

Tuppy, Lord Marsden, waved a plump hand. “You know how I mean it, Countess.”

The women at the table exchanged discreet glances, uncertain how Lord Marsden had meant it.

“Miss Archer here studies at Oxford,” Lady Lingham said. “Now, what do you make of that?”

Annabelle’s head turned to her sharply.

The countess was smiling. Not unfriendly, a little intrigued. For an aristo, everything could be a game.

Marsden squinted at Annabelle. “Is that so.”

The faint thud of her pulse started up in her ears. “Yes, my lord.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Montgomery put down his cutlery.

“And what is the use of such a tremendous overeducation?” Marsden probed.

All other conversations had petered out and the collective attention shifted onto her, hot and exposing like a spotlight. Heat crept up her neck.

“I believe a higher education will improve me for whatever I decide to do, my lord.”

An ambivalent murmur swept the length of the table. People who had to improve their lot evidently hadn’t been blessed with a good station in life.

“And do you aspire to get the vote?” pressed the earl.

The minty drink had congealed to a lump in her throat. Lucie would never forgive her if she alienated several men of influence at once. She’d have a hard time forgiving herself if she made a fool of herself in front of one particular man.

“Yes, I think women should be given the vote.”

Marsden triumphantly glared around the table.

“Why not give everyone who actually grasps politics the vote and exclude the rest, man or woman,” Lady Lingham suggested amicably.

Marsden scoffed. “But by her very nature, a female is unable to grasp politics, or any issue of the kind.”

“By her very nature?” Lady Lingham sounded notably less amicable.

“Oh, yes.” The earl turned back to Annabelle. “Have you read the article recently published by the Marchioness of Hampshire? On the matter of the female brain?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Lady Hampshire is formidable,” Lady Marsden said.

Everyone nodded.

“Now, miss, listen closely,” Marsden said. “Lady Hampshire advises against women taking up higher education, the vote, political roles. Science has shown that the female brain is not only smaller than a man’s, it is also wound up differently.” His hands made a rolling, winding motion. “So even if you, Miss Archer, read all the same books and heard all the same speeches as a man, your brain would never produce the same sound analysis. You enter the same input into your brain, but something gets lost in its twists and turns, so you get a different output, a diminished output.”

He looked at her expectantly.

“That sounds disconcerting,” she allowed.

“Well indeed,” he said impatiently, “so why not follow Lady Hampshire’s advice? Keep yourself content in your femininity instead of confused?”

She could hardly dismiss the judgment of the formidable Lady Hampshire in front of this audience, and Marsden knew it. His eyes held glints of smugness and victory.

It must have been that, and the hearty dash of bourbon, that made her say: “Because, my lord, if the marchioness believes that the female brain is incapable of forming a sound analysis on political issues, why should anyone trust her analysis on women in politics?”

Silence filled the dining room.

Then a coughing noise erupted from Peregrin, and he quickly raised his napkin to his mouth, his eyes watering with suppressed glee.

“Why, Miss Archer,” Lord Easton said slowly, “you should take up law. You would give my old solicitor Beadle a good run for his money.”

“Hear, hear,” Richmond said, “she’s much easier on the eye than Beadle, too.”

More than a few people chuckled, and Marsden turned red in the face. “The spread of rampant liberalism is no laughing matter,” he barked.

“Rampant liberalism was not your problem here, Marsden.”

The duke had said so little all evening, the sudden sound of his voice had the effect of a thunderbolt.

All heads swiveled toward his end of the table.

Montgomery was stone faced.

Marsden looked a little uncertain. “Then what would you call it, Duke?”

Montgomery picked up his glass. “It is called logic,” he said, and raised the glass toward Annabelle in a small but unmistaken salute.

Warmth flowed through her. The look in his eyes had briefly taken her breath away, a bright amalgam of anger and . . . admiration?

Everyone else was looking at her warily now. Everyone except Lady Lingham. Her expression was pensive.

“Now there’s a toast we can all agree on,” the countess said blithely and raised her glass. “To logic.”

* * *

When the dinner finished and the party was ushered back to the sitting room, Peter was stitched to her side, explaining things about birds in wrongly pronounced Latin, and she was almost grateful for it as it allowed her to appear in deep conversation rather than acknowledge Lord Marsden, who tried murdering her with dark stares. Neither Montgomery nor the countess was anywhere in sight.

She spotted a door to the terrace that was ajar, and the moment the sourish Richmond daughters approached the curate, she seized her chance and dove headlong into the dark.

The hum of inane chatter was immediately muffled.

Cold, clean air had never felt so good. Greedily she sucked deep breaths of it into her lungs.

And stilled.

Someone else was out here, a man, his face tilted up to the dark sky.

She recognized Peregrin’s lanky form against the torchlight before he turned.

“Miss Archer.” He politely stubbed out his cigarette.

“Lord Devereux.” She came to stand beside him and looked up at the stars. “Were you looking for something in particular up there?”

“The North Star. Did you know seamen have used it for orientation for thousands of years?”

“Yes, since the Phoenicians.”

He chuckled. “Have you by any chance missed that class at finishing school where they teach you to feign delightful ignorance in the presence of a man?”

“I’m afraid so.” She had never been near a finishing school.

“Marsden sure noticed,” Peregrin said. His gaze turned speculative. “I don’t think he’ll recover anytime soon from my brother’s very public dressing-down.”

She was eager to change the topic. “Are you looking forward to the fireworks?”