And now her younger sister was mere feet away, on the brink of self-induced ruin, and Callie had never even been kissed.

It was enough to drive a spinster to drink.

Of course, she’d done enough of that tonight.

It was enough to drive a spinster to action.

Reaching into her bodice, she produced the folded piece of paper she had placed there only minutes earlier. Fingering the rounded edges of the square, she considered her next move.

She could go to bed, drown herself in tears and sherry, and spend the rest of her life not only regretting her inaction but—worse—knowing those around her believed her passive.

Or, she could change.

She could complete the list.

Now. Tonight.

She smoothed back an errant lock of hair; noted her missing lace cap.

Tonight. She would begin with an item that was a challenge. An item that would set her squarely on this new, bold, un-Callie-like course.

Taking another deep breath, she pulled open the door to the study and stepped into the darkened foyer of Allendale House, no longer caring if she stumbled upon Mariana and Rivington. In fact, she barely registered that they were gone.

She hadn’t time for them, anyway, she thought as she hurried up the wide marble staircase to her bedchamber. She had to change her gown.

Lady Calpurnia was going out.

Three

Callie watched the hackney cab drive off down the darkened street, leaving her utterly stranded.

She gave a little sigh of dismay as the clatter of horses’ hooves faded into the distance, replaced by the pounding of her heart and the rushing of blood in her ears. She should have begun with the scotch. And she certainly should not have had so much sherry.

Had she remained abstemious, she would most definitely not be standing here, alone, in front of the home of one of London’s most notorious rakes, in the middle of the night. What had she been thinking?

Clearly, she hadn’t been thinking—at all.

For a fleeting moment, she considered turning back to the street and hailing the next hackney that passed, but fast on the heels of that thought came the realization that her reputation would be thoroughly destroyed should she be discovered.

“I shall have Benedick’s head for this,” she muttered to herself, pulling the hood of her dark cloak lower over her face. “Mariana’s as well.” Of course, it was neither Benedick nor Mariana who had forced her into a hack, risking her safety and good name. She’d done that all on her own.

With a deep breath, she accepted the truth…that she had landed herself squarely in the midst of this mess, that her reputation was mere minutes from being in tatters, and that her best chance of surviving this situation intact lay inside Ralston House. She winced at the thought.

Ralston House. Dear Lord. What had she done?

She had to go inside. She had no choice. Standing on the street for the rest of the night was not an option. Once indoors, she would beg the butler to ferry her from the house to a hack, and, if all went well, she could be in her bed within the hour. He would certainly feel obligated to protect her. She was a lady, after all. Even if her actions that evening were not precisely bearing that out.

And what if Ralston were to open the door?

Callie shook her head at the thought. First, marquesses did not go around opening their own doors. And secondly, the odds of this particular marquess being home at this particular hour were slim to none. He was likely off with a paramour somewhere. An image flashed through her mind, pulled from a decade-old memory of him locked in a heated embrace with a breathtakingly beautiful woman.

Yes. She had made a horrid mistake. She would just have to escape as quickly as possible.

She squared her shoulders and approached the imposing entrance of Ralston House. She had barely let the knocker fall when the large oak door swung open, revealing an aged servant who seemed not at all surprised to find a young woman standing outside his master’s home. Stepping aside, he allowed her to enter, closing the door behind her as she took in the warm, inviting entryway to the long-established London home of the Marquesses of Ralston.

Instinctively, she began to push the hood of her cloak back from her face only to realize that the events to follow would be easier if she were shielded from recognition. Resisting the impulse, she turned to the servant, and said, “Thank you, good sir.”

“Indeed, milady.” The butler offered a short, respectful bow and began to shuffle toward the wide staircase leading to the upper floors of the house. “If you will follow me?”

Follow you where? Callie recovered quickly from her surprise, “Oh, I do not mean to—” she paused, not sure of the end of the sentence.

He stopped at the foot of the staircase. “Certainly not, milady. It is no trouble. I shall simply provide you escort to your destination.”

“My—My destination?” Callie stopped abruptly, her question laced with confusion.

The butler cleared his throat. “Above stairs, milady.”

“Above stairs.” She was beginning to sound like a ninny even to herself.

“That is where his lordship is at the moment.” The butler gave her a curious look, as though questioning her mental faculties, before turning back to the staircase and beginning the climb to the second floor.

“His lordship.” Callie watched the servant mount the stairs as understanding dawned and her eyes went wide as saucers. Good lord. He thought her a lightskirt! The shocking realization was quickly followed by another—the butler thought her Ralston’s lightskirt. Which meant that Ralston was here. In the house.

“I’m not…” her words trailed off.