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doors that hid unseen rooms—and a sense of dread that she was about to endure another excruciating interview: What Has Little Annabella Graham Learned at School This Week?
    Emma turned a polished brass handle and opened a heavy door revealing a surprisingly cheery room that boasted a pleasant fire burning beneath a marble mantel alive with cupids, swagged ivy, and carved bouquets. Bunches of late-blooming roses dotted the many tabletops.
    “Mr. Polycrates has arrived, ma’am. And Miss Graham.”
    Sara stood. Imperious, ice-blue eyes swept over Belle, registered the faintest whiff of approval, then moved to the man of the evening. “Well, well, well, Rosco. I knew you were a handsome devil, but you have certainly outdone yourself. I do so admire a man who handles a necktie to perfection.”
    “Right . . . Something I picked up at the police academy.” He cleared his throat and turned to Belle. “Sara, this is Annabella Graham.”
    Sara extended a regal hand and waited for Belle to approach. “So nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Graham . . . I am assuming it is Miss . . .” The great lady wore an evening dress almost as antiquated as her home. Jet beads glimmered on black chiffon while over her shoulders was a tippet of ancient brown mink.
    “Call me, Belle, please, Mrs. Briephs.”
    “If you wish, Miss Graham. I’m so pleased Rosco has been able to add a little . . . distraction . . . to his life.”
    Belle attempted a winning smile. “I try not to distract him too much.”
    “You are a very lovely young woman, and I’m sure you distract him to no end. Although you should add some weight to your frame. In my day, a man would hardly waste a glance on someone as waiflike.” She turned her attention to Rosco. “Well, dear prince, I believe our public awaits. Shall we be off?”
    She marched toward him, took his arm, and they paraded to the front door with Belle dutifully trailing behind. When she eventually caught Rosco’s glance, she rolled her eyes in such an exaggerated fashion, he almost choked to keep from laughing aloud.

3
    I n honor of the dinner dance, the Patriot Yacht Club’s security guards had been outfitted in replicas of uniforms worn by Revolutionary War marines. Matching the Colonial-era theme, all exterior electric lighting had been reconfigured into oil lanterns and bayberry candles that illuminated only a few figures at a time while leaving the rest in darkness: women in silk evening dresses hurrying in and out of the light, their escorts half-hidden in timeless black, and the gaitered, brass-buttoned marines who stood at attention as if awaiting General Washington and his entourage.
    Approaching the long brick building along a cobblestoned drive, Belle took it all in. If it weren’t for the fact that she’d been crammed into the backseat of an antiquated, slightly rusted, red Jeep, and that the two cars arriving immediately prior to Rosco’s were glossy black Lincoln Town Cars, she would have sworn she’d slipped into an earlier era.
    Belle had remained quiet for the ride from Sara’s house, opting for a speak-when-spoken-to attitude that only compounded the absurd, little-girl sensation of being stuck in the back of Rosco’s car. It was like acting a part in a movie, she decided; tonight she was no longer Belle Graham, once married, now divorced, a woman who had a successful job, owned a house, voted, paid taxes, and was romantically involved with one Rosco Polycrates. Tonight she’d been thrust backward through the decades to a time when young women were “girls” and older women their superiors—and despotic chaperons.
    Sara had seemed content to spend the trip complimenting Rosco on everything from how exhilarating it was to “travel in such a manly vehicle” to his “choice of haberdashery.” Belle practiced smiling to herself, although sometimes the expression turned grim; it wasn’t easy to compete with a woman of eighty-plus—especially on that