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her. "Its fake," she said.
    No one appeared to hear.
    Her vehemence startled even her. In the brief, ensuing silence, as her temper began to cool, she wondered what she had done. She opened her mouth to soften her condemnation, to qualify it, but someone beat her.
    "Never," exclaimed a gentleman who, disregarding all propriety, had fallen to his hands and knees for a closer look. "On the contrary, it has every mark of authenticity!"
    That was a bit much, she thought.
    "Such a rarity," another man cooed. "Why, Lord Sanburne has unearthed a miracle! Just look at—"
    "Enough of you," snapped the older gentleman to whom the stela had been presented. His watery blue eyes focused on Lydia. As he stepped forward, the crowd of people around them stepped back. "Have you some knowledge of this artifact, Miss Boyce?"
    "Naturally she does." This from Antonia, who came up in a cloud of perfume—Sophie's special blend from Paris; a sniff confirmed it—to slip her arm through Lydias. Lydia had told her time and again that debutantes did not wear such heavy scents, but Sophie would encourage her. "Indeed," Ana continued in merry tones, "how could she not? Why, she was reading cuneiforms while still on Papa's knee. And she spends every afternoon studying Arabic at the British Library!"
    The old man looked more than gratified by this exaggeration. "Of course. I am a great admirer of Mr. Boyce's work." He held out his hand to Anto-nia. "Forgive the informality. I am Moreland, Earl of Moreland."
    Antonia took his hand and sank into as best a curtsy as she could manage, given her trailing skirts and the onlookers not a foot away. "How fortunate that you are not the Earl of Lessland; I fear that would be most distressing to your well-wishers."
    The earl laughed, and Lydia forced a polite smile. She was distracted by a glimpse of the interloper, Sanburne. He was working his way toward them, and proximity revealed the full extent of his disarray. His cuffs were flapping open. A wine-colored stain covered his periwinkle waistcoat.
    The smile he sent her suggested imminent bloodshed.
    "I am sure you have never heard that one before," Ana was saying. A saucy little smile rode her lips.
    "True wit bears endless repetition," the earl said gal-landy. He turned to Lydia, who, jolted from premonition, made a curtsy. He gestured to the stone at their feet. "Truly, is it a forgery?"
    Oh, she was in it now. Mold your spine of steel. "Without a doubt," she said. She did not glance down. She felt it unwise to remove her eyes from Sanburne, who had now joined them in the inner circle.
    "Well?" Sanburne said. His eyes were horribly bloodshot.
    "Not well at all," she said. "Quite poor, in fact."
    "Explain yourself."
    She drew a breath. He really did have the most formidable glare. "I—"
    "You will have to pardon my son his manners," the earl interrupted. He cast a fierce look at the man, who arched a brow, as unrepentant as Lucifer.
    Digesting this unexpected news of their relationship, Lydia felt a sharper prickle of unease. The Durham family was notorious: the sister a murderess, stashed in some insane asylum in the country; and the son, she recalled now, a wild socialite who entertained the beau monde by outwitting his father in various public locales.
    Dear heavens. It seemed she had stepped into some nasty familial tangle. Her every word would only implicate her further. "Perhaps you should consult one of the other gentlemen." Her spine wasn't really made of steel, after all. That was a silly saying, made up by someone who had never felt what it meant to be broken. "This is not my area of specialty. And in a room with so many distinguished scholars—"
    "Precisely," said the earl's son.
    "Nonsense," said the earl. "As far as I reckon, you're the only one with the good sense to take a second look before bursting into this—this chorus of hallelujahs. Out with it, girl; whence your verdict?"
    Antonia laughed softly, squeezing her arm. "Oh, do tell them,