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‘I’m a distant cousin?’ she suggested dubiously, realising that he meant her no harm and was merely finding her an interesting diversion.

‘I’ve met all of them too,’ he laughed.

‘Then, obviously, I’m a ghost from the past and it’s time for me to vanish.’ Turning as she spoke, Sara moved purposefully away, assuming that the man would return to the party with an amusing antedote with which to entertain the other guests.

This, however, was not the case. ‘I’ve never conversed with a ghost before,’ he mused, falling into step beside her. ‘Let me introduce myself. I’m Marc Fallon.’

A sudden wariness came over her as she again paused to face the man fully. ‘You’re the one throwing the party.'

'No.’ He held up a hand in protest. ‘My sister, Monica, is throwing the party. I am simply a tolerant bystander.’

‘More intolerant than tolerant, I would say,’ Sara commented, catching the hint of disfavour in his tone. ‘Don’t you like dressing up?’

‘I don’t mind the dressing up part and I do have a very tolerant nature. However, my sister has pushed me to the limit. For the past two months she’s made everyone’s life a misery while she’s made her preparations for this ball and I’m dying to throw a wench into the proceedings.’

‘You mean a wrench,’ Sara corrected.

‘No—a wench,’ he smiled mischievously.

‘That’s rather a dangerous move, don’t you think?’ she questioned, catching on to what he was hinting at and uncertain as to how to proceed.

'I prefer to think of it as adventurous, rather in keeping with the spirit of our costumes. Consider it an attempt at reminiscence: an effort to recapture the lost romance of the times. You can be the mysterious Southern belle who appears at the ball and afterwards everyone discovers that no one knew who you were.’

‘But you don’t know anything about me,’ she cautioned. The man seemed sincere, still she was not certain she should trust him.^

‘You aren’t a jewel thief?’ he demanded, raising his hand to his heart in mock horror. .

‘No,’ she smiled indulgently.

‘Then I assume you’re a reporter from one of those yellow tabloids they sell in the grocery stores and that you’re carrying a hidden camera in a cigarette lighter.’ Common sense told Sara to deny the accusation and continue on her way. But she had made Steve a promise, and Marc Fallon appeared to be willing to unknowingly help her achieve her goal. ‘Aren’t you worried about becoming a social outcast once your association with me is discovered?’ she questioned.

I'm a Fallon,’ he reminded her, the amused gleam again sparking in his eyes. ‘I may be referred to as a black sheep or incorrigible, but never an outcast. Besides, I’m also a cad. Once I have you inside, I plan to desert you to the wolves and see how you fare.’

Any reservations, Sara might have had about causing the man any trouble vanished. ‘In that case, I accept.’

A triumphant smile lit his face. ‘Then I insist we enter in style.’ Taking her arm, he turned her around and began walking her in the direction from which they had just come. Continuing past his home, they descended the Sea Wall and crossed over to Battery Park. Leading her around the edge of this small quiet island of greenery, he did not stop until they were out of sight of the house. ‘You wait here,’ he directed, positioning her near one of the cannons decorating the landscape. ‘And don't talk to strangers!’

Sara could hear him laughing to himself as he marched out into the street and hailed one of the empty carriages. Again it occurred to her that it would be prudent to escape now before she was in so deep she could not get out. But an indefinably vague inner sense held her there. ‘I must be more affected by Steve’s power of suggestion than I thought,’ she muttered.

Money changed hands between Marc and the driver. Then, re-claiming her, he led her to the open-air conveyance. Once she was seated, he chose the scat next to her and motioned the driver to urge his horse into action. ‘I seem to have been doing most of the talking,’ he said, as they began their slow progress around the block. ‘As a consequence,’ I don’t believe you’ve mentioned your name.’

‘It’s Sara,’ she smiled.

‘Sara ... ?’ he prompted.

She hesitated, recalling Steve’s terse instructions. Placing a silencing finger on her lips, Marc shook his head. ‘Rather than have a lie between us, I shall call you Cindy—that’s short for Cinderella. It’s only fitting and proper. And I shall be your Fairy Godfather. I’ve provided you with a horse and carriage and am seeing that you get to the ball. You may remain as late as you like, but I’ll warn you to stay away from my sister. There! Now I don’t have to think of myself as a cad. Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother didn’t stay to protect her. Therefore it’s only fitting that I don’t protect you.’

‘Perhaps I’ll find a Prince Charming to protect me,’ she bantered, nervousness again causing her palms to sweat.

‘And perhaps I’ve miscast myself,’ he mused, giving her an appraising glance. Then with a resigned sigh he added, ‘If only I wasn’t so fearful of Monica’s wrath.’

His continued reference to his sister’s temper was making Sara decidedly edgy. Again she was tempted to escape, but before she could tell the coachman to stop and let her out it was too late, they had come to a gentle halt outside the wrought iron gates.

As Marc descended from the carriage and paused to help her alight, the footmen’s faces took on a startled expression, but neither spoke. The butler, who obviously had more experience with his young employer’s eccentricities, allowed his expression to waver only momentarily before he said, ‘Good evening, Mr Marc.’

‘Nice to see you again so soon, Blackwell,’ Marc frowned, his demeanour that of a slightly drunk Lord of the Manor. ‘This is Cindy, a wandering ghost, whom you will not mention to my sister for fear of being haunted the rest of your days.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man’s manner, while remaining stiffly polite, held a touch of indulgent disapproval, and Sara flushed. She guessed she would be one of the major topics of discussion in the servants’ quarters after the ball and all that was said would not necessarily be kind.

And Blackwell was only the beginning. The moment they were through the door and into the entrance hall, they were accosted by an elderly woman in a grey lace creation designed to accent an emerald and diamond necklace glittering around her neck. Recalling Marc’s query as to whether she was a jewel thief, Sara realised that the man was willing to risk a great deal to satisfy his own whims.

‘My goodness, Marc, who is this lovely young lady?’ the woman questioned, her eyes travelling over Sara searchingly as she attempted to fit the newcomer into one of the families of this tight little society.

‘This is Cindy, Mrs Leison.’ To Sara’s relief, Marc maintained a straight face and a polite air. ‘She’s a distant cousin.’

‘Distant cousin?’ the woman coaxed, determined to gather more information.

‘Yes, all the way from Montana,’ he quipped, then added, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must find the bar. I haven’t had a drink for nearly an hour.’

‘That young man imbibes far too much,’ Mrs Leison remarked, watching his departing back.

‘Yes,’ Sara agreed, then before the woman could resume her probing added, ‘If you’ll excuse me too, I want to powder my nose.’ Forsaking the downstairs sitting room and dining room where a large buffet had been laid out, she moved towards the stairs, hoping that the woman would not follow. For a moment Mrs Leison looked indecisive, then as a new group of guests arrived, returned to her position near the door to continue her private inventory of arrivals.

On the second floor, the room fronting on the harbour ran the entire width of the house and with the furniture removed, provided an excellent area for dancing. A pianist and two violinists provided the music as the women, in their flowing gowns, swayed gracefully in the discreet embraces of their white gloved partners. Watching them, Sara sensed an air of romance so lacking in the clubs of today where couples wrapped themselves so tightly in •each other’s arms that it gave the impression of necking rather than dancing.

She had never met Brad Garwood, but Steve had shown her a photograph of the man. His face, while not actually handsome, had been decidedly interesting, and she wondered if his eyes were really as green as they had appeared in the picture.

They were! She caught a flash of emerald as he moved across the dance floor with a slender black-haired beauty in his arms. Edging into one of the darker corners of the softly lit room, she watched the couple. The woman was smiling up at him, flirting playfully, while his expression indicated that he was enjoying the attention.

‘Monica appears to be willing to-go to any lengths to retain Cyprus Point,’ a middle-aged woman dressed in a pale pink gown remarked pointedly to her female companion. They were standing only a foot or so away from where Sara was attempting to blend into the drapery, making it impossible for her not to eavesdrop.

‘I wouldn’t call marrying Brad Garwood “going to any lengths”,’ the companion returned with an indulgent smile. ‘If I were twenty years younger, it’s a sacrifice I would be willing to make.’

‘But he’s a Yankee,’ the woman in pink protested behind her fan, the word ‘Yankee’ coming out with an air of profanity.

‘And the war ended over a hundred years ago,’ her companion countered.

‘There are some things that time simply cannot erase,’ came the haughty reply. 'Hanna Fallon would turn over in her grave if she knew her granddaughter was allowing herself to be courted by a Yankee.’

‘I will admit it’s a good thing she’s not alive to witness them together, nor to see the day when a Yankee will own Cyprus Point,’ the second woman conceded.

‘Provided he survives to sign the papers.’ There was an ominous tone in the woman’s voice which caused Sara to shiver and redirect her full attention to the brow n-haired man who was now leading his partner to the doorway.

The music had stopped and the musicians were laying aside their instruments to indicate that they intended to take a break. Before any attention could be directed towards her by the onlookers who had been watching the dancers or by any dancers joining friends along the perimeter of the dance floor, Sara slipped out of her corner and made her way towards the door. Following Brad Garwood and Monica Fallon at a discreet distance, she crossed the wide hallway and entered a second large room arranged as a sitting room for those who needed a respite from the dancing but did not want to go downstairs.

The couple had joined a small group of people and it looked as if Monica was introducing Brad Garwood to the others, giving the impression that he was not well known among the guests. Except by reputation, Sara amended mentally, knowing that, like the ladies she had overheard, the members of this close society not only knew everyone else’s business but considered it their duty to do so and to have opinions regarding the propriety of one another’s behaviour.

Coming to a halt a few feet away, she found herself
intrigued by the man’s profile. There was a shrewdness about the features which gave the impression that he was used to being in command of any given situation and would be a dangerous man to cross. Perhaps it was the sharpness of definition in the bone structure, she mused, forgetting to be cautious and staring at him forthrightly. Unexpectedly a pair of sea-green eyes fell on her, forcing her to turn quickly away and bringing a self-conscious flush to her cheeks. She wasn’t supposed to attract his attention.

Smiling at an elderly gentleman as if he were an old acquaintance, she accepted a drink from the tray of a passing waiter and edged her way towards the fireplace. Catching bits and pieces of conversation, it suddenly dawned on her just how well these people knew one another. Sensing danger if she remained in this cloistered environment, she changed direction and moved back towards the door.

‘Careful, Cindy,’ Marc whispered, appearing suddenly as if from nowhere and startling her. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t stay too long in the same room with my sister.’ Schooling her face into a smile as if he had just made a clever quip, Sara responded in a hushed hiss, ‘I was just on my way out.’

Saluting her with his drink, he passed on by to be greeted by a mother and daughter who were obviously interested in making him a part of their family group.

Brad, meanwhile, had ordered Bourbon on the rocks which was being delivered to him by one of the servants, while Monica was being summoned by a group of women on the far side of the room. Leaving his side, she went to speak to her friends. Brad remained where he was talking earnestly to a man near his own age.

As Sara glanced towards him a final time it was to discover him watching her over his companion’s shoulder. A nervous twinge threatened the carefully controlled indifference of her expression and she quickly completed her exit.

The piazza was her next destination. Each of the two rooms in use had several windows opening on to this long, roofed porch and she decided that the safest place for her was outside in the dark looking in. The other couples who had wandered out to enjoy the soft Southern night were so enthralled with one another that they paid her no heed and she was able to blend in with the shadows undisturbed.

When she was again able to observe Brad Garwood, Monica had rejoined him and was leading him back to the dance floor. Curiously, as if he instinctively knew he was being watched, he glanced towards Sara’s newest observation post forcing her to duck back quickly.

Crossing over to one of the windows opening onto the ballroom, she saw him dancing first with Monica and then with several other ladies as the dark-haired socialite played the proper hostess and danced with her other male guests. There was a virility about the man that struck her almost like a physical force. His skin was tanned a healthy copper. From Steve she knew that although he was a talented architect, he spent as much time on his construction sites as he did at his drawing board. He was a big man, as tall as Steve and very near Steve’s age, she guessed. His broad shoulders were evidence that he did not merely watch his labourers work but joined them in their efforts.