No one would sit by Zoltan Lovell at supper. He'd taken place of honor at the Cawley's table, under the taxidermied head of their ancestor Louis the Incompetent.

The other twenty-one seats filled one by one until only the seat beside Zoltan was open.

At that moment, a sharp knock came from the dumbwaiter door in the wall. Bartlett, the valet, approached cautiously. The dumbwaiter was a convenient device for transporting dishes to and from the kitchen below. Generally speaking, roast quail did not knock.

When Bartlett opened the dumbwaiter, Eleanor Cawley peered out. "Thank goodness! I thought I'd be stuck in there until it was time for pudding."

She stuck out her hand. Bartlett, looking rather put out, helped her squeeze out of a space the size of a steamer trunk.

The guests carefully kept their eyes on the handsome centerpiece of their host, Roger Cawley, sculpted naked from liver-and-gooseberry pate.

Polite society no longer recognized Eleanor, even if she was one of the fabulously wealthy Cawleys.

She WISHED she didn't recognize them. But the smell of the city's Seven Smart Families was all too familiar.

Jasper Sterling, for instance, had bet on illegal dogfighting (dust, blood, and mutts). Francis Aspen was canoodling with Mulberry's wife again (lilac face powder). And Cassandra Dale was unwed and pregnant (oh so many hormones).

Eleanor held a lace hanky to her face, but it was no use. Her prodigious nose knew all.

And tonight it would tell.

She flounced down the table to the empty chair. Plopping down, she beamed up at Zoltan Lovell.

So this was the latest suitor.

The seven families had secretly advertised for a man to "manage and maintain a wealthy scion, preferably in the Arctic." A sympathetic clerk at the post office had shown her the advertisement. Fortune hunters and simpletons had turned up by the droves, none worth a second sniff.

Mr. Lovell was, at least, interesting to look at. Slim with shaggy, gypsy-dark hair, he wore a patched tunic of peacock green and leggings tucked into long boots. His hoop earring had a tiny parrot sitting on it; its jeweled eye winked at her.

He smelled like hay, leather, and fresh-cut grass. How very peculiar.

Now he squirmed under her gaze and smiled awkwardly. "Miss, if I might ask--where are the stables?"

He held up a bridle and bit.

"I have come to manage and maintain the scion."

She blinked. Then, throwing back her head, she laughed in delight.

He thought he was looking for a well-bred horse!

Wiping away her tears of laughter, she said, "I'm afraid you've misunderstood. I am the scion. These people think I need a husband to keep me from spilling their secrets. What do you think?"

He flushed right up to the roots of his hair. "I'm sure I don't know, ma'm. All I understand are horses."

"That's probably for the best."

She turned to the servers, who'd arrived with the first set of silver platters.

The soup was French onion with golden medallions of butter. Mr. Lovell dipped his spoon in--and pulled it right out again.

Pasta letters had floated to the top. "The treasures you desire," he read aloud.

The guests murmured excitedly. Roger and Annabeth Cawley would spend anything on an amusement. Could this be a game that ended in gold?

Mr. Lovell, meanwhile, polished off the letters and broth with his eyes shut, blissful.

"You are kind to your cooks," he noted, "who are then kind to the milkmaids. They kiss their cows, who give fine milk for butter. You give this warmth to your guests."

She raised an eyebrow. That was certainly not what she intended. What a strange man.

The servers swiftly replaced the soup with an elegant salad of goat cheese, pear, almonds, and baby spinach, drizzled in balsamic vinaigrette. The guests polished this off quickly, but found nothing unusual--until Mulberry pointed to his plate and shouted.

On his plate was the letter V and a number, 8.

With much hubbub, the guests exchanged letters and assembled the message: "Would have been yours..."

A letter was missing, however. Mr. Lovell hadn't cleared his plate; he was savoring the pear with special relish.

"Years ago, a child climbed this pear tree, read for hours, and hung a swing," he said dreamily. "The guests taste your innocent joy."

Eleanor was quite certain the only innocent joy was Mr. Lovell's.

Surely he'd have no curious words about the entree. Each roast quail was stuffed with a message on edible paper.

"...if you feared the sin more than the witness."

She glanced at Mr. Lovell out of the corner of her eye. He'd eaten the paper without stopping to read it. Now he was wiping away a tear.

"I pity the writer, who only wishes for us improve ourselves," Mr. Lovell said. "How do they bear such sorrow?

Around her, others wept too. The servers had set down delicate plates with chocolate lava cakes. Each contained, in the liquid chocolate center, a music box wrapped in silver paper.

After the guest cranked the handle, the box sang the secrets of their neighbors.

Eleanor propped up her chin on her hand, savoring every jaw drop, every horrified grimace.

Above, the ceiling parted to reveal the descending basket of a hot air balloon. Its ladder dropped right in front of her.

"Farewell," she called over the din. "I leave you to your just desserts."

Mr. Lovell looked up with a mouthful of lava cake. "Let me join you. Please--I've heard much of your talent, and tasted your kindness beside."

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. "I will serve just desserts where I see fit."

"And I will tell no one how they taste to me." He bowed and looked up with hopeful eyes.

Eleanor extended her hand. Together they ascended in the balloon, over the heads of the seven families, to a world of smells and tastes they had yet to discover.