His sisters filed into the backstage area wearing expressions ranging from glum (Betsy) to gleeful (Birdie).

“That horrid Moresby is here.” Betsy kicked the carpet. “I didn’t invite him. Why’s he here? To laugh at me, no doubt. He’ll make fun the whole time I’m playing the blasted harp. I think I’ve come down with the dreaded lurgy. I can’t play. Don’t make me play, brother,” she pleaded.

“What’s this?” West placed the back of his hand on her forehead. “You don’t have a fever. It’s only an attack of nerves, Bets. You’ll be brilliant. And if not, it’ll all be over soon enough.”

“Easy for you to say,” Betsy muttered.

“Right then,” he said, surveying his beautiful, vibrant sisters. “I can’t wait to hear you play. And Miss Beaton, of course.”

“You’re playing, Miss Beaton?” asked Birdie, her face lighting up with a wide smile.

“But you said that you never perform in public.” Blanche gave her a puzzled glance. “What changed your mind?”

“She lost a wager,” West said, keeping his expression bland.

“What sort of wager?” Birdie’s bright gaze darted between West and Viola.

“Never you mind,” Viola said. “I’ll only play a brief selection. This is your evening, ladies. And I’m very proud of you, no matter what happens.”

“I’m very, very proud of all of you.” West cleared his throat around a sudden lump. “And I know that our mother would have been so delighted to see her daughters perform. She’ll be looking down at you tonight and smiling.”

“She’ll be laughing at me,” said Betsy. “Better get it over with. Off to Madame Guillotine.”

West made his greeting to the overflowing crowd of guests, which included at least a dozen hopeful would-be duchesses, and introduced Betsy.

Betsy’s harp playing was best described as unangelic. She plunked away forcefully in the same forthright manner that she would wield a cricket bat. West smiled encouragingly at her but she turned her gaze to the floor and plunked faster, wanting to be done with it.

Poor Belinda, accompanying her on the pianoforte, was forced to speed up as well, which flustered her into losing her place in the music, and the result was such an infernal mess that it was all West could do to keep a straight face.

Viola was turning pages for Belinda, and casting frantic glances at Betsy, but there was really nothing she could do.

The guests shifted uneasily in their chairs, several of them glancing toward the doors as if they wished to beat a hasty retreat.

Betsy finished with a plodding flourish of high notes and Belinda crashed a final chord.

West began clapping enthusiastically, in a show of brotherly support, and the audience followed suit, but with less enthusiasm.