The supper room was filled with chattering, elegant gentlefolk, none of whom appeared the slightest bit exhausted. Peter began a rather ponderous discussion of the polonaise, and Gabby soon entered a kind of sleepwalking state. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes from drooping, although she conscientiously repeated to herself Peter’s admonishments about ladies not showing signs of exhaustion.

Quill gave her a sharp look and then raised a finger, summoning one of the footmen. In a moment or two a steaming cup of tea was placed before Gabby.

“Oh, thank you,” she said gratefully.

Peter looked disapproving. Clearly tea was not the appropriate drink for that hour. But Sophie was happily requesting the same, and so Gabby sipped her tea in peace and looked about the room.

At the table just behind Sophie’s shoulder, one of those interesting events that Sophie had promised appeared to be brewing. Gabby had spent a good deal of her life fashioning stories and telling them to herself, and now she rapidly concocted an explanation for why the double-chinned lady with the nodding feathers on her headdress was looking so very infuriated. Clearly she must be a relative of the jowly lord wearing a silver-blue coat next to her. And he must be throwing out lures to the young miss across the table, whose bodice was quite as low as Gabby’s. But of course the double-chinned lady wanted her jowly brother to marry someone quite different, perhaps the stern-looking maiden in the olive gown, who sat next to her.

“What are you thinking of, Gabby?” Sophie leaned toward her. “You look to be so much more amused than the rest of us.”

“I was spinning stories,” Gabby admitted. “Since I know almost no one in London, I was making up tales about strangers.”

Sophie laughed. “You’re a storyteller! How splendid. Please, tell us a tale and then we shall compare it to the truth. What a splendid game.”

Gabby hesitated. But Peter and Lucien were smiling in approval. Only Quill looked censorious. So she explained the tale she had woven for the next table.

Sophie’s clear laughter rang out, and most of the London ton craned their necks, discovering with interest that the Duchess of Gisle seemed to find Peter Dewland’s future wife most entertaining. Unfortunately, the jowly man’s attention was also caught.

Sophie had her back to the jowly man’s table and indeed had no idea that the entire room was looking at them, so she continued blithely, “You are not far from the truth, Gabby. But the lord and lady are married. The tension you sense—”

Her husband clapped his hand over her mouth. “You are a caution, my dear wife,” Patrick breathed into Sophie’s ear. Then he removed his hand, replacing it with a swift, hard kiss.

Sophie twinkled at Gabby. “You see, Gabby darling, men simply live to correct our follies.”

Gabby laughed.