But laughter—alas, Madame Carême had forgotten to put laughing on the list with wiggling. Perhaps Madame believed that laughter was unlikely to occur in the highest society.

Whatever the reason for Madame’s oversight, a room plumb full of the haut ton watched in fascination as Gabby’s bodice lost its fragile claim to modesty and slid below the bosom it was designed to adorn. Gabby gave a little scream and pulled futilely at the strained silk.

Peter closed his eyes in horror. Emily froze, and Sophie instinctively leaned forward to shield Gabby. Patrick and Quill acted as one man. They both wrenched off their evening coats. Quill reached Gabby first. She felt his large comfort at her shoulder just as folds of black finecloth covered her shameful gown from sight.

Clutching Quill’s coat, Gabby looked up, only to meet Peter’s horrified gaze. Tears rose to her eyes.

“Miss Jerningham is overtired,” Quill said brusquely. Then, without a second’s pause, he plucked her off her chair and into his arms. In an instant they were gone from the room.

Sophie’s husband, Patrick, burst out laughing. “I gather that Quill’s leg is much improved. I haven’t seen such a romantic sight in years.”

“There’s nothing romantic about it,” Peter snapped. He owed Quill a thank you, certainly. The best thing was for Gabby to go home immediately and allow the gossip to die down. Not that it would, he was sure of that.

In fact, it was a night that very few people in the London ton ever forgot.

A moment or two later Sophie Foakes, the Duchess of Gisle, stood up. But as she did, she seemed to catch the hem of her gown in her slipper, or perhaps she misplaced her hand as she rose from her seat.

Whatever the cause, the attendees at Lady Fester’s ball were treated to the unprecedented pleasure of witnessing another lady’s bodice drop to her waist—within a mere five minutes of the first!

Sophie’s husband had already removed his coat and so he was able to clap it around her shoulders, although some of the onlookers thought that the duke’s laughing remonstrance, clearly heard by all—“For goodness sake, Sophie! There’s such a thing as taking loyalty too far!”—did not properly address the issue.

It was widely agreed in many a ladies’ parlor, the following morning, that the French mode of dressing had been adapted too rapidly by the young ladies of the ton. Madame Carême, too, came in for a share of censure.

But it was even more widely agreed in many a gentlemen’s club, the following afternoon, that Peter Dewland was one of the luckiest men in London. The same truth had already been established about Patrick Foakes, the Duke of Gisle, and so his manifest good fortune was hardly mentioned.

Chapter 10