“Naturally I’m here. You said you’d be attending. Though not to dance, I trust. You can’t mean to exert yourself.”

“I may dance,” she said. “The waltz is, I understand, not terribly fatiguing.”

Fred’s face tightened. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he gestured to a gentleman behind him. Like Fred, the man was extravagantly attired—high shirt points, an even higher neckcloth, and a black coat and knee breeches cut so snugly he minced when he walked. “Miss Honeywell, may I present Mr. Lionel Beresford. Beresford, Miss Honeywell.”

“Beresford?” Maggie inquired as the man bowed over her gloved hand. “Are you any relation to Lords Allendale and St. Clare?”

“Distantly, ma’am. Distantly.” Mr. Beresford released her hand, affecting an air of fashionable boredom. “I claim the honor of calling the earl my uncle, and Lord St. Clare—a relative only recently brought to my attention—my cousin.”

“We met at Tattersall’s,” Fred said. “Beresford likes a bit of hunting. I’ve invited him to come and enjoy the shooting down at Beasley Park.”

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Have you.”

Fred already acted as if Beasley was his own, making decisions about the estate that should rightly have been left to her, but inviting guests down to stay was a new level of presumed ownership.

“Is Letchford Hall not a more appropriate place to entertain your guests?” she asked.

Located next door to Beasley Park, Sir Roderick’s estate was equally as grand and had the added benefit of being Fred’s actual home.

“Not with the renovations. There’s plaster and stonework everywhere. Isn’t safe for company. Besides”—Fred turned back to Lionel—“you can’t beat Beasley for hunting and shooting. The best in the West Country, that’s what I always say. You may bring your mother, too,” he added magnanimously. “Miss Honeywell could do with a bit of female company.”

“Obliged to you, sir.” Mr. Beresford gestured to someone in the crowd. “There’s Madre now. Allow me to introduce you, ma’am.”

There was no way Maggie could politely refuse. She permitted Fred to escort her back through the crowd to a row of chairs populated with elderly ladies and wallflowers. Mrs. Beresford sat among them, a thin, bird-like woman with unsettlingly sharp eyes. She regarded Maggie with a thin smile as Mr. Beresford made the introductions.

“You’re not dancing, Miss Honeywell?” she asked. “A shame to have dressed in such a singular gown and not dance. To be sure, the design looks quite French.” She tittered. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it on any of the young ladies of my acquaintance.”

“Miss Honeywell cannot dance,” Fred replied. “She’s an invalid.”