Honoria looked over at her mother with interest. She had never realized that Margaret was so dismal at needlework. But then again, Margaret was seventeen years older than she was. She had been married and out of the Smythe-Smith household before Honoria had even been old enough to form memories.

“It’s a good thing she had such talent for the violin,” Lady Winstead continued.

Honoria looked up sharply at that. She’d heard Margaret play. “Talent” was not a word she’d have used to describe it.

“All my daughters play the violin,” Lady Winstead said proudly.

“Even you, Lady Honoria?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.

Honoria nodded. “Even me.”

“I wish you had brought your instrument. I should have loved to have heard you play.”

“I’m not as capable as my sister Margaret,” Honoria said. Which, tragically, was true.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” her mother said, giving her a playful pat on the arm. “I thought you were magnificent last year. You need only to practice a bit more.” She turned back to Mrs. Wetherby. “Our family hosts a musicale every year. It is one of the most sought-after invitations in town.”

“Such a treasure to come from such a musical family.”

“Oh,” Honoria said, because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to manage much of anything else. “Yes.”

“I do hope your cousins are rehearsing in your absence,” her mother said with a worried expression.

“I’m not sure how they could,” Honoria said. “It’s a quartet. One can’t really rehearse with one of the violins missing.”

“Yes, I suppose so. It’s just that Daisy is so green.”

“Daisy?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.

“My niece,” Lady Winstead explained. “She is quite young and”—her voice dropped to a whisper, although for the life of her, Honoria couldn’t figure out why—“she’s not very talented.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wetherby gasped, one of her hands rising to her chest. “Whatever will you do? Your musicale will be ruined.”

“I am quite certain Daisy will keep up with the rest of us,” Honoria said with a weak smile. Truthfully, Daisy was bad. But it was difficult to imagine her actually making the quartet worse. And she would bring some badly needed enthusiasm to the group. Sarah was still claiming that she’d rather have her teeth pulled than perform with the quartet again.

“Has Lord Chatteris ever been to the musicale?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.

“Oh, he comes every year,” Lady Winstead replied. “And sits in the front row.”

He was a saint, Honoria thought. At least for one night a year.

“He does love music,” Mrs. Wetherby said.

A saint. A martyr, even.

“I suppose he will have to miss it this year,” Lady Winstead said with a sad sigh. “Perhaps we can arrange for the girls to come here for a special concert.”