He stood stiffly at the side of the room, wishing that he hadn’t arrived so early. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but now he had no idea what he’d been thinking. Honoria wasn’t anywhere to be found. He should have realized she wouldn’t be; she and her cousins were surely warming up their instruments elsewhere in the house. And the servants were all giving him queer looks, as if to say, What are you doing here?

He lifted his chin and regarded the room in much the same way he did at most formal events. He probably looked bored, he certainly looked proud, and neither one was strictly true.

He suspected that none of the other guests were going to arrive for at least thirty minutes, and he was wondering if he might wait in the drawing room, which would surely be empty. That was when he caught a flash of something pink, and he realized it was Lady Winstead, dashing about the room with uncharacteristic frenzy. She spied him, and then rushed over. “Oh, thank heavens you’re here,” she said.

He took in the frantic expression on her face. “Is something wrong?”

“Sarah has taken ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said politely. “Will she be all right?”

“I have no idea,” Lady Winstead replied somewhat sharply, considering that she was talking about the health of her niece. “I haven’t seen her. All I know is, she’s not here.”

He tried to tamp down the giddy feeling in his chest. “Then you’ll have to cancel the musicale?”

“Why does everyone keep asking that? Oh, never mind. Of course we cannot cancel. The Pleinsworth governess apparently can play, and she is taking Sarah’s part.”

“Then all is well,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Isn’t it?”

She looked at him as if he were a slow-learning child. “We don’t know if this governess is any good.”

He did not see how the governess’s skills at the piano would make any difference in the overall quality of the performance, but he declined to make this statement aloud. Instead he said something like: “Oh, well.” Or perhaps, “Quite so.” Either way, it served the purpose of making a noise without saying anything at all.

Which was really the best he could hope for under the circumstances.

“This is our eighteenth musicale, did you know that?” Lady Winstead asked.

He did not.

“Every one of them has been a success, and now this.”

“Perhaps the governess will be very talented,” he said, trying to comfort her.

Lady Winstead gave him an impatient look. “Talent matters little when one has had only six hours to practice.”