Marcus could see that there was no way this conversation was going to go anywhere but in a circle, so he asked politely if there was anything he could do to facilitate the performance, fully expecting her to say no, which would then leave him free to enjoy a solitary glass of brandy in the drawing room.

But to his complete surprise and—one must be honest—horror, she took his hand in a fervent grip and said, “Yes!”

He froze. “I beg your pardon?”

“Could you bring some lemonade to the girls?”

She wanted him to— “What?”

“Everyone is busy. Everyone.” She waved her arms as if to demonstrate. “The footmen have already rearranged the chairs three times.”

Marcus glanced out at the room, wondering what could possibly be so complicated about twelve even rows.

“You want me to bring them lemonade,” he repeated.

“They will be thirsty,” she explained.

“They’re not singing?” Good God, the horror.

She pressed her lips together in irritation. “Of course not. But they have been rehearsing all day. It’s strenuous work. Do you play?”

“An instrument? No.” It was one of the few skills his father had not deemed it necessary that he learn.

“Then you will not understand,” she said with great drama. “Those poor girls will be parched.”

“Lemonade,” he said again, wondering if she wished him to bring it in on a tray. “Very well.”

Her brows rose, and she looked a little annoyed at his slowness. “I assume you’re strong enough to carry the pitcher?”

As insults went, it was just preposterous enough not to bother him. “I believe I can manage, yes,” he said dryly.

“Good. It’s over there,” she said, waving her hand toward a table at the side of the room. “And Honoria is just through that door.” She pointed toward the back.

“Just Honoria?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Of course not. It’s a quartet.” And with that, she was off, directing the footmen, interrogating the maids, and generally attempting to supervise what appeared to be, in Marcus’s opinion, a rather smoothly run affair.

He walked over to one of the refreshment tables and picked up a pitcher of lemonade. There didn’t seem to be any glasses set out yet, which did make him wonder if Lady Winstead meant for him to pour the lemonade down the girls’ throats.

He smiled. It was an entertaining image.

Pitcher in hand, he made his way through the door Lady Winstead had indicated, moving quietly so as not to disturb whatever rehearsal might be underway.

There was no rehearsal.

Instead, he saw four women arguing as if the fate of Great Britain depended on it. Well, no, actually, only three of the women were arguing. The one at the piano, whom he assumed was the governess, was wisely staying out of it.