“I caused this damage,” Lady Danbury said grandly. She waved her arm through the air, the gesture directed more toward the crowd than toward Honoria. “I must make it right.”

“But a Ruggieri!” Daisy cried.

“I know,” Lady Danbury said, placing a hand on her heart. “They are terribly dear, but in such a case, only the best will do.”

“There’s quite a waiting list,” Daisy said with a sniff.

“Indeed. You mentioned that earlier.”

“Six months. Maybe even a year.”

“Or longer?” Lady Danbury asked, with perhaps a touch of glee.

“I don’t need another violin,” Honoria said. And she didn’t. She was going to marry Marcus. She would never have to play in another musicale for the rest of her life.

Of course she could not say this to anyone.

And he had to propose.

But that seemed a trifling matter. She was confident that he would.

“She can use my old violin,” Daisy said. “I don’t mind.”

And while Lady Danbury was arguing with her about that, Honoria leaned toward Iris and, still staring at the mess on the floor, said, “It’s really remarkable. How do you suppose she did it?”

“I don’t know,” Iris said, equally baffled. “You’d need more than a cane. I think you’d need an elephant.”

Honoria gasped with delight and finally ripped her eyes from the carnage. “That’s exactly what I was thinking!”

They caught each other’s eyes and then burst out laughing, both with such fervor that Lady Danbury and Daisy stopped arguing to stare.

“I think she’s overset,” Daisy said.

“Well, of course, you nitwit,” Lady Danbury barked. “She’s just lost her violin.”

“Thank God,” someone said. With great feeling.

Honoria looked over. She wasn’t even sure who it was. A fashionable gentleman of middling age with an equally fashionable lady at his side. He reminded her of the drawings she’d seen of Beau Brummell, who had been the most fashionable man alive when her older sisters had made their debuts.

“The girl doesn’t need a violin,” he added. “She needs to have her hands bound so she can never touch an instrument again.”

A few people tittered. Others looked very uncomfortable.

Honoria had no idea what to do. It was an unwritten rule in London that while one could mock the Smythe-Smith musicale, one must never ever do so within earshot of an actual Smythe-Smith. Even the gossip columnists never mentioned how dreadful they were.

Where was her mother? Or Aunt Charlotte? Had they heard? It would kill them.

“Oh, come now,” he said, directing his words to the small crowd that had gathered around him. “Are we all so unwilling to state the truth? They’re dreadful. An abomination against nature.”

A few more people laughed. Behind their hands, but still.