Braddon was not invited. Sophie judged him too likely to forget himself and smile intimately at Madeleine. Although she had to admit that Braddon was taking this particular scheme with deadly seriousness. It was he who had insisted that Madeleine have a chaperone who herself came from the highest ranks of English society. Mrs. Trevelyan was a highly respected widow, formerly married to a bishop who had been, as it happened, the younger son of a duke.

Living now in reduced circumstances, she had happily agreed to chaperone a motherless young Frenchwoman, the dear friend of Lady Sophie Foakes’s. Sophie could see that Mrs. Trevelyan lent Madeleine a great air of respectability. Braddon had been right to choose a well-bred Englishwoman rather than one of the many Frenchwomen scattered around London.

When everyone was finally seated, Sophie found that she was too nervous to touch the lobster. She looked past the four candelabra that separated her from Patrick, at the far end of the table. He was leaning slightly to his left, talking to Lady Skiffing.

Sophie had invited as many dedicated gossips as she could without making her intent obvious. The idea was that if they met Madeleine in Sophie’s house, under the eagle eye of the Marchioness of Brandenburg, at least these particular gossips would not question Madeleine’s ancestry.

And it seemed to be working. Lady Skiffing was smiling happily at whatever Patrick was telling her. Lady Prestlefield was holding forth in a shrill undertone, detailing the latest disgraceful expenditure of the Prince of Wales, who was rumored to be over seventy thousand pounds in debt. None of the three appeared to have had a qualm when they met Madeleine.

Madeleine herself was playing the part of a maiden born to the highest ranks of French society, without turning a hair. In fact, she wasn’t terribly afraid. She was too busy remembering all the rules Sophie had drilled into her head. At the moment she was counting silently. Nine minutes, ten minutes … It was time to smile politely at Lord Petersham, turn her head to the left, and talk to Erskine Dewland.

Wonder of wonders, Mr. Dewland had just ended his conversation with Chloe Holland, who was sitting to his left. We must look like a dance troupe, Madeleine thought with a giggle. All of us are turning our heads to and fro at exactly the same moment.

“If I may enquire,” Quill asked, “what on earth are you thinking about, Lady Madeleine? I should tell you that English dinners are very serious affairs, and one rarely, if ever, laughs.”

Madeleine smiled at him. “I was thinking that we must all resemble a choreographed ballet. I saw one once, as a young girl in France. All the dancers balanced on their toes and turned their heads just so, and then back, just so. Here we all are, sitting about a table, and turning our heads at precisely the same moment.”