“This party,” she said, her tone dripping with rancor, “is a disgrace.”

Automatically Sophie looked about for her father. There he was, seated quite properly next to Sylvester Bredbeck. In fact, George had acted with propriety all evening, at least at those points at which she had glimpsed him.

Braddon hastily rose and offered the marchioness his chair.

Eloise sat down, although she was clearly longing to call for her coach. “Miss Daphne Boch cannot be located,” she remarked in glacial tones, “and neither can our host’s brother, Patrick Foakes.” She leveled a basilisk stare at her daughter. “It appears that they were last seen heading into the garden. Miss Daphne’s brother can’t seem to find her.”

Braddon gulped. “I’m sure they will reappear very quickly,” he said, all too aware of the stories that had circulated about Sophie and Patrick.

Sophie stared down at her lap. Somehow her fingers had laced themselves so tightly around one another that they didn’t look as if they’d ever undo.

“I doubt that young lady will be foolish enough to reject Foakes’s hand.” Eloise dealt her daughter another enraged look. It galled Eloise to the quick that her daughter had made a fool of herself with a man who clearly made a hobby of compromising young ladies. Foakes must be desperate for marriage or some such.

Sophie felt Braddon’s shoulder press comfortingly against hers as he drew up a chair. His voice was soothing. “Patrick told me that Lady Sophie rejected his suit, and I can say only that I consider it a stroke of the greatest good fortune that she was still available to accept my hand.”

Braddon picked up Sophie’s knotted hands and gave them a brisk shake, pulling them apart. Then he romantically raised the limp hand he held, pressing a kiss on its back.

The marchioness looked at Braddon approvingly. Here was a young man with proper sentiment, and a pretty way of saying things too. In fact, he quite reminded Eloise of the bucks who used to court her in her youth.

Sophie’s heart was racing. Patrick was going to be married, going to be married, married to that French tart Daphne.

“Maman,” she said, raising her head for the first time. “I seem to have quite a headache coming on. May Lord Slaslow escort me back to our house?”

Eloise bent a stern eye on her daughter. Was she going to wreck her engagement by some rash, impudent behavior that would make the earl take a disgust for her? No. In fact, Sophie looked a bit pinched and rather pale. A motherly frown crossed Eloise’s face.

“Of course,” she responded. “I shall rouse your father and make our farewells as soon as possible. And I shall give your apologies and those of Lord Slaslow to our host and hostess, as soon as they can be located.” She cast a sharp look around the garden room but neither Alex nor Charlotte was to be seen.

“Do go home immediately, Sophie, and ask Simone to have Cook make you a posset. There’s nothing like one of Cook’s possets for a nervous headache.”