Morgan handed the footmen their vouchers, and with a nod, they were allowed entrance. The air was warm, stuffy almost, as they walked through the hall toward the ballroom where a reel was being played. From the hall, Joan could see the dancers lining up.

“Did you know that the Duke of Wellington was once rejected from Almack’s?” Morgan whispered.

“No.” Joan turned to him, shocked.

“Indeed, he hadn’t followed the dress code.”

“What happened? What did he do?” Joan asked, her eyes wide. Dear Lord, she couldn’t imagine a footman deigning to reject the entrance of the Duke of Wellington.

“Well, he understood and obeyed. When he returned on a different day, he was dressed properly.”

“I’d be terrified to be the porter who rejected his entrance.”

“I think the porter was more worried about the displeasure of the Almack’s patronesses than that of the duke,” Morgan answered.

Joan nodded sagely, agreeing with her brother’s astute assessment.

“Ah, and here we go. Head high,” Morgan whispered as they walked into the ballroom. The Almack’s patronesses were holding court at the middle of the far wall, their elaborate dresses all of the highest fashion as they scanned the room, their gazes like a force to be reckoned with.

Lady Jersey met Joan’s eyes, and Joan immediately lowered them and nodded her head, even from the distance of across the room. When she dared look up, Lady Jersey gave a curt nod, then Joan turned her attention back to her brother.

She released her breath and followed him along the side of the dance floor.

“Would you like some lemonade?” he asked, mirth in his tone.

Joan gave a soft laugh, making sure to follow every inch of protocol in such a hallowed hall. “Yes, thank you.”

“I’ll return directly.” He bowed and headed toward the refreshment table. Joan studied the dancers and then scanned the room for familiar faces. Was Miss Bronson in attendance? Or was she not able to secure vouchers?

“Here you go,” Morgan said upon his return and offered her a glass.

“Thank you.” She took a small sip and held back a wince at the tart flavor. “Assessments were correct,” she whispered, earning a conspiratorial grin from her brother.

“Lord Penderdale.” Someone spoke from behind Joan. She turned and noted the smart bow of one of Almack’s footmen.

“Yes?”

“Lady Jersey has requested a word with you and your sister.”

Morgan nodded. “Of course, it would be our honor.” Morgan waited till the footman turned to lead the way back to his mistress, then gave Joan an encouraging nod.

She took a slow and deep breath, as deep as her corset would allow, and followed her brother’s lead along the dance floor toward the Almack’s royalty.