“Yes.” Charlotte stood up, composed again. She made a graceful apology to Mrs. Felvitson for interrupting the music (even those Russians had been craning at her lying on the ground!) and left the room on Patrick’s arm, Sophie trailing after them.

They left behind them a far more excited crowd than had originally graced Mrs. Felvitson’s soirée.

“There’s nothing to it,” Sir Benjamin Tribble said in an extremely unconvincing manner.

“No, indeed!” Sylvester Bredbeck agreed, his sharp eyes scanning Sir Benjamin’s melon-colored jacket in an unpleasant fashion. “The countess was surprised to unexpectedly meet a man who looked exactly like her husband, that’s all!”

Everyone had to acknowledge the value of this statement, and the whole subject may have fallen into silence, except for two factors. One was Lady Prestlefield’s excellent memory, and the second was Lady Cucklesham’s acute irritability.

“I dare swear you are right, Sylvester,” Lady Prestlefield said in her customary brisk manner. “Except that those two dear children do know each other. Alex—that is, the earl—told me himself that the countess, such a lovely girl she is, met his brother years ago, before he went off to the East. In fact, he said that when he, Alex, met Charlotte at my ball, she first mistook him for his younger brother.”

“You are too severe, Sarah,” Lady Cucklesham cooed. She preferred to maintain a sweet tone at all times. “Why, if one were to believe that they knew each other already, some inconsiderate soul might think the worst of that tender gesture she gave him, brushing his cheek with her fingers as she did.”

“Nonsense,” Sylvester said stoutly. “That’s a pack of nonsense, Sarah, and you ought not to repeat it. Charlotte had never met Patrick Foakes before in her life.”

“Yes, yes, you are right, Mr. Bredbeck,” Lady Cucklesham said. “Now, Sarah, darling, you must not repeat a word about the fact that Charlotte was so well acquainted with the earl’s younger brother before he went abroad, because I dare swear the truth of the matter is that they merely met once or danced … or something of that sort.”

Sylvester Bredbeck cast Lady Cucklesham a glance of acute dislike. He always thought she was a puffed-up turnip, and now that she had finagled her way into a marriage with a man forty years older than herself, it certainly hadn’t done her temper any good.

Sylvester bowed rigidly and left the musicale. It wouldn’t make any difference if he were to defend Charlotte any further; better to let it blow over, he thought.

But London society was rather thin since the season proper wouldn’t begin for some four months. There wasn’t much to talk about. The matches that would happen this year had already been made, the documents signed, the couples happily or unhappily embarked on forty years of matrimony. Some two weeks ago there had been an elopement, but it was very unsatisfactorily concluded, to everyone’s mind—the young bride banished to the country and the groom sent off to the continent.