The older twin, Alexander, was standing quite straight and watching them with a slight frown. His deep black eyes caught hers. Well, Adelaide thought, I certainly hope Charlotte went into the garden with the singer! This one is so moody-looking. One of Adelaide’s friends had a husband who brooded and Adelaide felt tired just hearing about his woes.

She turned briskly and herded her charges into the ballroom.

“I didn’t see the girl herself,” said one young gallant, the Honorable Peter Medley, to a friend the next morning in White’s.

“I did,” said his friend Justin. “She was nothing special. None of the bounce her sister has. But did you hear what the Foakes twins got up to later? I heard that Alex knocked out three of the watch before they managed to calm him down.”

Peter looked at Justin suspiciously. Since when did he know the future Earl of Sheffield and Downes well enough to call him Alex?

“Where’d you hear that?” he asked.

“From old Beckley.” Justin nodded across the room. Sure enough, Beckworth Cecily clearly had burning news to relate; he was surrounded by a small group of men whose faces mingled open amusement and condemnation.

So Adelaide’s plans for the prince’s ball came to naught. By four days later it was open knowledge that Woodleigh Foakes had ordered his sons onto ships bound for the Continent and the Orient. Just as the Honorable Sylvester had surmised, the heir (Alexander) was bound for Italy and the spare (as he was jocularly known) was bound for more exotic, if dangerous, travels in India. They weren’t expected back for at least two years.

Adelaide kept silent, wondering if she should have dashed up the stairs and dragged Charlotte down to the ball. For a few weeks she was tormented by regret: What if she had? What if Charlotte had been seduced by one of the Foakes twins? What if they had come to the ball specifically looking for Charlotte? Finally her common sense comforted her. There were so many men in England with silver-black hair.

Then Campion brought her the succinctly worded report of a Bow Street Runner who wrote that the Saturday night Cyprians’ Ball was a regular feature of the Kent countryside. It was attended by nobles and gentlemen, but also by every other sort of person including, of course, prostitutes. And hearing where Charlotte had been, Adelaide felt sick but resigned. Most likely Charlotte was right. She had met a handsome footman in the twilight.