Suddenly she started. “Oh, no!” Adelaide half-shrieked. “Wax!” The little gaggle of women jumped back, looking up. Sure enough, they were standing directly under a chandelier, and hot wax was dripping from the candles.

“Charlotte,” Adelaide commanded. “And Sophie, of course,” she added. “We shall retire for a moment. Come, girls.” And she plowed imperiously through the crowds, heading for the ladies’ retiring room.

Sophie and Charlotte followed, rather more slowly. Sure enough, Adelaide did have a white waxy streak down the back of her gown. She would probably have to remove the gown and let the maids iron off the wax.

Charlotte’s eyes were glowing. She was wearing one of her new gowns, made of dark green silk. She loved the way the fabric slid smoothly over her legs as she danced or walked.

“So, are your lips made of honey?” Sophie whispered to her as they walked along, automatically returning smiles and salutes. “And is that a honeybee you left back there on the balcony?”

“Oh, no,” Charlotte wailed in mock despair. “Don’t tell me that you are going to ruin another perfectly good flirtation! I liked that honeybee story!”

“I am not!” Sophie replied. “I thought Will was a lovely honeybee. And,” she said with some indignation, “it’s not fair to suggest that I ruined your flirtation with Reginald last week—all I did was ask how many times he adjusted his toupee while you were sitting out the dance with him. I am right, you know! It’s a perfect indicator of desire. When his wife has a headache she’ll learn to dread his fidgeting with his wig.”

Charlotte laughed at her, half shocked, half delighted. How could Sophie say such outrageous things?

“I suppose,” Charlotte replied, “that his hands are constantly on his head whenever you sit out a dance with him!”

“Naturally,” Sophie drawled. “I should consider myself in very poor form if he didn’t jiggle his wig at least every other minute. And you know,” she said more reflectively, “maybe one of us should take him up seriously. He’s not at all bad-looking.”

They wove their way up the stairs, a laborious task given the throngs of gossipers positioned halfway up, still thinking about Sir Reginald Petersham.

“Of course, he’s only a baronet,” Sophie said.

“But he has a lovely forehead,” Charlotte replied. Sir Reginald was blessed with a long, thin face, the kind she would quite like to paint, now that she’d graduated to painting real people. Still, she couldn’t paint him without marrying him; unmarried ladies did not spend hours in a room alone with a man, even if he was posed on the couch and not allowed to move. And she didn’t like his forehead enough to marry him for it.

“I don’t know,” Charlotte said with a sigh. “One could burn all his little hair attachments. I like bald heads. But …”