“Don’t be absurd, Bill.” Pat was pleased at how calm she sounded. “Sit down. I really can’t see he’s worth bruising your knuckles.”

It wasn’t a peacemaking comment, but she didn’t want to make peace, only to prevent Bill from hauling a fellow guest off the Countess’s dining table. All the same, she wished almost immediately that she had temporised, done the little performance of smiling and soothing that women so often used to turn away male wrath, because she could see Haworth’s face, and it was pure malevolence.

“Worth,” he repeated, spitting out the syllables. “What an interesting word, Miss Merton. Why don’t you ask my esteemed father in law about his net worth—”

“Maurice,” Jimmy said.

“—or about what his name would be worth if the truth about certain arrangements came out? Why don’t you ask the worth of my wife’s chastity, or Jack’s honesty, come to that?”

“Maurice!” the Countess and Jimmy said together, and Jimmy went on, “Curse it, man—”

“And tell us, Jimmy, how long do you intend to endure your empty-headed heiress before you return to the lover you keep in London?” Jimmy’s mouth dropped open. Haworth bared his teeth in triumph. “Or will your dumpy commoner put up with your illicit trysts as worth her coronet?”

Half the room was shouting now. Jimmy had gone chalk white; Fen was scarlet. Maurice Haworth’s eyes blazed with unholy pleasure. He leaned forward to see the Countess. “And you, madam—”

Victoria Singh picked up her glass of water and threw it in his face.

Then it was chaos. Haworth lunged for her, shouting a word that Pat wouldn’t have expected even from him, sending his wine glass flying. Miss Singh recoiled, but Preston was already on his feet, sprinting round the table. He grabbed the dripping Haworth by the shoulders and dragged him up and backwards, spun him round, and punched him square in the mouth.

The Countess was watching, frozen; the Earl had his eyes shut. Lady Anna and Miss Singh stood, staring, as the men grappled; Bill strode over, speaking in a commanding voice that was entirely ignored; and Fen got up and hurried to the door.

“Fen!” Pat turned, but before she could stand, Jimmy had pushed away his chair and was going after her.

Hell. Hell.

Preston had his hands around Haworth’s throat now. Bill was trying to separate them but the purpling of Haworth’s face suggested he wasn’t having much luck, so Pat took a leaf from Miss Singh’s book, picked up the water jug, and tossed the contents over both combatants.

Preston got most of the soaking. He recoiled, spluttering. Haworth, bloody-mouthed and dripping, lunged forward, and found Bill’s hand at his chest.