“You would be surprised what cowboys can do,” he said in his husky Spanish voice. We made our way across the ballroom to a table by the window. I watched the way my mother moved, the way heads turned as she passed. Why couldn’t I have inherited more of her grace and looks, I wondered. Instead I had the look and build of my healthy Scottish ancestors. Still Darcy found me desirable, I reminded myself. Then of course I became rather moony. If Darcy had been on the ship with me, we’d have danced together. We’d have strolled along the deck in the moonlight. He’d have taken me in his arms and kissed me. . . .

I sighed. Was there ever going to be a time when we had enough money to marry? I was roused from my revelry by a loud clanking and looked up to see a knight crusader standing over me. “I say there, Georgie, old bean,” said a voice from inside the visor. “Care for a hop around the floor?”

Oh golly. It was Algie Broxley-Foggett. The full details of the last time I had been at a ball with him returned with horrible clarity. He had spun me around so violently that we had knocked over a statue, which had fallen with a frightful crash. He had trodden on my toes and the toes of every other female. Still, I couldn’t come up with a good reason not to dance with him. We clanked onto the floor and took off at a great pace leaving a chorus of curses, groans and yelps from everyone we passed.

“I think your sword keeps sticking into people,” I pointed out.

“Oh, sorry. Can’t see a bally thing with this visor on,” he said.

“Then take it off.”

“But that would spoil the effect,” he said. “I’m supposed to be a fearsome knight, don’t you know.”

“Watch it, young man,” an elderly Roman senator warned. “You nearly knocked over my wife.”

I was glad when the dance ended and luckily Sir Digby, dressed as King Charles II, invited me to dance. Lady Porter was not too convincing as Nell Gwyn in curly orange wig and showing considerable cleavage. I observed that she watched her husband like a hawk in case he held me too closely. There was no sign of Tubby Halliday, unless he was so disguised that I didn’t recognize him. When the band struck up a quickstep the young American, Jerry, whisked me around the floor, and I found that there was a big disadvantage to my own costume too. It had a long black tail that seemed to take on a life of its own, flying to and fro, slapping other dancers on the behind as they passed me, making them turn to glare in indignation. So after that I thought it might be wiser not to dance again.