“I did,” Sarah told her. “But Lord Hugh very kindly lent me his cane. I walked all the way across the house on my own.” She frowned at her foot. “Although after that I did absolutely nothing with it. I’m not sure why it’s being so wretched.”

“This sort of injury takes time to heal,” Hugh said. “It may have been more than a simple sprain.”

She grimaced. “It did make an awful sound when I twisted it on the step. Rather like something tearing.”

“Oh, that’s dreadful,” Iris said with a shudder. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sarah just shrugged, and Hugh said, “That’s not a good sign, I’m afraid. It’s certainly nothing permanent, but it does indicate that the injury may be deeper than originally thought.”

Sarah let out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I shall have to learn to grant audiences in my boudoir like a French queen.”

Iris looked at Hugh. “I warn you, she’s serious.”

He did not doubt it.

“Or,” Sarah continued, her eyes taking on a dangerous sparkle, “I could have someone arrange a litter to carry me about.”

Hugh chuckled at her flamboyance. It was just the sort of thing that a mere week ago would have set his teeth on edge. But now that he knew her better, he could not help but be amused. She had a rather unique way of setting people at ease. He had meant it when he had said it before: it was a talent.

“Shall we feed you grapes from a golden chalice?” Iris teased.

“But of course,” Sarah replied, holding her haughty expression for about two seconds before she broke into a grin.

They all laughed then, which was probably why none of them noticed Daisy Smythe-Smith until she was practically upon them.

“Sarah,” she said rather officiously, “might I have a word?”

Hugh rose to his feet. He hadn’t had a chance to talk with this particular Smythe-Smith yet. She looked young, still in the schoolroom but old enough to come down to supper at a family event.

“Daisy,” Sarah said in greeting. “Good evening. Have you been introduced to Lord Hugh Prentice? Lord Hugh, this is Miss Daisy Smythe-Smith. She is Iris’s sister.”

Of course. He’d heard of this family. The Smythe-Smith Bouquet, someone had once called them. He could not remember all of their names. Daisy, Iris, probably a Rosehip and Marigold. He dearly hoped none were named Crocus.

Daisy bobbed a quick curtsy, but she clearly had no interest in him, for she immediately turned her curly blond head back to Sarah. “Since you cannot dance tonight,” she said bluntly, “my mother has decided that we shall play.”