Sarah chuckled, but still she asked, “Shall we be spinsters together, old and wobbly at the annual musicale?”

Honoria shuddered. “I am fairly certain that is not the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. I do love the musicale, but—”

“You don’t!” Sarah just barely resisted the urge to clap her hands over her ears. No one could love that musicale.

“I said I loved the musicale,” Honoria clarified, “not the music.”

“How, pray tell, are they different? I thought I might perish—”

“Oh, Sarah,” Honoria scolded. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“I wish it were an exaggeration,” Sarah muttered.

“I thought it was great fun practicing with you and Viola and Marigold. And next year will be even better. We shall have Iris with us to play the cello. Aunt Maria told me that Mr. Wedgecombe is mere weeks away from proposing to Marigold.” Honoria furrowed her brow in thought. “Although I’m not quite sure how she knows that.”

“That’s not the point,” Sarah said with great gravity, “and even if it were, it’s not worth the public humiliation. If you want to spend time with your cousins, invite us all out for a picnic. Or a game of Pall Mall.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Thank God.” Sarah shuddered, trying to not recollect a single moment of her Smythe-Smith Quartet debut. Thus far it was proving a difficult memory to repress. Every awful chord, every pitying stare . . .

It was why she needed to consider every gentleman as a possible spouse. If she had to perform with her discordant cousins one more time, she would perish.

And that was not an exaggeration.

“Very well,” Sarah said briskly, then straightened her shoulders to punctuate the tone. It was time to get back to business. “Mr. St. Clair is off my list. Who else is here tonight?”

“No one,” Honoria said morosely.

“No one? How is that possible? What about Mr. Travers? I thought you and he— Oh.” Sarah gulped at the pained expression on Honoria’s face. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I thought everything was going so well. And then . . . nothing.”

“That’s very odd,” Sarah said. Mr. Travers wouldn’t have been her first choice for a husband, but he seemed steadfast enough. Certainly not the sort to drop a lady with no explanation. “Are you sure?”

“At Mrs. Wemberley’s soirée last week I smiled at him and he ran from the room.”

“Oh, but surely you’re imagining—”

“He tripped on a table on the way out.”

“Oh.” Sarah grimaced. There was no putting a cheerful face on that. “I’m sorry,” she said sympathetically, and she was. As comforting as it was to have Honoria by her side as fellow failure on the marriage mart, she did want her cousin to be happy.

“It’s probably for the best,” Honoria said, ever the optimist. “We share very few interests. He’s actually quite musical, and I don’t know how he would ever— Oh!”

“What is it?” Sarah asked. If they had been closer to the candelabra, Honoria’s gasp would have sucked the flame right out.