Beneath five gilded wood and crystal chandeliers blazing with the light of dozens of beeswax candles, young ladies dressed in a dizzying array of colors spun around the ballroom floor to the lively tunes provided by the six musicians brought up from London. Their hair, masterpieces of wire and netting, was piled high and artfully in gravity-defying styles. Their dance partners, all handsome young men of privilege, were dressed in brocades and silks, their coats and waistcoats intricately embroidered. Their wigs were freshly powdered, and their shoes shined to such a sheen that they reflected the candlelight from above.

They drank embargoed French champagne, dined on caviar and slipped in behind potted ferns to steal a kiss.

Margot had donned a gown made especially for the occasion—a pale green silk mantua that Lynetta said complemented her green eyes and auburn hair. To her tower of hair, she’d added little songbirds carefully crafted from paper. She wore her late mother’s glittering diamond-and-pearl necklace at her throat.

Margot had commissioned a cake in honor of Lynetta’s birthday, a three-foot-tall edible structure that resembled Norwood Park, placed in the middle of the dining room to be admired by all. The iced parapets were topped with dancing marzipan figures. In one corner were the tiny figures of two girls, one with auburn hair, one with blond hair, that were meant to be Margot and Lynetta.

There were so many people in attendance that there was scarcely room for everyone to dance at once. Margot in particular had done very little dancing that night. Nevertheless, she’d kept her eye on Mr. William Fitzgerald in hopes that she might change her luck.

Oh, but Mr. Fitzgerald was quite dashing in his silver brocade and curled wig. Margot had admired him from afar for a full fortnight now and had rather thought, given his attentions to her, that the interest was mutual. But tonight, he’d stood up with every unmarried woman except her.

“You mustn’t take it to heart,” Lynetta had advised, her face still flushed from the exertion of having danced three sets. “It’s clearly one of two reasons—either he is saving the best dance of the night for you, or he can’t bear to ask because you’re such a terrible dancer.”

Margot gave her friend a withering look. “Thank you, Lynetta, for I cannot be reminded often enough of my wretched dancing.” According to Lynetta, that was Margot’s second most obvious fault—she had no natural tendency toward rhythm.

“Well?” Lynetta said with a shrug. “I mean only to offer an explanation for why he’s not shown you any true regard this evening.”

“Please, darling, you mustn’t exert yourself to help me understand his utter lack of interest in me.”

“Better it’s because of your dancing than something perhaps even worse,” Lynetta cheerfully pointed out.

“And what might that be?” Margot demanded, slightly affronted.