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think it’s handkerchiefs.”
    Lady Dorothy expelled breath in annoyance and slapped the folded fan hard against her palm. Lavinia Armitage shook with laughter, which was rather in the nature of jiggling a set pudding.
    “What are you so jolly about, you halfwit?” Lady Dorothy demanded. “Damn girl’s made a fool of herself again. Why I ever appointed myself nursemaid to this—”
    “Oh, Dorothy.” The fat woman was unrepentant and not the least cowed. “Oh, Dorothy. It’s just like ... Do you remember? That time at Bath? With Susan Rushsteader—”
    “I do not!” Lady Dorothy snapped.
    “And that very handsome dragoon. The one with the mustaches. Do you remember? What was his name? Ferguson? MacPhearson? No, that wasn’t it. The one Susan walked away with. I haven’t thought of that evening in years. Do you remember?”
    “I don’t remember in the least. Miss Rivenwood, when this set is over, you will take Anna to the powder room and see that any extraneous material is removed from her upper story. I will not have the girl cut a figure of fun.”
    Mrs. Armitage was still chortling. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Dorothy. After all, however odd it may look at the moment, imagine how it would appear if she came back without ’em.” A gargantuan laugh. “People would wonder if it was something in the punch.”
    “Lavinia, you are a coarse old bat,” was Lady Dorothy’s response. But she made no more suggestions for correcting the situation. There was even a very reluctant twitch of the lips that might have been a suppressed smile. “Thank God we’re not in London at least,” she added fervently.
    “Aye, who cares what a bunch of provincial nobodies thinks? Eh, Dorothy?”
    “Exactly. It was Macclesfield.”
    “What?”
    “The dragoon’s name. It was Macclesfield.”
    Lavinia Armitage stretched both legs out full in front of herself, leaned back on the sofa, raised her face to the heavens, and laughed till tears came into her eyes. The dowager watched her with a surprising lack of censure.
    “Miss Rivenwood, Mrs. Armitage is overcome by the heat. Fetch her some lemonade.”
    “Make that brandy punch,” Mrs. Armitage corrected.
    “Some brandy punch,” Lady Dorothy commanded, “in a lemonade glass.”
    “A large lemonade glass,” Mrs. Armitage called after her.
    So Melissa sought the buffet table, erected in the anteroom. It was splendidly arrayed, having taken, as she knew all too well, the better part of the morning to prepare. Edwin and George, deftest of the five footmen, had been chosen to serve the pâté , puff pastries, and little cakes. Charlie, who was large, strong, willing, intelligent, and remarkably clumsy, carried trays of replenishment from the distant kitchen. Melissa had already been called upon to give her educated opinion of every article offered, first to Cook, then to the rabbit-like kitchen maid who helped with the fillings, and then upstairs under Bedford’s anxious eye. Itwas entirely possible she would never willingly eat puff pastry again in her life.
    Bedford was pouring liquors at the sideboard. He complied with her request without a flicker of curiosity. So speedily, in fact, did he procure the potent but disguised brandy punch that Melissa was left wondering how many of the stately ladies and demure maidens in the room were similarly supplied.
    The last measure of the quadrille was completed. The level of noise in the room suddenly increased, while everyone sorted out for the next bout of frivolity. Melissa fought her way upstream toward Lady Dorothy against a tide of the starving and desiccated.
    As she handed the putative lemonade to Mrs. Armitage, the worthy lady was saying, “Worse than scandal if it’s not stopped. After the Coburn affair ...”
    That sounded intriguing, but Melissa had no chance to indulge her curiosity. Two pairs of ancient eyes stared at her in silence. For the first time that night Lavinia Armitage left a remark unfinished.
    “I can