Edie glanced at the butler’s impassive face. “Right. Inform the coachman we’re going to Lady Chuttle’s, if you please, Willikins.”

And so he did, and a minute later they were under way. Unfortunately, the lady’s house was but a fifteen-minute drive, which meant that Layla was only slightly less tipsy by the time they arrived. “I shall know instantly who she is,” she said chattily, as they descended from the carriage in front of a large town house.

“Are you implying that there will be courtesans in attendance?” Edie asked, feeling rather more interested in the Chuttle ball than she had been in visiting Almack’s.

“Undoubtedly,” Layla said. “That’s why your father will be here. As I was saying, I shall recognize Winifred. I know the sort Jonas favors. I’m sure she’s one of those women who rush up and tell you that no matter what they eat, they simply cannot gain weight. He told me once that I had a flat stomach, you know. That was back when I had a flat stomach.”

“Layla,” Edie said. “I am bored by Winifred, and I haven’t even met her. Follow the nice groom and let’s get out of the chill.”

“I am the daughter of a marquess!” Layla announced.

“That’s right,” Edie said encouragingly. “Winifred probably sprang from a cabbage patch. And I bet she has to stuff her corset in order to achieve any curve in the front.”

“I need not resort to such sorry tactics,” Layla said, tossing her cloak behind her shoulders, and thereby revealing her quite magnificent bosom.

“Winifred would have to put a cabbage down her corset in order to look anything like you,” Edie said. “Two cabbages, one for each side.”

Layla nodded sharply and swept into the house.

As far as Edie could see, there was nothing about the entryway that signaled the possible presence of courtesans. The butler bowed, precisely as butlers did, handed their cloaks to footmen lounging by the wall, then led them down a hallway to the ballroom, where he announced them.

“Oh, look,” Layla cried with delight, plunging down the stairs and knocking the butler to the side as she did so. “There’s Betsy!”

“Who is Betsy?” Edie asked, trotting down the steps, braced to catch Layla if she stumbled.

“A dear friend of my mother’s. Lady Runcible, she must be now. I believe she was widowed last summer, the poor woman. That would have been her third—no, her fourth husband.”

“Quite a tragedy. Or perhaps triumph is a better word.”

Layla dove into the crowd, towing Edie behind her. “It’s not her fault. They just drop off after a year or two. But she’s managed to keep her hair yellow through all of it, and you have to admit . . . that is a true triumph.”

A second later she plunged into conversation with a woman whose hair did, indeed, have a touch of the victorious about it: time had apparently stood still for Lady Runcible. Edie smiled politely and glanced about for her father. She was certain that he wouldn’t be able to resist following Layla to the ball.

She heard a deep voice, and someone touched her elbow. She turned to find Lord Beckwith standing beside her. “Lady Edith.” He glanced at her gown—pale pink but without any trim to disguise her bosom—and his face came alive with admiration. “What a pleasure to meet you here.”

Edie curtsied. “Lord Beckwith, I am very glad to see you.”

“Au contraire,” Layla was saying nearby. “I have been out of society far too long. I have decided to turn over a new leaf. J’arrive, ma chère, j’arrive!”

Lord Beckwith bowed, took Edie’s hand and kissed it, then didn’t release it when he ought. “I hope this is not inappropriate, but I know I express the feelings of many gentlemen when I say how much I regret your expeditious betrothal.”

“Lady Edith won’t marry for months,” Layla said, nipping about suddenly and joining the conversation.

Beckwith bowed again. “Lady Gilchrist. It is a true pleasure to see you.”

“My dears, shall we find some refreshment?” Layla asked. “I must admit that after that tiring coach ride, I would welcome something restorative to drink.” Moments later, they were seated at a small table, champagne and small plates of bonnes bouches before them.

“Eat,” Edie said to Layla, pushing a plate of little cakes closer to her. “You’ll have a terrible head in the morning.”

“Au contraire,” Layla said in a silvery voice. “I’ve always been able to handle my champagne. I believe I was born with bubbles in my blood.”

Widow Runcible had towed two men along with her; candidates, Edie presumed, for the hazardous role of her fifth husband. Layla began flirting madly with one of them, Lord Grell. Edie sighed and turned back to Beckwith. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my father this evening?”

“Yes, he is here, Lady Edith. I gather you arrived separately?”

Layla must have heard; she stiffened and leaned even closer to her prey.

“Lady Edith, may I have the honor of this dance?” Beckwith asked.

She was about to say yes, when she saw her father stalking toward them. “Father!” she cried, popping up and curtsying. “There you are!”

Layla took a deep breath, picked up her glass so forcefully that Edie was surprised it didn’t shatter, and drained it.

“Daughter,” her father said, coming to a halt. “Lady Gilchrist. Lady Runcible. Lord Beckwith. Lord Grell.”

The second of Lady Runcible’s followers had melted away before he could be greeted; the arrival of an incandescently angry man could do that to a conversation. Her father looked like a barbarian dressed in evening wear: though his jacket was plum velvet and his neck cloth immaculately tied, there was more than a hint of madness about his eyes.

Edie followed his gaze and saw that Layla was leaning close to Lord Grell, who was such a fool that he didn’t have the sense to look alarmed.

Even after a lifetime of skirmishing with her father, Edie felt apprehension at the look on his face now. Lord Beckwith gave her an apologetic smile and sidled off into the crowd.

“Goodness me, there’s my husband,” Layla cried, pretending to see the earl for the first time. She bent sideways, as if she was about to fall off her chair, though Edie knew she was craning to see if Winifred stood anywhere nearby.

The earl was alight with fury; Edie truly doubted that there was a Winifred.

Lady Runcible now stood up as well and towed Lord Grell away with her, quite likely saving his life.

Edie expected her father to drag Layla to her feet and call for their carriage, but instead he dropped into the chair Beckwith had occupied until a minute earlier. Edie took her seat again as well, and for some moments the three of them sat in tense silence around the small table.

At last, Edie broke the silence. “Should I leave the two of you alone? I could stroll around the room or dance with Lord Beckwith.”

“Why should you?” Layla said. “It’s not as if we will have a meaningful conversation in your absence. His Lordship is likely going to accuse me of doing something unsavory with that poor man who was here a moment ago. As if I would have a chance, now that Betsy has decided to marry him.”

“I had no such—”