It wasn’t that she didn’t look very becoming in the pink dress. I’d rarely seen another color do more for her complexion, but that shade of candy pink was generally reserved for younger girls. Mother always wanted to appear much younger than she was. She was never happier than when some handsome lord mistook her for my older sister. And it was quite a dramatic departure from her widow’s weeds.

“Shameful,” said the lady in green silk. “And she’s a widow, is she not?”

“She’s worn the black for years, as I hear it. Except for formal balls.”

“A lady of good breeding would know better. Honestly, what can Lord Jasper be thinking, parading his mistress about like that? As if we’d believe she’s just some Spiritualist he’s taken a scientific interest in.”

She tittered. I’d never actually heard someone titter before. Beside me, Elizabeth winced.

“He’s lonely, poor old thing.”

“And rich enough not to care what the rest of us think,” came the dry reply.

They laughed together while I stood, rooted to the floor. Mother laughed as well, and it was like silver bells, but too loud. Her cheeks were flushed. I knew, even from this distance, that the sherry she’d been drinking all day had been followed by several glasses of fine champagne.

“Never mind them,” Elizabeth said. “You know how people get. They’re just jealous that they already look like wrinkled old prunes.”

I just nodded, feeling even more awful because I agreed with what they’d said about my mother. She always behaved this way when there were wealthy men around, whatever their age. The man smiling at her just now was barely older than I was, which didn’t seem to bother her one whit. She glanced at him through her lashes. For all that she craved respectability, Mother was a consummate flirt. Even though I knew it would do no good, I went over to her.

“Mother.”

She pouted. She didn’t want me to remind her admirers of her age.

“Impossible!” one of them cried out. “You couldn’t have a grown daughter.”

She smiled demurely and tapped his chest with the tip of her folded fan. “You flatter me, sir.”

“And such a beautiful daughter,” Lord Marshall murmured. I shifted uncomfortably.

“Mother, perhaps one of these gentlemen could fetch you some lemonade. You must be thirsty.”

She just giggled. “I don’t want lemonade,” she said. “But a kiss to the first one to bring me champagne.”

Half a dozen men trampled off like wild buffalo. There were squeaks of protest from women who didn’t flirt nearly as well as my mother and therefore had to all but leap out of the way. Lord Marshall remained at her side, kissing the palm of her hand in a most indiscrete manner.

“Mother,” I groaned, mortified. She shot me a look that made me fall back a step.

“Don’t be tiresome, Violet. I knew you were too young yet to attend a ball. I should send you to your room.”

I bit back tears even though I wasn’t sure why they stung my eyes. She’d certainly said worse to me. It was just something about the way she’d looked at me. If I hadn’t known better, if she hadn’t been my own mother, I would have thought I’d seen resentment, even a touch of hatred. I didn’t know what to do.

“Come on, Vi,” Elizabeth whispered. “Let’s take another turn.”

“Yes, do run along, children,” Lord Marshall murmured.

Mother giggled again, and Elizabeth and I left to stroll the circuit, arm in arm. Suddenly the ball was less exciting, less magical.

“Excuse me,” I said, when we passed the double doors to the hall.

Elizabeth looked concerned. “Shall I come with you?”

“I’m fine, only a little overheated.” I forced a smile for her benefit. She didn’t believe me, of course, but she didn’t follow me.

The hall was deserted and it was a relief to leave behind the hot, scented air of the ballroom. I wandered down toward the conservatory, pausing to admire a massive bronze urn on a marble table. It was large enough to house what looked like an entire rosebush, with space left for peacock feathers, fern fronds, and stalks of white lilies. I circled it, using its bulk to conceal myself—but only for a moment. I wouldn’t give either my mother or the other ladies the satisfaction of running away to hide in my room. I’d be perfectly fine in a moment. My throat felt less constricted already. And if my mother wasn’t going to be embarrassed about her own behavior, why should I? If nothing else, I had to keep her away from Mrs. Trethewey.

I lifted my chin and prepared to pretend I was a sheltered girl without a clue as to what was going on. I was determined to salvage what was left of the evening. Even muffled through the closed doors, the music was beautiful, haunting.

And then all I knew was the sound of bronze against marble, an odd screeching scrape, and the shadow of the urn toppling toward me. I stared at it uncomprehending, even as a small part of me realized I was about to be crushed. I didn’t have time to decide whether I should steel myself for impact or try to leap to safety.

The decision was made for me. A hand closed over my arm, digging painfully as it yanked me out of the way. The urn tipped to the floor with a resounding crash, spilling water and lily petals. My breath was still caught in my throat, like a lump of dry bread, when I recognized the man towering over me.

“Have a care, Miss Willoughby,” he murmured, his silver cravat pin gleaming. I stumbled back out of his hold, trembling. I recognized the cravat pin from the gardens.