He stood stiffly at the side of the room, wishing that he hadn’t arrived so early. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but now he had no idea what he’d been thinking. Honoria wasn’t anywhere to be found. He should have realized she wouldn’t be; she and her cousins were surely warming up their instruments elsewhere in the house. And the servants were all giving him queer looks, as if to say, What are you doing here? He lifted his chin and regarded the room in much the same way he did at most formal events. He probably looked bored, he certainly looked proud, and neither one was strictly true.

He suspected that none of the other guests were going to arrive for at least thirty minutes, and he was wondering if he might wait in the drawing room, which would surely be empty. That was when he caught a flash of something pink, and he realized it was Lady Winstead, dashing about the room with uncharacteristic frenzy. She spied him, and then rushed over. “Oh, thank heavens you’re here,"

she said.

He took in the frantic expression on her face. “Is something wrong?"

“Sarah has taken ill."

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said politely. “Will she be all right?"

“I have no idea,” Lady Winstead replied somewhat sharply, considering that she was talking about the health of her niece. “I haven’t seen her. All I know is, she’s not here."

He tried to tamp down the giddy feeling in his chest. “Then you’ll have to cancel the musicale?” “Why does everyone keep asking that? Oh, never mind. Of course we cannot cancel. The Pleinsworth governess apparently can play, and she is taking Sarah’s part."

“Then all is well,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Isn’t it?"

She looked at him as if he were a slow-learning child. “We don’t know if this governess is any good."

He did not see how the governess’s skills at the piano would make any difference in the overall quality of the performance, but he declined to make this statement aloud. Instead he said something like: “Oh, well.” Or perhaps, “Quite so.” Either way, it served the purpose of making a noise without saying anything at all.

Which was really the best he could hope for under the circumstances.

“This is our eighteenth musicale, did you know that?” Lady Winstead asked.

He did not.

“Every one of them has been a success, and now this."

“Perhaps the governess will be very talented,” he said, trying to comfort her.

Lady Winstead gave him an impatient look. “Talent matters little when one has had only six hours to practice."

Marcus could see that there was no way this conversation was going to go anywhere but in a circle, so he asked politely if there was anything he could do to facilitate the performance, fully expecting her to say no, which would then leave him free to enjoy a solitary glass of brandy in the drawing room.

But to his complete surprise and—one must be honest—horror, she took his hand in a fervent grip and said, “Yes!"

He froze. “I beg your pardon?"

“Could you bring some lemonade to the girls?"

She wanted him to— “What?” “Everyone is busy. Everyone.” She waved her arms as if to demonstrate. “The footmen have already rearranged the chairs three times."

Marcus glanced out at the room, wondering what could possibly be so complicated about twelve even rows.

“You want me to bring them lemonade,” he repeated.

“They will be thirsty,” she explained.

“They’re not singing?” Good God, the horror.

She pressed her lips together in irritation. “Of course not. But they have been rehearsing all day. It’s strenuous work. Do you play?"

“An instrument? No.” It was one of the few skills his father had not deemed it necessary that he learn.

“Then you will not understand,” she said with great drama.

“Those poor girls will be parched."

“Lemonade,” he said again, wondering if she wished him to bring it in on a tray. “Very well."

Her brows rose, and she looked a little annoyed at his slowness.

“I assume you’re strong enough to carry the pitcher?"

As insults went, it was just preposterous enough not to bother him. “I believe I can manage, yes,” he said dryly.

“Good. It’s over there,” she said, waving her hand toward a table at the side of the room. “And Honoria is just through that door.” She pointed toward the back.

“Just Honoria?"

Her eyes narrowed. “Of course not. It’s a quartet.” And with that, she was off, directing the footmen, interrogating the maids, and generally attempting to supervise what appeared to be, in Marcus’s opinion, a rather smoothly run affair.

He walked over to one of the refreshment tables and picked up a pitcher of lemonade. There didn’t seem to be any glasses set out yet, which did make him wonder if Lady Winstead meant for him to pour the lemonade down the girls’ throats.

He smiled. It was an entertaining image.

Pitcher in hand, he made his way through the door Lady Winstead had indicated, moving quietly so as not to disturb whatever rehearsal might be underway.

There was no rehearsal.

Instead, he saw four women arguing as if the fate of Great Britain depended on it. Well, no, actually, only three of the women were arguing. The one at the piano, whom he assumed was the governess, was wisely staying out of it.

What was remarkable was that the three Smythe-Smiths managed to do it all without raising their voices, a tacit agreement, he assumed, in light of the guests they knew must be arriving soon in the next room.

“If you would just smile, Iris,” Honoria snapped, “it would make it all so much easier."

“For whom? For you? Because I assure you, it won’t make it easier for me."

“I don’t care if she smiles,” the other one said. “I don’t care if she ever smiles. She’s evil."

“Daisy!” Honoria exclaimed.

Daisy narrowed her eyes and glared at Iris. “You’re evil."

“And you’re an idiot."

Marcus glanced over at the governess. She was resting her head against the pianoforte, which led him to wonder how long the three Smythe-Smiths had been at it.

“Can you try to smile?” Honoria asked wearily.

Iris stretched her lips into an expression so frightening that Marcus almost left the room.

“Good God, never mind,” Honoria muttered. “Don’t do that."

“It is difficult to feign good humor when all I wish is to throw myself through the window."

“The window is closed,” Daisy said officiously.

Iris’s stare was pure venom. “Precisely."

“Please,” Honoria begged. “Can’t we all just get along?"

“I think we sound wonderful,” Daisy said with a sniff. “No one would know we’d only had six hours to practice with Anne."

The governess looked up at the sound of her name, then back down when it became clear she need not reply.

Iris turned on her sister with something bordering malevolence.

“You wouldn’t know good— Euf! Honoria!"

“Sorry. Was that my elbow?"

“In my ribs."

Honoria hissed something at Iris that Marcus supposed only she was meant to hear, but it was clearly about Daisy, because Iris gave her younger sister a disparaging glance, then rolled her eyes and said, “Fine."

He looked back over at the governess. She appeared to be counting spots on the ceiling.

“Shall we try it one last time?” Honoria said with weary determination.

“I can’t imagine what good it might do.” This came from Iris, naturally.

Daisy gave her a withering stare and snipped, “Practice makes perfect."

Marcus thought he saw the governess try to stifle a laugh. She finally looked up and saw him standing there with his pitcher of lemonade. He put his finger to his lips, and she gave a little nod and smile and turned back to the piano.

“Are we ready?” Honoria asked.

The violinists lifted their instruments.

The governess’s hands hovered over the keys of her pianoforte.

Iris let out a miserable groan but nonetheless put her bow to her cello.

And then the horror began.

Chapter Twenty

Marcus could not possibly have described the sound that came forth from the four instruments in the Smythe-Smith rehearsal room.

He was not sure there were words that would be accurate, at least not in polite company. He was loath to call it music; in all honesty, it was more of a weapon than anything else.

In turn, he looked at each of the women. The governess seemed a little frantic, her head bobbing back and forth between the keys and her music. Daisy had her eyes closed and was weaving and bobbing, as if she were caught up in the glory of the—well, he supposed he had to call it music. Iris looked as if she wanted to cry.

Or possibly murder Daisy.

And Honoria . . .

She looked so lovely that he wanted to cry. Or possibly murder her violin.

She did not look as she had in last year’s musicale, when her smile had been beatific and her eyes aglow with passion. Instead she attacked her violin with grim determination, her eyes narrowed, her teeth gritted, as if she were leading her troops into battle.

She was the glue holding this ridiculous quartet together, and he could not have loved her more.

He wasn’t sure if they had intended to do the entire piece, but thankfully Iris looked up, saw him, and let out a loud enough “Oh!"

to halt the proceedings.

“Marcus!” Honoria exclaimed, and he would have sworn she looked happy to see him, except that he wasn’t so sure he trusted his judgment on the matter any longer. “Why are you here?” she asked.