"Yes, but there’s something different about Angelford. He doesn’t chase the ladies of the ton, though I know many who would love to snare him."

"He likes the muslin well enough."

"Yes, well, every man likes their kind."

"Some more than most."

"You don’t suppose he will end up like the former Viscount Salisbury?"

"Besotted of his mistress? I tend to think Angelford will be more like the Duke of Kent, he’ll come through when duty calls."

The Viscount Salisbury. A shiver traversed Calliope’s spine. The biddies never tired of the topic of men who refused to marry proper ladies, but slavishly attended to their mistresses. In their lofty opinion, it was a crime against society.

Calliope tamped the emotions their words caused and once again examined the assemblage. It was the same thing she saw every evening. The debutantes held court in their virginal white dresses, the scantily clad widows and married women flirted brazenly and spun in rainbows of dazzling colors, the dandies pranced in even brighter shades and the ever-present rakes leered at anything in a skirt. They melded together on and around the dance floor, their choreographed movements keeping time with the orchestra’s melody and society’s rhythm.

The scene was nothing new and Calliope cursed her own folly for her present predicament. It had been two years since she had become a caricaturist and begun satirizing the nobility. Two years since she had started devising elaborate ruses to gain entrance into society’s hallowed halls, where she could view the inner workings and shadowed secrets of London ’s finest.

Drawing caricatures had begun as a lark, but striking back at the nobility had become her passion.

A pink-faced Mr. Terrence Smith appeared at Calliope’s elbow with two glasses of lemonade. He puffed from exertion. "I came across as quickly as I could."

The two matrons continued gossiping, although Lady Simpson took a moment to cast a pointed look at Terrence.