Lady Sheringford's ball at the Claverbrook mansion on Grosvenor Square, Cassandra recited mentally, committing the relevant details of the conversation to memory as she tried to ignore the myriad irrelevant ones.

Three of the ladies were going, though none of them /wanted/ to, of course. It was really quite incomprehensible that a lady as respectable as Lady Sheringford had been willing to marry the earl when he had behaved so shockingly just a few years before that he ought never again to have been received by decent folk.

Gracious heaven, he had even had a /child/ with that dreadful woman, who had left her lawful husband in order to run away with him – on the very day he had been pledged to marry her husband's sister. It really had been a scandal to end all scandals.

The three were going to the ball anyway, though, because everyone else was going. And really one was interested to discover how the marriage was progressing. It would be surprising indeed if it were not under severe strain after three whole years. Though no doubt the earl and his lady would put on a show of amity for the duration of the ball.

Two of the ladies were /not/ going. One had a previous engagement, she was relieved to report. The other would not step over the doorstep of a house that contained the /Earl of Sheringford/ even if everyone else was willing to forgive and forget. Even if someone were to offer her a /fortune/ she would not go. It was most provoking that her husband positively refused to attend any balls when he knew that she loved to dance.

Better and better, Cassandra thought. The Countess of Sheringford lived under a cloud cast by the earl's reputation as a rake and a rogue. It was unlikely they would turn anyone away from their doors, even without an invitation. Though clearly the earl's reputation was going to bring more guests to the ball than it would drive away, curiosity being the besetting sin of the /ton/ – and probably of humanity in general.