The kiss did not come. The pleasant sounds that had surrounded us—the Highland schottische, laughter, and the rustle of silk skirts—faded to nothing as a voice boomed below us.

“I’ll kill you!” The speaker was standing at the bottom of the stairs, talking so loudly no one in the immediate vicinity need strain to decipher every syllable of the conversation. “She’s innocent in all this. I will not stand by and see her ruined.”

He looked like every other man at the ball, elegant in his evening kit. But the strain on his face—bulging eyes, cherry red splashed across his cheeks—came from anger, not from the exertion of dancing. The gentleman across from him stepped back, raising his hands as if to push away his companion.

“It’s not any business of mine,” he said. “I was only trying to warn you. To keep you from making an enormous mistake.”

“Speak of this to anyone else and you are a dead man. I’ll not have Polly’s reputation destroyed.”

He was already too late to save it.

“Emily!” Ivy Brandon, my dearest childhood friend and quite possibly the sweetest woman in England, tugged at my arm. “Have you heard? Polly Sanders, who’s to marry—”

“Shhh, listen,” I said and motioned to the gentlemen below.

“Oh. Oh, I say.” Ivy’s eyes widened and she lifted her hand to her mouth as she watched Thomas Lacey punch the other man square in the jaw. “It appears he already knows.”

Colin broke away from us and rushed down the steps, forcing himself between the fighters, ducking to avoid a blow.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Whatever it is, you’re causing more of a scene than it sounds like you want, Lacey. Walk with me and tell me what’s going on.” They hadn’t taken more than five steps when the Londonderrys’ butler approached and pulled my husband aside. Their heads bent together for only an instant as the servant handed Colin an envelope. He bowed to my husband and retreated but not before shooting a disparaging look at his mistress’ recently fighting guests.