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curls were already escaping their pins—and stooped to hear Lady Bannister’s whisper.
    “Of course I’ll go find Iselle,” she said aloud, loudly enough for others to hear. “But she cannot be so late, Lord Farrell is not down yet either.” Then she clapped a hand over her mouth. Lady Bannister rolled her eyes. There were a few twitters from various corners.
    Wingate stepped into the breech, thinking again how very young his Glory was, how unready for polite drawing rooms. “I saw Farrell’s man hurrying with another batch of fresh neck cloths when we passed in the hall. I’m sure he’ll be here momentarily to dazzle us with another new creation.”
    Lord Bannister muttered something about dashed popinjays, and conversations resumed. Irma flew from the room, likely in search of the truant sister.
    Wingate waited a moment, then slipped out after her.
    The hallway was empty, as was the grand stairwell spiraling to the upper reaches. “Now where the deuce has that baggage—”
    “Ssh,” he heard, from behind an enormous arrangement of chrysanthemums on a hall table. Winn stepped closer. The youngest daughter of the house was flat against the wall, out of sight of the drawing room and the stairs. If ever there was a minx up to some devilment, he decided, this grinning, green-eyed sprite was it. “What the devil are—”
    “Hush, you’ll ruin everything.” And she boldly reached out and took his hand, pulling his dignified lordship into the shadows beside her, wedged between a grandfather clock and a flowerpot. He really ought to demand an explanation; he definitely ought to release her warm hand. He did neither.
    The grandfather clock started to chime the hour, uncomfortably close to Wingate’s ear. Irma squeezed his hand, peering up the stairs. He followed her gaze and was finally rewarded with the sight of Iselle gliding down the upper hallway toward the landing. She was gowned in ivory silk, with a blue net overdress that flowed about her willowy figure from ribbons that tied just beneath the minute bodice. Her gold hair was piled on top of her head like a crown, with one long tress falling over her shoulder to rest along the expanse of creamy flesh left exposed by the plunging décolletage. The viscount took a deep, loud breath, and found his hand cast into the flowers.
    Before the clock had finished striking, Sir Evan strode down the opposite hallway. The London tulip was as exquisite in his dress as Iselle. Whereas Viscount Wingate was precise in his black satin knee-smalls and tailcoat, with immaculate white linen and stockings, Farrell was a peacock in aqua velvet, with saffron-silk stripes on his waistcoat, an enormous amber pin in his intricate neck cloth, and enough ribbons and chains crossing his chest to anchor a coal barge. Now it was Wingate’s turn to bristle when Glory sighed in appreciation.
    Farrell and Iselle met at the upper landing. The baronet bowed and offered Miss Snodgrass his arm. Iselle inclined her golden head and lightly placed her gloved hand on his velvet sleeve. They proceeded down the stairs. When the pair was halfway down, Irma stepped out from the shadows. She didn’t leap out or spring out or hop out, she merely took one step away from the wall and whispered, “Boo.”
    Wingate looked at her in amazement. Glory had not been pitching gammon after all: insanity must truly run in the family.
    Somehow, while he was staring at Irma, Iselle had lost her footing on the stairs. Iselle, who never put a foot wrong, who was the most graceful dancer in all of London, tripped. Iselle screamed. Irma screamed. The viscount made to dash for the bottom of the stairs, but found himself held back by two small fists clutching his coattails. No matter, Farrell had caught the girl. Wingate’s stomach settled back where it belonged. He would have gone to the pair, collapsed now on the stairs, but the back of his coat was still in Glory’s hands.
    Farrell was seated, holding Miss Snodgrass