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smile sharpened into a rather devious grin. “From Grandmama, of course.”
    Before Charlotte could properly react to that, the bell rang for dinner. To Charlotte’s embarrassment, she found herself seated at Aunt Hildy’s right hand at supper, the seat of honor. She glanced down the long dining-room table, glittering with reflected candlelight, and squirmed at the thought of being placed before the young Marchioness of Tamsin, the earl, the viscount, and their Right Honorable children and siblings, not to mention the other Dowagers of higher rank. All eyes were on her, now.
    Charlotte closed her eyes and imagined her practiced politeness as an impenetrable armor that deflected every possible sneering glance, every upturned nose, every doubtful frown. She drew herself taller, brought her calm, cool smile forward, and imagined the metal sound of a helm’s visor slamming shut.
    Let them try to find fault with me now . Charlotte was a warrior princess. Her modest, girlish, flirtatious, graceful, cultured, proper demeanor was her trusted mace, and she was fully prepared to club the nearest bachelor over the head with it and drag him to the altar as soon as possible.
    The chatter died as the first course was served. Charlotte sensed a presence at her left side, and the peculiar shiver underneath her flawless armor told her it was Freddy. Nonsense . She kept her gaze resolutely on the white gloves gripping the polished silver tureen of hare soup.
    “Yes, please,” she said, not even caring that she wasn’t fond of game. She just wanted him to move on to the next guest and leave her alone. She knew if she turned her head only a few more degrees to the left, tilted it a hair upward, she would see his eyes, and she’d confirm what she already, inexplicably knew: they were focused on her .
    Concentration on the social task at hand grew more difficult. Freddy’s presence dragged all her thoughts inward, like flotsam into a whirlpool. Why was he looking at her like that? Suitable bachelors, those whose attention she wanted to catch, never spared her a glance. Why was this footman, whose attention was neither solicited, desired, nor permitted, distracting her this way for no discernible reason?
    She turned her head as Mr. Oswald made a comment (not one word of which she heard) and she smiled as if greatly amused. Mentally, she gave herself a sharp kick with a pointed, frozen boot. Freddy was her footman, wasn’t he? She could always just order him to stop. Of course, it was unspeakably rude to speak to or about servants at the dinner table, so she would have to endure his invasive glance for a little bit longer, but she would overcome. She was Miss Charlotte Erlwood. She would not be undone by a servant . She had more Fey blood and magical endurance in her pinkie finger than Freddy’s entire body.
    The gentle music of clinking tableware, fluttering laughter, and humming conversation stilled as the harsher sounds of shouting and angry words filtered in from the hallway. The combatants were too far off to catch their exact words, but the lilting, solicitous tone of a servant was as instantly recognizable as the razor-edged, entitled pitch of a Pure Blooded.
    The butler, standing at his place behind and to the left of Aunt Hildy, cocked his head toward the noise like a hound hearing the rustling of a grouse. Bending slightly, he conversed with the Viscountess in hushed tones.
    “I apologize, Gelvers,” said Aunt Hildy. “I didn’t think he was coming, mainly because he was not invited. I suppose he shall need a place…”
    “May I suggest setting a table in the smoking-room?”
    “Excellent suggestion, Gelvers.”
    With a hissed command, Gelvers sent two footmen out of the room to prepare for the late and unwelcome guest. To Charlotte’s relief, Freddy was one of them.
    Go on with you, then. And take your ridiculous eyes with you.
    Resolutely, Charlotte turned toward Viscount Elban, Lord Enshaw’s handsome, titled, and