a gentleman behind him. Like Fred, the man was extravagantly attired—high shirt points, an even higher neckcloth, and a black coat and knee breeches cut so snugly he minced when he walked. “Miss Honeywell, may I present Mr. Lionel Beresford. Beresford, Miss Honeywell.”
“Beresford?” Maggie inquired as the man bowed over her gloved hand. “Are you any relation to Lords Allendale and St. Clare?”
“Distantly, ma’am. Distantly.” Mr. Beresford released her hand, affecting an air of fashionable boredom. “I claim the honor of calling the earl my uncle, and Lord St. Clare—a relative only recently brought to my attention—my cousin.”
“We met at Tattersall’s,” Fred said. “Beresford likes a bit of hunting. I’ve invited him to come and enjoy the shooting down at Beasley Park.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Have you.”
Fred already acted as if Beasley was his own, making decisions about the estate that should rightly have been left to her, but inviting guests down to stay was a new level of presumed ownership.
“Is Letchford Hall not a more appropriate place to entertain your guests?” she asked.
Located next door to Beasley Park, Sir Roderick’s estate was equally as grand and had the added benefit of being Fred’s actual home.
“Not with the renovations. There’s plaster and stonework everywhere. Isn’t safe for company. Besides”—Fred turned back to Lionel—“you can’t beat Beasley for hunting and shooting. The best in the West Country, that’s what I always say. You may bring your mother, too,” he added magnanimously. “Miss Honeywell could do with a bit of female company.”
“Obliged to you, sir.” Mr. Beresford gestured to someone in the crowd. “There’s Madre now. Allow me to introduce you, ma’am.”
There was no way Maggie could politely refuse. She permitted Fred to escort her back through the crowd to a row of chairs populated with elderly ladies and wallflowers. Mrs. Beresford sat among them, a thin, bird-like woman with unsettlingly sharp eyes. She regarded Maggie with a thin smile as Mr. Beresford made the introductions.
“You’re not dancing, Miss Honeywell?” she asked. “A shame to have dressed in such a singular gown and not dance. To be sure, the design looks quite French.” She tittered. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it on any of the young ladies of my acquaintance.”
“Miss Honeywell cannot dance,” Fred replied. “She’s an invalid.”
Maggie’s fingers clenched so hard on the ivory handle of her fan, she feared she might crack it in half. “How droll you are, Fred. Indeed, Mrs. Beresford, I can dance. I’m merely conserving my energy for the waltz.” She inclined her head. “Good evening.”
Turning sharply, she made her way back through the clusters of elegantly clad ladies and gentlemen that lined the ballroom. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I beg your pardon.”
The music swelled as the dance came to a close, the orchestra playing so loudly that she could hardly think.
“Margaret.” Fred caught hold of her arm—the same arm he’d clenched so brutally during his last visit to Green Street.
She couldn’t conceal a wince.
He dropped his hand. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t charge off alone.” His gaze flicked down the length of her in disapproval. “Not dressed like that.”
“I’m not alone. I came here with Miss Trumble, and with her brother and aunt.”
“None of whom are anywhere to be found.”
“Here I am!” Jane hurried, breathless, from the dance floor. “Is everything all right?”
Maggie had never been more relieved to see her friend. “Fred is objecting to my lack of a chaperone.”
Jane laughed. “Nonsense. She has three chaperones altogether. My brother has just gone to fetch us some punch, and then we’ll be rejoining my aunt.”
“Exactly so,” Maggie said. “I don’t need you hovering over me all night, Fred. You’ll only cause a scene.”
Fred glowered. “Very well. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Margaret, make no mistake.” He strode away to rejoin his friend.
“What was that about?” Jane asked.
“Possessiveness,” Maggie said. “And worse. He’s befriended a distant relation of Lord. St. Clare’s.”
“Oh?” Jane shot Maggie a look. “What mischief can he be up to?”
“I don’t know. But Fred never forgets a slight. I wouldn’t put it past him to be brewing some manner of trouble for the viscount.”
Jane sighed. “Men and their petty grievances. How tedious they can be.” She linked her arm through Maggie’s. “Come. Let’s find George.”
The evening continued in a flurry of music and dancing. More people arrived, and the ballroom was soon packed full to bursting. It was hot under the flickering lights of the crystal chandeliers, the air heavy with the cloying fragrance of