"He likes the muslin well enough."

"Yes, well, every man likes their kind."

"Some more than most."

"You don’t suppose he will end up like the former Viscount Salisbury?"

"Besotted of his mistress? I tend to think Angelford will be more like the Duke of Kent, he’ll come through when duty calls."

The Viscount Salisbury. A shiver traversed Calliope’s spine. The biddies never tired of the topic of men who refused to marry proper ladies, but slavishly attended to their mistresses. In their lofty opinion, it was a crime against society.

Calliope tamped the emotions their words caused and once again examined the assemblage. It was the same thing she saw every evening. The debutantes held court in their virginal white dresses, the scantily clad widows and married women flirted brazenly and spun in rainbows of dazzling colors, the dandies pranced in even brighter shades and the ever-present rakes leered at anything in a skirt. They melded together on and around the dance floor, their choreographed movements keeping time with the orchestra’s melody and society’s rhythm.

The scene was nothing new and Calliope cursed her own folly for her present predicament. It had been two years since she had become a caricaturist and begun satirizing the nobility. Two years since she had started devising elaborate ruses to gain entrance into society’s hallowed halls, where she could view the inner workings and shadowed secrets of London ’s finest.

Drawing caricatures had begun as a lark, but striking back at the nobility had become her passion.

A pink-faced Mr. Terrence Smith appeared at Calliope’s elbow with two glasses of lemonade. He puffed from exertion. "I came across as quickly as I could."

The two matrons continued gossiping, although Lady Simpson took a moment to cast a pointed look at Terrence.

"What’s wrong, Mr. Smith?" Calliope asked.

A fretful look crossed his unremarkable features. He shoved a glass in her hand. "I thought something might be amiss, Miss Stafford. You looked distraught."

She smiled. He had used her present pseudonym. No one in the hall knew her real name. "Everything’s fine, though I appreciate your of concern."

Terrence nodded and scowled at the marquess. Calliope smiled at the reproach by the otherwise timid little man. He was such a dear.

A shrill giggle drew his attention to Lucinda Fredericks. He had developed a tendre for the vain debutante who allowed him a single dance each night, and only because her guardian forced her to do so. Calliope found his infatuation incomprehensible. But she supported her friend, which meant she reluctantly left Lucinda out of any damaging drawings.

Terrence was Calliope’s only friend among society and as far as the ton was concerned they shared many traits. Everything about Terrence made him fodder for the sharks, from his timidity to his lack of looks and fortune.

Calliope took a sip of the saccharine lemonade and restrained a grimace at its taste. Too much sugar. Again.

Terrence continued to gaze longingly at Lucinda, who glanced at him in irritation before touching Angelford’s arm in a coy gesture. It was time to sidetrack her friend. "Mr. Smith, how are you progressing on your book of poetry?"

His drooping face perked up. "Quite well, actually. I have penned several poems this week."

"How wonderful. I’d love to read them."

He shot her an anxious look. "I’m… I’m still revising."

Terrence was no different from any other young man of his age and station. He dreamed of fortune, fame and winning Lucinda Frederick’s hand. He knew writing would not give him any of those things, so he invested in one harebrained scheme after another.

Calliope assessed his apparel. His outmoded coat showed the ineffectiveness of his ventures.

Lady Simpson’s voice sliced through her musings. She was staring at Calliope’s drink. "Stop lollygagging, girl, and get me some punch. I’m quite parched."

Calliope reminded herself for the hundredth time that she needed material for her deadline. She bit her tongue and nodded. Her pen would flay Lady Simpson later.

"Lady Simpson, it would be my pleasure to fetch you a lemonade," Terrence said.

"Nonsense. Miss Stafford will do so. That’s why I employ her."

Calliope cast Terrence a reassuring look, but he had assumed the dogged look of determination, which sometimes caused him trouble.

Calliope shoved her nearly full cup back to Terrence. "I appreciate the offer, Mr. Smith, but I do need the exercise. It’s good for my leg."

Lady Simpson’s eyes narrowed as she glared down at Calliope’s barely visible slipper. At that moment, Angelford turned in her direction, and he also cast a look downward. He must have been listening to their conversation. Heat spread from Calliope’s toes to her head and she excused herself before Lady Simpson could make disparaging comment or Angelford could add his own.

It was one thing to be criticized by Lady Simpson, quite another to have it come from Angelford. Using her walking cane, she headed for the refreshment area, deftly navigating the dancing couples and groups gathered on the perimeter.

The room was stifling. Calliope surreptitiously pulled her dress from her body, trying to create a breeze under the heavy, coarse material. She could feel moisture gathering along her spine and resisted the urge to waft air down the back of her dress.

But then, imagining the scandalized glances the action would garner, she was tempted to do it. Lady Simpson would surely have a fit, or at the very least a fainting spell. The series of thuds reverberating through the room, as the woman’s plumpness inelegantly bounced on the floor, would prove satisfying enough to outweigh the consequences.

Calliope was nearing the end of her time with Lady Simpson, and she was more than ready to find a new post. From the outset, the Simpson position had yielded exceptionally lucrative material. As a companion to one of society’s matrons, Calliope attended many of the Season’s major social events, giving her access to people and activities she had only dreamed of previously.

Unfortunately, she had underestimated her own exposure.

In her two prior positions she had blended into the background and proceeded unnoticed. Yet those roles had not provided her with the rewards she had come to expect from this post. Lady Simpson had the tongue of a viper and delighted in striking those in her path. Calliope was often tempted to pull out parchment and take notes while Lady Simpson gossiped.

As she had in previous positions, Calliope wore her hair in severe, unflattering styles and clothed herself in drab garments and spectacles. But moving in loftier circles had brought her to if the notice of the more acidic debutantes, who viewed her as an easy target on which to practice their cutting wit.

She winced. Her scathing reply a few weeks ago to Cecelia Dort’s pointed commentary on fashion had been unwise. Her relationship with Lady Simpson had been in a steady decline ever since Calliope had humiliated the reigning debutante.

A line formed at the refreshment table, and Calliope noticed someone had finally propped open a terrace door. She stole a glance back at Lady Simpson, who was engaged in an animated conversation with the elegantly attired Earl of Flanders. Calliope estimated Lady Simpson would monopolize him for at least fifteen minutes. A short but blessed reprieve.

Calliope edged toward the door, trying to keep as many bodies between Lady Simpson and her as possible. A brief period of solitude was in order. Just a little farther…

Lady Simpson gestured to the terrace and Calliope realigned her body toward the refreshment table. But the earl shook his head, drawing the lady’s attention once more, and Calliope crossed the threshold and slipped into the cool spring air. The brisk night enveloped her.