Chapter 13

And then the apocalypse came regardless. Not in the sense he’d been expecting. In the sense of a tempest of streaming guests, excited footmen, hurricanes of dancing-shoes and ribbons and exclamations. He’d momentarily forgotten about the noises from outside, distracted by the Irvings.

In the hall—they’d been lingering just outside the ballroom entrance—they all turned. Terrace doors swung wide. Cacophony waterfalled in, a breaking dam, a gush of London Society all distraught and overset.

One or two delicate young ladies fainted, or pretended to, from excitement. Anthony mentally rolled his eyes, but then discovered genuine reason for concern: James Thorne had come in supporting Nicholas Herron, a support obviously needed given blood and visible dizziness. Lady Rosamond and Elizabeth Thorne were also entwined, he noticed, dresses tattered, hands being held; they looked less injured, though.