“Let’s enter in the rear.” The earl led them around to the kitchen gardens. “I will go greet our guests. Please join us whenever you wish.”

“Ewan wasn’t in the least frightened by whatever you did to Sweetpea,” Annabel said quietly to Josie as they climbed the back stairs. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Poor Sweetpea. I suppose that was Papa’s miracle lotion?”

Josie nodded guiltily.

The moment Annabel pushed open the door of her room, her maid jumped to her feet like an excited terrier. Elsie was looking white and strained, even for someone who ran on her nerves as a matter of course. “Oh, miss, the castle is absolutely crammed with people; you can’t imagine. Most of two counties are either here or on their way. And it’s not just the nobility either; it’s everyone. The servants’ hall is fair run over already.”

“They’re here to celebrate the wedding,” Annabel said, feeling light-headed at the thought.

“Some of them!” Elsie snapped. “The rest are here for a free meal, Mrs. Warsop says. She’s clean out of butter and had to send to the village for everything she can find. But it’s the whiskey that’s really likely to run out. They’re already drinking down there, and it’s not noon yet. And the ladies too, though some of them aren’t acting like ladies by my definition. Mrs. Warsop says that the countess summoned the Crogans this morning, and by all accounts, they drink their breakfast every morning.”

Annabel couldn’t think what to say to that, so she sat at her dressing room table and let Elsie brush out her hair. “Mrs. Warsop needs every hand she can, just to keep pace with the serving. It’s not as if all these servants are willing to help. They act as if they’ve just come for the celebration, and we’re to serve them as well as everyone else.”

Elsie was brushing so briskly that Annabel’s hair crackled. “I just don’t see why those servants have to be so monstrous rude. If it hadn’t been for my respect for Mrs. Warsop, I’d have had more to tell them.”

“The more you match words with those sorts, the less respect you gain.”

Elsie scowled. “All but that maid of Lady McFiefer. If her mistress is half as bad as she is, you’ll have a pretty time with her. Apparently Lady McFiefer’s daughter thought to marry his lordship, though to hear them talk in the servants’ hall, half the county thought the same of their daughters.”

She put the brush down. “I’m putting out your primrose sarcenet with the gossamer net.”

“That’s far too grand,” Annabel objected. “I can’t go downstairs dressed in a ball gown, Elsie.”

“You must,” her maid said. “They’re all speculating on why his lordship married you, instead of Lady McFeifer’s daughter. I caught a glimpse of her. She’s beautiful enough, but she’s brassy. You can tell she’s not meant to be a countess by the look of her. Whereas you look like a countess.”

“But Elsie—”

“There’s that gown you haven’t worn yet, the French one.” Elsie laid it gently on the bed.

Annabel bit her lip. The frock was of pale gold crepe, trimmed all about the bottom with pale French roses, with a ribbon of green intermixed. It was meant to be worn for a formal dinner, since its bosom was extremely low and it had a slight train. On the other hand, it was both exquisite and expensive, and in her opinion, those two qualities were needed to bolster her courage.

“You’ll wear it with the double row of pearls from Mrs. Felton,” Elsie said, scurrying about the room. “And more of those French roses in your hair.” She had her jaw firmly set.

“All right,” Annabel said. “I’ll wear the gown, but I’ll not wear the slippers.”

Elsie scowled and Annabel wondered just how it happened that she ended up ruled by her maid instead of the other way around.

The moment she put her jeweled foot onto the stone steps leading down into the entranceway, the noise died. Some fifty heads swung upward. One hundred eyes stared at her. Only the footmen near the door looked up and away. Everyone else seemed transfixed.

Annabel paused for a moment, to let them satisfy their curiosity, and then smiled, a smile she knew quite well made her look delectable. The faces below her responded appropriately, and she walked the last steps to the entrance hall.Lady Ardmore elbowed her way through the crowd. “Miss Essex,” she called, coming to the bottom of the stairs. “In the absence of my son, I welcome you to Ardmore Castle.”

There was a happy hum in the entrance.

“I am most pleased to be here,” Annabel said, sinking into a deep curtsy. A moment later she was surrounded by cheerful faces. As fast as a pair of guests were whisked up the steps to find a chamber for the night, more seemed to flood in the front door. Footmen staggered in and out and, belying Elsie’s doom-filled notions about lack of food, the footmen seemed to be laden down with hams and bottles of spirit. Around an hour later Annabel heard a raucous squeaking outside that came closer and closer.

Lady Ardmore hadn’t been out of motion, whisking here and there, bawling at a friend of hers and dispatching more with footmen. Now she trotted up to Annabel. “That’ll be the heart of the party arriving. The pipers are here. Where’s Ewan?”

Annabel shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Ardmore!” his grandmother howled. She caught sight of Mac down on the front steps, supervising the arrival of what appeared to be an entire suckling pig, ready roasted. “Mac, find Ardmore! The pipers are coming!”

Mac cocked an ear and then dashed around the house and toward the stables. But before he could reappear, a flood of men swept down the road, led by bagpipes. Two men were prancing unsteadily before the pipers, leading the pack with their dance.

Lady Ardmore drew Annabel outdoors, to the top of the steps. The throng milling about the courtyard drew back as the revelers approached, allowing the two leaders to prance up the stairs followed by ten pipers.

“They’re the head of the Crogan clan,” Nana said, under cover of the pipers’ squealing. “Using the wedding as an excuse to get cast away, not that they need such an excuse on a normal day.”

“Your neighboring clan?” Annabel said, watching the two men half stagger, half dance up the stairs to them. They were an unsavory pair, with flaming red hair that stood straight from the domes of their heads. They wore kilts and their hairy stout legs looked unattractively chilled.

“The same. I wonder where Ewan is. He should—”

But whatever Ewan should have done was lost as the Crogans lurched up the last stair, smiling liquorish smiles and looking Annabel up and down as if she were a tailor’s dummy. “Well, now, isn’t this nice, Crogan?” said the short one.

“Sure is, sure is,” said the taller one. “I’m thinking—do you know what I’m thinking, Crogan?”

Lady Ardmore interrupted. “There isn’t a soul here that cares what you think, Crogan.” She poked at one of them with her stick. “Nor yet you either, Crogan. Keep your manners.” There was a shrill note in her voice that made the Crogans blink.

“Do you have the same name?” Annabel asked, trying to edge backward so as not to get caught by their breath again.