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We exchange a worried look. Or rather, I’m worried. Elodie remains as unruffled as ever.

She points toward the door and the portal beyond. “For his sake, I hope he’s somewhere between here and there. Otherwise, I will leave without him.”

With that, she’s gone. And as I watch her make a beeline for the portal, it occurs to me that if Mason is in this ballroom, considering how much taller he is than most of the men here, he should be easy to find.

I move through the well-heeled crowd, keeping my gaze high so I’ll have a better shot at spotting him. Which is why I fail to notice a woman barreling straight into me until she’s nearly knocked me over.

First, the back of her heel crunches down on my toe. Then the point of her elbow slams into my belly so hard it sends me staggering, gasping for breath, as my heels skid out from under me. And just as the ground rises up to meet me, someone swoops in from behind, catches me in his arms, and settles me back on my feet.

The whole thing is over in a matter of seconds. Still, those are precious seconds I cannot afford. And though I’m eager to move on, the woman insists on dragging it out—alternately blaming me, then apologizing to me, only to blame me again. A tedious cycle, and I desperately want it to end.

“Pay her no mind,” a voice sounds in my ear. “All that matters is that you are okay.”

I turn to find the one who saved me from falling in front of a ballroom full of people—none of whom I know or will ever see again, and yet I’m grateful to be spared that indignity.

“Thank you,” I murmur, brushing my hands down the front of my gown. “No broken limbs from what I can tell.”

“But perhaps a bit of broken pride?”

I lift my gaze to meet his and nearly laugh at the sight.

This boy is adorably, foppishly handsome—the closest thing the nineteenth century has to the young Hugh Grant of old British rom-coms. If I was Elodie, I’d take full advantage of this moment and consider it the meet-cute that kicked off my own Jane Austen experience.

But I’m not Elodie, and, more importantly, I’m dangerously short on time.

“Might I—” the boy starts, but whatever might’ve followed, I’m afraid I’ll never know. And as I move past the woman who nearly knocked me to the ground, I casually reach out and pluck the pearl-and-diamond pin from her hair.

I may have failed at finding—never mind claiming—the Star, but I’ll be damned if I return to Gray Wolf empty-handed.

I’ve just made it halfway across the room when I spot Mason on the dance floor, happily engaging in a quadrille. And while I’m relieved to see he looks none the worse for wear, I need to find a way to intercede without making a scene.

The second Mason circles back to my side of the room, I’m about to step in, when, from out of nowhere, someone grabs hold of my arm, and a harsh male voice says, “Is this the one?”

I turn to find a stern-faced man glaring at me, and beside him, the woman who plowed into me.

The same woman who is one jeweled hairpin short of those she arrived with.

“What is the meaning of this?” I look between the scowling man and the place on the dance floor where Mason just stood.

Only he’s no longer there.

My gaze scans the long line of revelers, desperately searching, hoping, but Mason is nowhere in sight.

“Come with me.” The man’s fingers clamp down on my arm, squeezing mercilessly hard. And though I’ve been trained to always maintain my composure, I can’t afford to waste another second dealing with this nonsense.

“I will not.” My voice thunders. My gaze locks on his. “Now kindly release me.”

But he doesn’t. Not even close. If anything, he just squeezes harder.

“This woman claims you’ve stolen her hairpin,” he says. The woman nods indignantly, and the man deepens his frown.

“And exactly where do you suppose I’ve hidden it?” I gesture down the length of my gown.

It’s a challenge he can’t win. Not without risking the sort of impropriety I’m sure he’d prefer to avoid. Besides, Charlotte is a genius when it comes to hidden pockets. There’s no way he’ll find it.

In an instant, the man removes his hand from my arm, but the woman refuses to fold.

“I am certain it was her,” she says. Her face, like her voice, is all rage and fury.