Page 62 of Murder at the Debutante Ballby

“He has all but declared himself.”

Miss Hessing gasped.

“Hardly,” I said, looking around for the nearest exit. Unfortunately, I’d have to pass Jonathon to get to it.

“Are you not interested in him, Miss Fox?” Miss Hessing asked.

“No.”

“But…why not?”

“We’re not suitable.”

“I see.” She didn’t sound like she saw, but there was no time to explain it. Jonathon and Floyd were almost upon us.

At least I wouldn’t be alone with him.

Jonathon smiled at me. “May I have the next dance, Cleo?”

Ugh.

I was about to tell him I had sore feet when a commotion near the door had us all turning towards it. Someone was shouting and some of the men were trying to get the fellow to leave. It wasn’t until the music quieted that I could hear what the newcomer was saying.

It was Mr. Livingstone.

“You call yourselves gentlemen!” He lurched forward with the effort of his shout, and his words slurred. “But none of you are!” He stabbed his finger at the nearest man then the one next to him. The two men exchanged confused glances.

Mrs. Druitt-Poore forged a path through the crowd like a steam engine at full pace. “Mr. Livingstone! Dear Mr. Livingstone, do come with me and we’ll hang up your coat.”

He put up a hand, warding her off, but almost tipped forward. “You! You women are the worst!” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You pretend to be nice, but you bite and snap behind my Amelia’s back like crocodiles.” He made a biting motion with his thumb and fingers. “Snap, snap, snap. Bitches, the lot of you.”

Several of the women gasped. Mrs. Druitt-Poore stilled, shock etched into every groove on her face. It was as though his accusation had turned her to stone.

Someone behind me snickered.

“Drunken idiot,” muttered another.

Near the exit, several footmen closed around Mr. Livingstone, like poachers attempting to snare a wild animal. The butler stood back with Mr. Druitt-Poore, directing the footmen with subtle hand signals and whispered orders that everyone heard and saw, nevertheless.

Mr. Livingstone pushed away the closest footman. “My daughter is a good girl! She is the prettiest! The most ‘complished. Most elegant!” He pushed away another footman who drew too close. “Lady Bunbury says so!” He pointed at her. Well, in her general direction. He was too drunk to point straight.

I’d never seen Lady Bunbury look so mortified, as though she wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. She’d just realized that by bestowing her so-called awards on Amelia, she’d aligned herself with a disgraced girl and her drunken, belligerent father.

I couldn’t help but feel delighted at her plight. I’d avoided her all night but the glare she bestowed on me from the other side of the room was so cold it sent shivers down my spine. Harry’s report of her threat of retribution had weighed on my mind all afternoon.

A footman urged Mr. Livingstone to come away, but Mr. Livingstone shoved the fellow in the chest. The butler stepped in and said something quietly in Mr. Livingstone’s ear, but Mr. Livingstone pushed him, too. The poor man fell over and landed on his backside.

Mr. Druitt-Poore himself stepped into the breach next. I hardly knew him, but he seemed to be a gentle and somewhat comical fellow whose large belly shook when he laughed, which he did often and heartily. But when he tried to discreetly urge Mr. Livingstone to leave, he received a punch on the nose.

The ladies gasped again. A few of the younger ones shrieked.

Finally stirred to action, four of the closest gentlemen took matters into their own hands and captured Mr. Livingstone. They forced his arms behind his back and marched him out of the ballroom.

He shouted all the way. “You’ll regret this! Mark me, I will have my revenge! The last fellow who wronged Amelia found his way to an early grave!”

Good lord. That was quite a statement. Or was it a confession?

Beside me, Flossy grasped my arm. “Cleo, did you hear that?” she whispered. “Do you think he did it? Do you think he murdered that man at the Bunburys’ ball?”