Hart’s words came back to her. Face them down and to hell with them.

Nothing for it. Louisa could not cling to Beth all night. She slid away from Beth as Beth turned to other guests, and approached the ladies and gentlemen clustered together, watching her come.

“Adele, how are you?” Louisa held out her hands to a young woman she’d known since they’d been toddlers. “What a lovely gown. You are all the rage tonight.”

Lady Adele returned Louisa’s kiss on the cheek, but stiffly. “We hardly thought to see you here tonight, Louisa.”

“I did mean to stay home—I’ve been rather upset, as you might have guessed—but my sister coaxed me out. I couldn’t refuse her, when she had her heart set.” Louisa smiled, as though to say, What can you do with older sisters?

“Of course, but Louisa . . .” Adele smiled, but the smile was cool and condescending. “In spite of everything, you have never been anything but tasteful.”

Implying Louisa was not being tasteful now. Louisa saw that the rest of the group agreed with Adele. She’d known these people from childhood, had played in nurseries with them, ridden ponies with them, had made her debut with them. She’d flirted with the gentlemen, giggled with the ladies. And now they gazed upon her as though she were a stranger from a remote land.

“As I say, Isabella wished me to see friends,” Louisa said, pretending not to notice. “She thought I’d feel better in company.”

“It is a lovely gown,” another lady said, looking Louisa up and down. “Very . . . bright.”

“Jane,” Louisa said, all but stopping herself from snarling at her. “You’ve known me long enough to know I dislike hints and insinuations. If you believe I should put on mourning and bury myself at home, say so clearly and have done. I did not know the Bishop of Hargate and his family very well. It’s a terrible thing that happened to him. My sympathies lie with his family, of course, where they should. It would be unfair to them for me to claim the entirety of the grief, as though what happened to the bishop was about me and my feelings alone.”

Jane flushed, but she remained resolute. “Very well, Louisa, I’ll be plain. Putting on a pretty new dress and sailing in all cheerful as though nothing had happened isn’t quite the thing, is it?”

“I am anything but cheerful,” Louisa said, striving to keep her tone even. “My sister thought the gown would put me in better spirits. She and my sisters-in-law convinced me to come, because they thought I should go out and see people. I’m certain they believed I’d find sympathy among my oldest and dearest friends.”

Instead of being admonished, the ladies and gentlemen looked annoyed, and Adele laughed. “Louisa, my dear, it’s becoming a dangerous thing to be your friend.”

One of the gentlemen laughed as well. The four young men behind the ladies were those she’d played tag with in the meadows of Kent and danced with after her come out. One gentleman looked at Louisa as though he’d never seen her before, and another was glancing about for a way to escape without appearing rude.

“I do beg your pardon for my sister Jane,” the gentleman who’d laughed said. “You see, Mama has told her—and me—to stay away from you. I’m afraid your dance card won’t be very full tonight. Word is circulating that you’re poison.” He laughed again, proud he’d made a joke.

“You aren’t funny, Samuel,” Jane said. “But it’s true, Louisa. We have been advised to keep our distance.”

“I see.” Louisa’s chest tightened as she looked at them, finding no sympathy in their faces. “I see now what years of friendship can count for.” She’d cared for Adele and Jane, but their expressions were stony tonight, all caring gone.

“Not their fault,” Samuel said. “It’s just that murder is so sordid. Not the done thing, you know.” He mimed stabbing with a knife, still grinning.

“I did nothing to him.” Louisa gave Samuel a hard look. “I had hoped my closest friends would believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Samuel asked. “No chap is going to risk being at your side tonight, Louisa darling. He’ll always worry about taking a sip of his tea, or his claret, or his port, or his brandy, or his—”

“What the devil is this?” a new voice said.

Louisa started, and looked around to see the Honorable Gilbert Franklin, who’d stopped in time to hear the last comments. Gilbert was one of Louisa’s oldest friends—they’d lived next door to each other as children, and Louisa had been maid of honor to Gil’s sister last summer. She hadn’t seen much of either of them since, until Gil had turned up at Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ now-infamous garden party.

Gilbert cast a disparaging gaze over the little group. “Are you telling me, Sam, that after all these years, you still have no idea how to behave to a lady? I believe that in this glorious England, we think a person innocent of a crime until proven otherwise, do we not? Doesn’t Louisa deserve that same faith? Or at the very least, your respect?” Gil spoke in pleasant tones, as he always did, but his look was sharp, his words direct.

Samuel had the grace to be abashed. Gilbert was well liked, and now the others looked embarrassed, no longer laughing.

“How are you, Louisa?” Gil stuck out his hand and squeezed Louisa’s when she put hers into his. “I’m happy to see you tonight. I know you have been painfully upset, and I’ll wager none of these louts have decided to rally ’round and make you feel better.”