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Mr. Stryde, who sat mopping his brow, struggled awkwardly to push his chair back from the table. Lady Louisa stepped up to Viv, holding out a glass of wine. “Won’t it be easier if Aurora revives a bit first?”

Viv gave her ladyship’s hand another gentle squeeze. “Ma’am, do you wish to say good night to your guests?”

Lady Melforth’s eyelids fluttered again, and she stirred, clutching the arm of her chair. Her eyes opened fully and her gaze took in the three people hovering over her. “Oh dear,” she said, “I’m afraid my leg gave out on me. Too much standing before dinner.”

Newberry took the glass from Lady Louisa and offered it to Lady Melforth. “A quick swallow will do you some good, ma’am. Then we’ll get you upstairs to rest that leg.”

A look between doctor and patient told Viv the collapse had been expected. Lady Melforth drank some wine, but her grip went slack, and the doctor caught the glass. He spoke to Haxton, who summoned two footmen to lift her ladyship’s chair back from the table.

She waved to her guests. They were all on their feet now except the Strydes. “Carry on, dear friends. Don’t let my pesky foot keep you from Mrs. Brandle’s sponge cake.”

Between the doctor and Haxton, Lady Melforth regained her feet. The two men assisted her out of the room, Doctor Newberry speaking quietly in her ear and keeping a steady hand under her arm.

Viv cast Lark one quick imploring look before she and Lady Louisa followed the doctor.

*

Lark understood that look. Viv wanted the Strydes gone. Easier said than done. Rank dictated that Sir Oswald take charge. Lark waited for the older man to break the silence. Sir Oswald stared regretfully at the sponge cake on its glass stand. The remaining footman stood stiffly by the door. Mr. Stryde still mopped his brow.

“Arthur, don’t just sit there, do something,” cried Mrs. Stryde.

Her husband levered himself out of his chair. “My dear, I hardly …”

With a sigh Sir Oswald glanced up from the cake and came round the end of the table. He took hold of Mrs. Stryde’s chair to assist her. “It seems our dinner party is at an end, ma’am.” He turned to Stryde. “Perhaps, Stryde, you’d best take your wife home to wait for news of how the patient does.”

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Stryde, twisting in the chair to confront Sir Oswald. “I refuse to let you send Arthur away.”

“My dear,” her husband protested.

“Be quiet, Arthur,” she snapped.

“No need to trouble your husband, ma’am,” said Sir Oswald. “Dr. Newberry knows his business.”

“Does he? Why does Aurora’s foot not heal?” Mrs. Stryde turned her glare on Lark. “This collapse is Miss Bradish’s fault. She’s been gadding about London in a most improper way, neglecting our dear cousin’s health until it’s come to this. Arthur is Aurora’s cousin. He is family. He should be at her side, not that shameless girl.”

She started to rise from her chair, but her skirts apparently held her back. She reached out a hand for balance and Lark caught it. “Steady, ma’am,” he said.

She shook off his hold, but her pinned skirts held her in place.

Sir Oswald rolled his eyes. Lark gritted his teeth. From the first time he overheard the Strydes speaking to each other in the entry hall, he knew they wanted Viv sacked. Now, Mrs. Stryde seemed to have found a way to do it, to blame Viv for Lady Melforth’s collapse. Mrs. Stryde bent over to free her skirts, tugging violently. The burgundy velvet bow around her neck grew taut with her efforts. In a flash Lark saw a way to divert her attack on Viv. The act was done in an instant.

“Ma’am,” he said, kneeling beside her chair. “It may be that the chair is holding your skirts down. If you will allow Sir Oswald to tip it back, I will free your hem.”

“Young man,” cried Mr. Stryde. “That would be most improper.”

“Don’t be absurd, Stryde,” said Sir Oswald. “Do you want your wife stuck in this seat forever?”

Mrs. Stryde straightened and nodded. “Oh, very well,” she said.

Sir Oswald gripped the frame of the chair, and tipped. Lark dropped to one knee, pulled the yards of silk forward, and finished the job he’d started. “You can let her down now, Sir Oswald,” he said.

Sir Oswald let the chair down, and offered a hand to Mrs. Stryde. She took it briefly, rose, and strode toward her husband in an angry swish of skirts. “Come Arthur, we must go to your cousin.”

Her husband simply stared at her, pointing at her chest. “My dear, what’s become of your cross?”

Mrs. Stryde looked down, pressing a hand to her bosom. “My pearls,” she cried. “I’ve been robbed.”

“Have some sense, woman,” snapped Sir Oswald. “You’ve not been robbed in Lady Melforth’s dining room.”