She had almost not come today, had almost sent her lady's maid in her stead. Her stomach had been in knots all week, and Evelyn Abercrombie could only assume it had been the spectre of the auction hanging above her that had caused it, for all that Mrs. Mulciber, both the planner and the hostess, had taken on even more of the preparation than usual. She had, however, been resolved: she would get through this afternoon, and then take it easy for the remainder of the month, focusing upon her Roses instead of her social calendar. A promise to herself. A bribe.

But as she stood observing an antique harpsichord—self-playing, of course, though a bit out of tune—up for auction, the socialite wondered if she hadn't made entirely the wrong decision. A bit of rouge had placed some colour in her cheeks (not that she would admit to it!), but still Evelyn worried that passers-by would guess that she was not at her best. Mother had always insisted that to appear to be at one's best was imperative, even if it was not so.

"The harpsichord?" she asked of the gentleman who had asked if she would be placing a ticket in the box for the item before them. "I don't believe it suits the decor of our music room, though it is quite lovely—by all means, you should put a ticket of your own in! My absence can only hope to improve your odds."

She smiled cordially as she spoke, though it was rather forced.

Then she retched all over the front of his trousers.

Open first to a male at the hospital fundraiser, and then potentially one-two observers.

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