He had survived dinner, and at least half a dozen dances afterwards — mostly with precocious young women who had taken his fascination with the novelty pocket watch to mean he was actively seeking a dance partner and had decided to introduce themselves. They had been largely disappointed to learn during the course of the dance number that rather than a wayward bachelor looking for love, he was in fact simply a married eccentric who had made it his goal for the night to trace out the exact nature of the spell placed on the watches, just for fun. At this point in the evening, he was looking forward to the fireworks that would announce it was time to depart — though he did have to admit, at least privately to himself if not to his wife, that the event hadn't been quite so bad as some others he'd attended.

At least, he thought so until his pocket watch informed him that he had been selected by the hostess for a dance. It might have been a mistake — Miss Valentine's matchmaking talents would have been wasted on him, after all, for even if there was a such thing as a soul mate and his was lurking somewhere in the crowd, Rufina did not seem disposed to disappear at any point in the foreseeable future — but after checking the watch, he thought it more likely that this was some sort of joke. Was it possible that his wife had paid Miss Valentine to slip a name onto his card, perhaps as punishment for some social oversight he'd made earlier in the night? He wasn't sure whether Rufina was so malicious or not, but this certainly was someone's doing.

He knew the woman in question, unfortunately, but had no desire to dance with her. The best way he could think to describe her was like an overweight fish — her mouth was always gaping, her eyes were always wide and blank, and he was entirely convinced that instead of a brain she possessed merely a rudimentary nervous system to keep her corpulent body animated. Anyone who had seen him interact with this woman would surely have gathered how much he disliked her — he took no pains to be subtle, since it seemed unlikely she would pick up on even the strongest of hints — and the idea of sharing a dance with her was simply torment.

Could he flatly refuse, if she found him? Probably, but it would go much smoother if he already had some reason in hand — and to that end, Ernest's eyes flitted around the room in search of the first even mildly familiar face.

"Mrs. Pettigrew," he called to the nearby blonde. "Perhaps you would allow me to steal your next dance?"