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“I truly thought things might be changing,” Marina whispered. “My sisters told you what happened at the cottage, did they not?”

Her mother nodded. “Yes. And I imagine some of those responsible are among the guests tonight.”

“I believe one of them has just looked through the door.”

Lady Dashwood glanced toward it. “Lady Beatrice?”

Marina nodded.

“I thought people were beginning to see things differently. I never expected one ball to change everything. But I thought a few of them might be having a change of heart.” Her voice faltered. “And now it is all being taken away. Why?”

“I do not know, Marina.” Her mother rose, brushing out her skirts, and held out her hand. “Come now. Let us wash your face and go back to the ballroom.”

“The ballroom?”

“Ambrose has gone. You cannot disappear as well. Whatever happens to this house, the orphanage still needs every penny that can be raised tonight.”

The thought of facing all those people horrified her: their smiles, their congratulations, their curious eyes upon her swollen lids. Yet her mother was right. There was nothing she could accomplish by sitting on this floor and weeping.

She let her mother help her to her feet.

They had until sunset on Christmas Day. What became of their family now rested entirely in Ambrose’s hands.

The hours crept past.

Marina smiled until her cheeks ached. She thanked people for their generosity and accepted compliments on the tree, the garlands, the punch. She danced once, with Simon, who held her a little more carefully than the steps required and said nothing at all, which was the kindest thing anyone did for her that night. Every time the ballroom doors opened, her heart leaped, and every time it was not Ambrose.

By one o’clock in the morning, most of the guests had gone. The candles had burned down to stubs, and footmen moved through the emptying ballroom, gathering glasses.

The vicar lingered near the doors, his hat in his hands. When Marina glanced toward him, he came over at once, beaming.

“Your Grace,” he said warmly, “I wanted to thank you for this wonderful evening. We have raised a considerable sum. A truly considerable sum.”

“Is it enough to replace the orphanage?”

“More than enough. We shall even have funds in reserve to help those most in need this winter. I dare say I shall not have to trouble His Grace for another donation for a year or two.” He chuckled.

“That is good,” Marina said.

He had no idea how much those reserves might matter.

Should she tell him? She did not wish to spread news of their private troubles. But this man, and every child and widow he cared for, would be directly affected if Douglas gained control of Ambrose’s property.

She leaned toward him.

“Please be wise in how you spend the money,” she said quietly. “There may soon be a new owner living within these walls. One who is not nearly so generous as my husband has been.”

The vicar took a step back. “Pray, what do you mean?”

“I cannot explain. I only ask that you take care of what was raised tonight. That is all I can say.” She drew herself up and found, somewhere, the last of her composure. “Now, I must bid you farewell.”

“Farewell? Surely you mean good night?”

Marina looked at him for a long moment.

“I wish it were merely good night.”

Then she turned away, leaving the vicar standing alone beneath the guttering chandeliers, bewildered by her words.