The night of the ball arrived the way big nights always did, faster than expected and with considerably more chaos.
By seven in the evening, the manor had transformed completely. Candles burned in every corner. The smell of fresh flowers mixed with the warm drift of food coming from the kitchen. Downstairs, the orchestra was already warming up, the sound of strings floating up through the floorboards like something from a dream.
Leofric stood in the entrance hall in his evening coat, watching Fletcher direct the last of the staff into their positions. He looked exactly as he always looked on occasions like this, composed, prepared, unreadable. The kind of man a room organised itself around without being asked.
A footman appeared at his elbow. "A letter arrived for you, my lord," he said, holding out a small sealed envelope. "No name on the outside. It came through the back entrance."
