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Benedict gave a short laugh. “We won’t tie him up. I defy anyone to try and steal this dog.”

He reached for the bag and picked out several large meaty bones which he threw under the wagon. Sebastian watched him, though he kept his head resting on his paws.

“Sebastian, you’re to remain here, do you understand?” Lizzie said sternly. The animal looked at her fleetingly, then away again. “Stay. Do you understand?” Benedict drew on his jacket, and Sebastian climbed to his feet. “He doesn’t understand,” she said.

“Here, take this,” Benedict drew a handkerchief from his pocket. She took it and he fetched the sack of bones. “Take another bone and show it to him.“

Lizzie took his meaning and wrapped her hand in the handkerchief before gingerly retrieving a bone and calling the dog. “Sebastian, here!” She held the bone before him and then led him over to the wagon. “Now sit, Sebastian! Sit!” Reluctantly, he parked himself in front of the step and took the bone from her with careful jaws.

“Good dog, Sebastian,” she praised him. He gazed at her a moment before settling down to mouth the bone. “I think he understands,” she said turning back to Benedict. He nodded and held out a hand to her. Lizzie hurried to his side and took it.

“Don’t look back at him. Just keep walking,” he instructed. Lizzie followed his lead, and soon they were at the stile at the end of the field. Lizzie took a surreptitious glance back and saw Sebastian’s looming form still guarding the wagon. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“He really is a very good sort of dog,” she asserted. Benedict accepted this without comment. “You look very smart this evening,” Lizzie told him, as she raised her skirts to negotiate the stile. His suit was of uniform and unrelenting black matched with a black satin tie and white shirt.

The silhouette was a good deal sleeker than the black woolen breeches and waistcoat he wore by day, but there was not even a suggestion of color even at the waistcoat. Even his tie pin was of blackest jet. On his head, instead of the top hat you might have expected, he wore a black felt derby.

“Well, we need to match,” he answered lightly, handing her up onto the step. Lizzie hopped down the other side.

“Did you tell your brothers we were going dancing?”

“I may have mentioned it to Jack,” he answered swinging himself over to land beside her. “He’s stepping out with some actress, by all accounts.”

“Do you think we might see them there?”

He paused before shaking his head. “You don’t tend to find the entertainers at the amusement tents.”

“Oh. So, it will all be visitors to the fair?”

He nodded. “More than likely.”

Even if there had been someone in the tent she knew, Lizzie acknowledged as they entered the Fiddlers Green a few moments later, it was unlikely she would be able to spot them. The place was in full swing, and Lizzie felt slightly dazed as Benedict towed her through the crush, a protective arm about her waist.

“Do you want to dance now, or shall I fetch us some refreshment?” he asked, raising his voice against the babble and merriment of the crowd. Lizzie gazed about in bewilderment. She had thought she would be embarrassed to take to the dance floor in a public place, but now she was here, she did not think anyone would notice her in such a tight squeeze.

Going up on her tiptoes, she suggested, “Let us have some punch first and then a dance before taking our supper.”

He gave a nod. “Stay here and do not stir an inch.”

She nodded, grateful for a chance to take stock and get her bearings. Benedict made off in the direction she presumed of a punchbowl, and Lizzie stared at the heaving dance floor where couples bobbed and capered madly to the tunes the musicians played. Some dancers seemed to be performing prescribed steps, she noticed, and even forming country dancing formations where they swapped partners and whirled about. A good many of the couples, however, seemed to be simply doing their own thing. Some drifted about clasped scandalously close in each other’s arms, though their footwork did not remotely resemble a waltz. Others simply faced one another and jigged about with more enthusiasm than skill.

There seemed to be no segregation of either party groupings or social classes. Some were dressed in silks and satins, feathers and plumes, and even face masks for anonymity. Lizzie could only suppose they must be people of fashion with reputations to uphold.

Others seemed togged out in their shabby-genteel Sunday best, gazing about them with round eyes and cheeks red with excitement. There were some fringe characters who appeared a little less reputable, with painted and rouged faces and loud, raucous laughs, but as Benedict had said, all present seemed determined to have a good time.

Lizzie was just watching a spindle-shanked gentlemen leaping and whooping with merry abandon when Benedict reappeared at her side bearing cups of fruit punch. He handed one to her, and they silently toasted one another before sipping the concoction.

“Oh, it’s actually quite nice,” Lizzie said brightening as Benedict winced.

“It’s very sweet,” he commented before tossing his back like medicine. He discarded his cup and eyed her expectantly.

Lizzie took another cautious sip. “There is surely something alcoholic in this,” she said nervously.

“Apparently, it’s a champagne cocktail,” he answered dryly. “But I very much doubt it contains so much as a thimbleful of champagne.”

“Oh really?” Lizzie took a larger gulp. “It’s delicious.” She finished her cup and turned about to set it down.

Benedict laughed. “I was about to say it is more than likely laced with gin.”