As Athanasia whirled away with a handsome young man, Emilios took another glass of wine from a tray. He had no intention to dance with anyone but his sister; nor did he wish to watch the happy couples enjoying themselves on the dance floor. And so he went to the art room to peruse the paintings on display. As an art collector and patron, he was interested in local talent. Maybe the next famous painter lived in Whitby. He walked from one to the other, his hands clasped behind his back, studying each one thoughtfully.

Albert frowned as it seemed every available woman was being snatched up to dance. No matter, he wasn't looking for anything that took effort. With a drink in hand, he headed towards the art room seeing a man there as well. He barely cast a glance his way as he strolled along to look at the paintings giving them his own critical eye. He wasn't a painter himself, but he could understand design and balance. Most of this was well enough for an art exhibit he supposed, for a place like Whitby.

As he found himself closer to the other, they were both staring at the same piece. "What do you think of the art in this place? This looks like they are trying to do post impressionism but I think the brush strokes are a bit too thick and stilted. The color is good though." He decided to toss in a compliment to not seem like a cynical bastard who got off on trashing other's works.

Zechariah eyed a sausage platter with skewers being drifted through the crowd. Was it kosher? God, no.

His eyes lifted to the other sausage situation: the entire unoccupied party, sans that Carrington broad. Content, he sat with an ankle crossed over his knee, dressed in stark, attention-grabbing white. He took a sip of his drink and let his gaze meander, man after man.

This one looked flustered. That one looked awkward. This one looked bored. That one looked desperate.

Delightful.

Athanasia grabbed the pastry and smiled cheekily at the handsome young man who had also been reaching for it.  He suggested they share and so they did.  They found seats at a table and talked while they ate together.  When they were finished, he asked her to dance and they whirled around the floor and then parted ways.  She looked around for her brother but he was nowhere in sight.  Knowing him, he had gone to check out the art.

The young socialite plucked a glass of wine from a tray and surveyed the room.  Now that she was rested, perhaps somebody else would ask her to dance.

The paintings were decent, but Emilios had yet to find one that was so spectacular that he should seek out the artist. Certainly none of them would fit in his own collection. He remembered how excited Angelina had been every time a cloth covered frame arrived at the mansion. She was always entranced by the paintings he chose. He had brought the ones that he had bought after her death to Whitby with him. The others had been left in his London residence.

A male voice brought him out of his reverie and he looked over at the man who had spoken. “I agree. There are several signs pointing to the artist’s lack of experience. Perhaps he is still perfecting his craft.” Emilios arched a dark eyebrow. “You seem to know quite a bit about art. I’m a collector myself.”

Roderick looked sullenly around, meeting eyes with a white-clad bastard who looked smugly back at him. He kept looking around.

A woman! Unaccompanied! She looked rather young, but who cared? She was unaccompanied! Like a mosquito with newfound purpose, Roderick hovered closer and closer to Athanasia.

Then, when he was right by her:

“ExcusememissIseeyou’renotdancing.”

He held out an arm abruptly.

Albert eyed the work as he sipped his wine and shrugged to the man next to him. "Is he? Or does he think he's done well enough to be put on display and so he has settled with what is merely good enough to be looked at? I don't see passion in it or love for the skill." It was all mediocre, someone who does it for money perhaps.

He glanced towards the other and nodded. "I have an interest. I am not what most would call an artist, but it actually takes an eye for design to do what I do. And I do like art." He then glanced back at the work. "Good art that is."

Christine paid her way into the party and wore an eye catching dress with peacock feathers and enough colors she could be hung on the wall with the rest of the art. She was here because she had her name on the wall, it cost a little but it gave her such a smug feeling of satisfaction. But now the thrill was over and she wandered the place, drink in hand. She'd hoped to see lots of lovely women, even if she didn't dare ask any to spend time with her and just talk.

She leaned against a wall and sighed then noticed the man sitting beside her. "Hey, you must be feeling dissatisfied with the numbers. " She glanced back at the sausage party before her and muttered softly, "Me too.'

“Terrible,” he sighed, in utter satisfaction. “What are the odds? All men who need a dance, hardly any women alone.”

His gaze slid to the woman who had sat next to him. At first he worried she was going to interrupt his shameless indulgence of the view – but then, the ‘me too’ registered. She wished there were more women?

“There is one of the Carrington ladies,” he murmured back, sliding eyes to the woman who currently held a man politely hostage. “Olivia, not Pearl.”

A certain Miss Pennyfeather might have noticed another name posted, albeit with just enough of a donation to get her name featured: Loretta Agnes Ward.

It was just then that she blazed in, in a dress befitting of the occasion – if heavy on the lavender. A couple of eyes slid toward her, and then just as quickly away. Just as quickly as unattended men realized there was a lone woman, most of them seemed, too, to realize there was a reason why she had neither a gentleman nor a chaperon.

Her eyes landed on a familiar woman from that town meeting, smiling – and then her smile fell when it landed on the man in her arms.

Entirely lost cause? Not entirely. Not even halfway lost. She glided toward them, lurking for an opening.