“I shall happily play for any stakes Miss Winstanley cares to name,” his lordship responded with an innocent smile.

This was now a matter of honor. Isabella rose gracefully. Placing the tips of her fingers on his arm, she could feel the warmth of his body through the layers of his immaculate black evening coat, almost as if she were touching his skin. Yet again, she found she was more aware of this man than any other she had ever met. And from the merest touch!

Lord Amburley lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There is no need to go through with this if you have changed your mind, Miss Winstanley. Indeed, I pray you have.”

“Do you, my lord?” She prickled visibly. “But I am not so craven, nor so lost to a sense of honor that I would cry off, I assure you.”

Isabella would let him see that she was a woman to be reckoned with.

A Poor Relation
Joanna Maitland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

‘Carriage stopped up ahead, m’lord.’

Lord Amburley did not spare a single sideways glance as he took his curricle past the stationary vehicle at the gallop and raced towards the bend in the wooded road.

‘M’lord—’ The groom made a move to look back.

‘Keep your eyes on the road ahead, Brennan,’ said the Baron sharply.

Brennan gave a grunt of surprise and turned to stare at his master, but Lord Amburley clenched his jaw grimly, ignoring the unspoken question. A moment later, they had rounded the curve and the groom was grabbing wildly for the side of the curricle, as the team was brought from headlong gallop to steaming halt in the space of a few yards.

‘M’lord—’ began the groom, sounding agitated.

‘Keep your voice down. If he realises we’ve stopped, we’ll never take him by surprise.’ Lord Amburley reached under the seat with his free hand as he spoke. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he added in an exasperated whisper. ‘Go to their heads, man. I’ve got my hands full as it is.’ Extracting a pistol from its hiding place, he jumped down and started to make his way cautiously into the trees that now hid the curricle from the carriage.

Just before he disappeared into the thick cover, Lord Amburley threw a final instruction over his shoulder. ‘Get the other pistol, Brennan. That ruffian may well be armed—and he may have accomplices, too. If you hear any shots, bring the curricle back up the road—at the double. And don’t be afraid to shoot if you have to.’ He did not wait for a reply. He knew his groom would obey his orders to the letter, whatever the risk.

It was probably no more than a few hundred yards to the stationary vehicle, but it took Amburley an infuriatingly long time to pick his way through the neglected woodland. The snap of the smallest twig among the dense leaf litter might betray his presence. And he was determined to retain the advantage of surprise. He had seen only one assailant raising his hand to attack the woman by the carriage, but the man was unlikely to be alone. Since the end of the war, the roads were full of bands of starving, desperate men, preying on unwary travellers, especially women. Nothing could excuse such crimes, in Amburley’s view, even though many of the robbers were ex-soldiers, thrown on the scrap-heap by a wickedly ungrateful country.

He crept forward, silently cursing his failure to remove the white driving coat that might so easily betray his presence. He would need to use all the available cover, just as he had learnt to do when he was a soldier in Spain. Pity he had no troop of men at his back, this time.

At last he could see the outline of the carriage through the trees. Taking refuge behind a gnarled oak, he strained his ears. Only one low voice—a woman’s—sounding neither distressed nor anxious. Remarkable, in the circumstances. In Amburley’s experience, gentlewomen usually had a fit of the vapours at the first hint of danger. Perhaps she was only a servant, after all.

However much he tried, he could not quite make out what the woman was saying. Then he heard a second voice—male, deep, a little hesitant.

Amburley risked a quick glance from his hiding place. There was no one else among the trees. The assailant must be alone. Strange—but certainly welcome. It stacked the odds in his own favour.

Levelling his pistol, he walked slowly towards the stationary vehicle.

As he emerged from the trees, the woman started and gave an audible gasp. Everyone else turned, saw, and froze—the coachman on the box, the groom mounted behind, at least one other female cowering in the dark recesses of the carriage—and the woman’s assailant.

Confronted by this petrified tableau, Amburley had time to wonder why neither coachman nor groom had made any move to overpower a single attacker who—he could now see—was neither young nor strong. The two servants appeared to have left the woman—a plain, worn-looking person of indeterminate age, her face hidden by the poke of her faded bonnet—to fend for herself. Odd, unless—

‘Pray, what are you about, sir?’

On hearing her educated voice, Amburley’s first thought was that this woman must be much younger than he had supposed. And fully in command of herself.

‘Would you be so good as to put up that pistol, sir?’ A slight edge of annoyance had crept into the shabby young woman’s voice. This was surely no mere servant.

Keeping his pistol steady, Amburley half turned from the would-be assailant, who was looking increasingly shifty, as though he might take to his heels at any moment.

‘Certainly, madam,’ Amburley said evenly, not taking his eyes off the man. ‘Just as soon as I have an explanation as to why this man was assaulting you.’ He raised his pistol a fraction, so that the man would be in no doubt of his willingness to use it, if he attempted to escape.

The accused man took two steps back, eyes suddenly wide with fear at the sight of the gun’s menacing little black muzzle. He made to speak, but no words came out.

The woman moved smartly between Amburley and his target, turning her back on the pistol and putting her hands reassuringly on the older man’s arms. ‘Don’t worry, Jonah,’ she said gently. ‘I’ll deal with this. Nothing will happen to you, I promise.’

She turned sharply then, shielding Jonah with her body. Fixing her gaze on the pistol, she said, in a voice that had lost all trace of gentleness, ‘By your speech and your dress, sir, you are a gentleman. So I ask you again to put up your pistol. I have not been assaulted. And I have no need of your assistance.’ She glanced up at his face for a second—without meeting his eyes—and then resolutely returned to staring at the pistol. ‘Whatever you thought you had seen, sir, you were mistaken. Thank you for attempting to rescue me—but there really was no need.’

With that, she turned her back once more and began to reassure Jonah, who had not yet fully recovered from his fright.

Amburley stood for a moment before letting his pistol hand drop. By gad, she sounded anything but grateful for his attempted knight-errantry. Indeed, she reminded him of his mother’s companion—sharp and shrewish, as most poor relations became, given half a chance. What a farce he had blundered into. He had been so sure the man Jonah was about to strike her—but it seemed he had been totally wrong. If his old comrades could see Major Amburley now… For a second or two, annoyance warred with amusement. Then he smiled to himself and shook his head resignedly. Heaven help him if this story ever got about. He would never live it down.

The woman had continued to busy herself with the man Jonah. She seemed to be intent on avoiding any further discussion. ‘My apologies, madam,’ Amburley said. ‘Obviously, you do not stand in need of my assistance. I shall not trouble you further.’ Still, she did not face him.

Amburley concluded wryly that he had attempted to rescue a mannerless harpy. Next time he saw a lady under attack, he would do well to drive past, if this was the thanks he could expect. He started back towards the trees but could not resist adding, with exquisite politeness, ‘I wish you a safe onward journey. Good day, madam.’

‘He’s gone, ma’am.’ Jonah’s voice was a half-strangled whisper.

Isabella Winstanley forced herself to straighten her shoulders. There had never been any danger—so why was her stomach still turning like a frightened child’s? And why had she been insufferably rude to a man who was trying to help her? Had she even thanked him? She could not remember. She realised that she had barely looked at him. Would she recognise him if she met him again? He was tall, certainly, and she fancied his hair had been quite dark—but she could not be sure. In the shadow of the trees, the light could play tricks.

‘Miss Isabella.’ Isabella’s abigail, Mitchell, was pushing open the door of the carriage and sounding agitated. ‘Miss Isabella, it’s Miss Sophia…’

Isabella took in the situation at a glance. Sophia Winstanley, her pretty but penniless young cousin, had taken one look at the man with the gun and fainted clean away. How ironic. Only two days earlier, Sophia had been rhapsodising about romantic adventures—handsome strangers lurking in shrubberies, or ghosts and hauntings to send shivers down the spine. Sophia had fancied it would be quite agreeable to meet a ghostly apparition—provided, of course, that it drove her into the arms of an eligible gentleman who just happened to be nearby. Poor Sophia. She would never forgive herself, for this gentleman had certainly been eligible.

Heavens, how can I tell that, Isabella wondered, when I hardly know what he looks like? Was there something—?

At that moment, Sophia stirred, groaning. Her eyelids fluttered, and then snapped wide open. Obviously she was remembering the sight of the gun that had terrified her.

‘He has gone, Sophia. There is nothing to be afraid of now.’ Isabella’s voice was gentle and reassuring once again. She reached into her reticule and offered her vinaigrette. ‘Try this. It will make you feel better.’

Sophia took a cautious sniff. ‘What happened? I don’t understand…’

‘Neither do I,’ said Isabella. ‘I can only surmise that, when the gentleman with the pistol saw Jonah hailing the carriage for me, he somehow assumed that I was being assaulted, and so he rushed gallantly to my rescue—terrifying you, and everyone else, in the process. However, he has gone now. And we, too, must be on our way, or we shall be late arriving at the posting house.’

‘But, Winny—’ began Sophia.

‘I must just say my farewells to Jonah,’ said Isabella matter-of-factly, ignoring the nickname she had repeatedly asked Sophia not to use. The last thing she wanted at present was a dispute about names—or a host of questions about her would-be rescuer.

‘Thank you for your company today, Jonah. I could not have visited such a remote village without your escort—nor achieved half as much with the children without your help. I am only sorry that your kindness should have led to such a scene. It was my fault. I should not have chosen such an isolated spot to meet the carriage, however convenient it might have seemed.’ She pressed some coins into his palm and he smiled, revealing a gap in his front teeth. ‘You’ll take care of those little ones, won’t you?’

‘Don’t you worry, ma’am. No harm will come to ’em, I promise. And a blessing on ye for the help you’ve given to our poor orphans. Ye’re a saint, that’s what ye are, and—’

‘Jonah,’ began Isabella, blushing, ‘I am nothing of the sort, as you know very well.’ She put one worn black boot on the step of the carriage before the groom could climb down to assist her. ‘But thank you, all the same, and God bless you. Goodbye, Jonah.’

Silence reigned in the carriage at last. It had taken Isabella more than half an hour to answer enough of Sophia’s questions to pacify her. In the end, Isabella had forbidden all further discussion of it. The gentleman would certainly wish to forget their absurd encounter had ever happened. He was probably mortified by it.

And so was she.

She settled back in her seat once more, trying to focus her attention on the Yorkshire scenery. It was no use. She could not stop worrying about what had happened. She had always taken such care not to be seen in her ‘poor relation’ guise by anyone from her own station in life—it was the only way of being sure she could keep her philanthropy a secret—and now she had been caught out. Admittedly, the gentleman in question had been a complete stranger, but that could not guarantee her anonymity. If the gentleman came to London for the Season, he was bound to meet her somewhere.

And Isabella would have to be there. Flight was impossible. For she had agreed to chaperon pretty, portionless Sophia for this one London Season so that the child might have a chance of making a good match. Such a promise could not be broken. If they encountered the unknown in London, Isabella would just have to brazen it out, relying on the fact that her usual elegant appearance was a world away from the part she was playing today.

Sophia interrupted Isabella’s painful reverie. ‘How long will it take us to reach London, Winny dear? I am so looking forward to being at Hill Street again, especially as, this time, I shall be out. How many balls do you think we shall attend? Shall I have many partners, do you think? What about—?’

Isabella found herself smiling at Sophia’s infectious enthusiasm. ‘Sophia, please do stop to draw breath,’ Isabella said. ‘If you keep asking so many questions all at once, people will think that you are not at all interested in what they might say in reply.’

‘You mean I talk too much. That’s what Mama says,’ replied Sophia, without much evidence of remorse. ‘I am much more circumspect with people of consequence, I promise. Oh, and Winny—’

Isabella felt she dare not let that pass again. ‘Sophia dear, must you call me “Winny”? It’s such a very odd name for a lady.’

‘But you said that your brother uses it quite often,’ Sophia protested. ‘You do not really mind, do you?’

‘I concede you are merely copying from my quite incorrigible brother—so, yes, I give you leave to continue. But pray,’ she added with a laugh, ‘not in company. I should not like to be widely known as “Miss Winny Winstanley”.’

‘I shall try to remember,’ said Sophia in a small voice, looking down at her clasped hands. After only a moment’s silence, she began again, on the subject that Isabella had been hoping to avoid. ‘Who do you think he was? The man with the pistol, I mean. Do you think that he—’

‘That encounter is not to be discussed,’ said Isabella flatly. ‘Not with anyone. Do you understand, Sophia?’ She waited for the girl’s nod of agreement before continuing, ‘You must see that it could be disastrous for my reputation—and yours—if it were known that I went about the countryside alone, visiting destitute soldiers and orphans.’

‘But you are helping them,’ protested Sophia hotly. ‘How can that destroy your reputation?’

‘My motives would be of no account, I’m afraid. Ladies of the ton do not consort with the lower classes—not for any reason. You will learn that they never go anywhere without a servant in attendance, either. And they certainly do not dress like servants.’ She glanced down at her drab brown dress and fraying shawl. ‘If I were discovered, I would never be admitted to Society again. You must never betray, by so much as a look, that you have seen me like this. Promise me, Sophia!’

‘I promise. At least, I promise to try,’ said Sophia.

Isabella felt the tension relax in her shoulders. ‘I shall be satisfied with that. And now, let us talk of something else.’

‘Yes, let’s,’ said Sophia more eagerly. ‘Tell me about your first Season—er—Isabella. Did you have many offers?’

Isabella smiled resignedly. ‘I only ever had one Season, I’m afraid, and no offers, so there is little to tell.’

‘But why?’

Isabella shrugged. Although she had avoided telling the story until now—over the years, she had learnt to be content with her single state, but it still hurt too much to discuss the deaths of her parents—she knew that Sophia would pester her until she gave in. ‘My Season was cut short because my papa became ill and had to return home,’ she said quietly.

‘But surely there was no need to pack you all off back to the country?’

‘I was only too happy to go, Sophia, I assure you. Mama needed my help to nurse Papa.’

‘Oh.’ Sophia seemed to have realised, at last, where the story was leading. She sat for a moment, thinking. ‘Could you not have had another Season? Later, I mean, when…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘It suited me to remain on the family estate with my brother, Sophia. He could not run it alone.’

‘But surely he runs it alone now,’ protested Sophia.

‘He is a grown man now—and married. He does not need an older sister looking over his shoulder.’

‘Is that why you went to live with Lady Wycham?’

‘Partly.’ Goodness, the child was certainly persistent. Isabella knew she was going to have to embroider the truth from now on. To the outside world, it was Lady Wycham who had the money and Isabella who was the poor relation. It was a fiction both worked hard to maintain.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Sophia.

Isabella sighed. ‘Great-aunt Jemima invited me to join her in Hill Street last year. She would have been alone, otherwise, so it suited us both. I can enjoy as much as I wish of London Society—and she has company about the place. Even more, now that you are joining us,’ she added, with a gentle laugh.

‘And I shall be as good as gold, I promise,’ said Sophia. ‘It is so very generous of Lady Wycham to frank my come-out—’ Isabella hoped she was not blushing ‘—and I intend to make her proud of me. Wait and see!’

‘I’m sure you will. Aunt Jemima is looking forward to taking you to our French modiste for your new gowns. Your dark colouring is all the crack these days, you know. Fair hair is sadly passé, I’m afraid,’ she added with a mischievous glance across at the abigail who spent so many hours arranging Isabella’s honey-gold curls. ‘Should I cover it with a turban, do you think?’

A moment later, they were engulfed in laughter.

In the late afternoon, the carriage arrived at the Bell in Barnby Moor where they were to spend the night. Isabella alighted first to see that all was in order for her party, leaving Sophia, chaperoned by Mitchell, to make a more leisurely descent. Sophia was just remarking on the unusual degree of bustle in the inn-yard, when Isabella returned, grim-faced.

‘It is too vexing,’ she declared. ‘The rooms that were bespoke for us are not available, it seems. The inn is full of gentlemen, here for some sporting event about which I did not enquire. The landlord appears to have preferred the immediate custom of these gentlemen to the prior written instructions of a lady. You will please return to the carriage, Sophia, while I try to resolve matters.’

With firm tread, Isabella returned to the inn to do battle with the landlord for the promised rooms. By the time he eventually appeared, looking hot and flustered, she had been kept waiting for more than ten minutes and her patience had worn extremely thin. Her eyes had lost their usual grey-green calm to become very stormy indeed; her foot was tapping in a rhythm of irritation; and, with her threadbare clothes enhancing the effect, she knew she must appear a veritable harridan. She fully intended to make the most of it in this encounter.

The landlord, however, seemed to be in no mood to acknowledge the justice of her claim. He stated flatly that no rooms were to be had, either in his inn or for several miles around and, furthermore, that the locality was no place for ladies at present, with so large a gathering of sporting gentlemen in residence.

Isabella would have none of it.

Their heated discussion was beginning to attract the attention of the gentlemen assembled in the coffee-room behind her. Isabella could not help but notice that the level of their conversation had become muted as they listened avidly to hers but, driven by the justice of her cause, she would not be deterred. ‘Two chambers and a private parlour were bespoke for Miss Winstanley, besides accommodation for the servants. I insist they be provided immediately. If you have been so lax in your duty as to let them to some of these gentlemen, you must simply require them to move elsewhere. I shall wait here until you have made the arrangements.’

By this time, the coffee-room was almost silent. Isabella coloured a little but stood her ground, wondering whether the men now staring at her defenceless back would have been so reluctant to come to her aid if she had appeared in her normal elegant guise.

The landlord was in a quandary. ‘I’ll ask among the gen’lemen, if you wishes, ma’am, but I don’t see as ’ow I can do what you says. T’wouldn’t be right.’

‘Nor is it right to fail to undertake your commitment to two ladies,’ flashed Isabella.

The landlord shrank a little before her fiery look. His hesitant response was forestalled by the arrival of a young gentleman from the inn-yard who immediately said, ‘Landlord, you have wronged these ladies. I insist that you look to their needs—immediately!’

Isabella’s stormy gaze softened a little at the sight of the young man. His intentions were good, certainly, though they were of little practical help. And the landlord was looking thoroughly mutinous.

The landlord’s response was interrupted by movement from the coffee-room—one of the gentlemen there strode out to join the little group in the hallway.

Isabella swallowed a gasp at the sight of that tall dark figure. She recognised it at a glance. Somehow—impossibly—his powerful outline had become deeply etched in her mind.

It was her would-be rescuer—again!

Chapter Two

Isabella found herself confronting an imposing figure, dressed now in immaculate riding dress and top-boots. She was struck by a sternly handsome face, dark eyes of unfathomable depths, and curling black hair that seemed to invite a woman’s fingers to touch it. This time, she found she could not drag her gaze from his face. Suddenly, she forgot to breathe.

The newcomer paused for a moment alongside Isabella’s frozen figure, raking her from top to toe with a long, appraising glance that seemed to search out every shabby, demeaning aspect of her appearance. She felt as if he had stripped her naked. Then, with a tiny shake of his head, he simply turned away without a word.

Isabella remained motionless, though her heart was pounding now at the extent of the man’s disdain. He was dismissing her publicly. But what else could she expect? In the light of her behaviour earlier, it was hardly surprising that he would not even acknowledge her. She wanted to sink.

Isabella thought she saw the merest hint of a condescending smile on his lips when he turned away from her. In a trice, mounting fury had overcome her embarrassment. How dare he treat her so? First, he pretended to be a knight in shining armour, and then he treated her like a…like a common doxy. This was no gentleman. For no gentleman would look at a woman as he had looked at her. The man must be a libertine. A man of his stamp would doubtless prefer to gaze on women with more opulent, and visible, charms. Isabella told herself she was glad of her dowdy appearance if it protected her from a handsome ladykiller. Isabella Winstanley would never have truck with such a man.

She forced herself to assume her normal outward calm, but her wayward thoughts continued to whirl. Her heart was still racing. And the strangest feelings assailed her.

She was still trying to recover her inner composure when the tall gentleman began addressing his friend. ‘I had not pictured you in the role of knight errant, Lewiston, I must admit—but I am sure your offer will be appreciated.’

Isabella felt the colour rising in her cheeks at the slight but unmistakable emphasis in his words. Her would-be rescuer was clearly determined to make her feel thoroughly ashamed of her earlier behaviour. And he was succeeding.

He did not so much as glance in her direction as he continued, ‘I imagine you were about to offer the ladies one of our chambers and our private parlour. And without so much as a “by-your-leave”, either,’ he added wryly. ‘If I were introduced to this lady, I might be more amenable on that subject, you know.’

Isabella was hard put to hide her astonishment. The man now spoke as if he had never set eyes on her before.

Mr Lewiston’s relative youth was evident in his response, for he coloured and stammered a little, before admitting that he himself had not yet been introduced to this particular lady.

The tall gentleman immediately took charge of the discussion, turning a sudden and devastating smile on Isabella that did the strangest things to her knees, much as she steeled herself to resist. ‘I hope you will forgive my friend’s shocking want of manners, ma’am. I gather he very much desires to be of service to your party in your present difficulties…though I do not fully understand what they might be. Perhaps you could explain a little more, Miss…?’

A number of unflattering descriptions arose in Isabella’s mind, of which ‘dissembler’ was probably the least insulting. Unable to voice her opinion of him without lapsing into impropriety, she swallowed her wrath before explaining, in her best poor-relation manner, that she was Miss Winstanley, en route for London with her young cousin, Miss Sophia Winstanley. But she could not resist adding, with a touch of asperity, ‘You are, I fancy, already well acquainted with the details of our predicament, sir. The landlord’s views on our arrival must have been heard by every one of the gentlemen in the coffee-room.’

She knew she was yielding to her worst impulses by saying such a thing, but she felt so strange in the presence of this man. Somehow, she felt impelled to provoke a reaction from him.

It did not come, because the landlord could no longer contain himself. He burst into vehement self-justification. ‘My lord,’ he began, ‘you knows that this b’aint no place for ladies just now, with so many sporting gen’lemen staying here. I only—’

Isabella cringed inwardly. Good God—not merely a libertine, but a peer as well. It was worse and worse.

The landlord’s excuses were cut short by the unnamed lord. ‘However well-meant your concern, landlord, the fact remains that rooms were bespoke for this lady and you have let them elsewhere. Furthermore, it is already too late for any of your guests, male or female, to journey on in search of accommodation elsewhere.’ With a sidelong glance at Isabella which confirmed that he had indeed heard all of her discussions with the landlord, he concluded, ‘Since this lady’s instructions predate those of the sporting gentlemen, it is clear that the gentlemen must make way for the ladies. So, what do you propose, landlord?’

In truth, the landlord had nothing much to offer, since all his rooms were taken and it was not in his interest to offend the free-spending sporting guests. At length he ventured, ‘If some of the gen’lemen might be willing to share, summat might be done, p’rhaps. But I don’t know…’

‘We have already offered the ladies the use of our sitting room and one of our bedchambers.’ He looked blandly across at his friend. ‘And since Lewiston would not really enjoy sleeping in the stables, he may share my room. That leaves, I think, only one more chamber to find. You can do that, surely, landlord?’

Isabella’s senses were reeling. Why should a rake put himself to so much trouble for someone he obviously considered beneath his touch? And someone who had spurned his help once already that day. Perhaps… But no. Doubtless he had caught sight of Sophia—who looked, for all the world, like a pretty young heiress. Just the sort of prey that such a man would seek to fasten on. Pity the hapless female who was unwise enough to fall into his clutches. He was charming, too, no doubt about that. She would not easily forget that devastating smile and its effect on her. She was feeling it still.

Isabella straightened her spine, waiting until she felt sufficiently in control of her emotions to speak. ‘You are most kind, gentlemen,’ she said, carefully addressing her remarks to the space between the tall unknown and Mr Lewiston. ‘I am sure my cousin will agree that she and I share a chamber also. There will be no need for further inconvenience to the guests on that score. I take it the landlord can find accommodation for the servants?’

The landlord readily agreed that he could. Then he fled from the scene, ostensibly to see to the readying of the rooms.

Isabella, now relieved of the immediate worry, felt some sympathy for him. It could not be easy dealing with a forceful lady and an arrogant lord at one and the same time. Arrogant? No, it would be unjust to call him so, however much she might detest his libertine ways. He was simply very firm about what was to be done. His manner was certainly daunting, but he was self-assured rather than arrogant, a man who was used to issuing commands and who expected them to be obeyed. It would probably be unwise to cross him, too, for there was something in his demeanour that suggested ruthlessness as well as strength. He… Enough! What on earth was she about, letting her mind wander so in the hallway of a posting house?

Isabella’s tumbling thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Sophia in her usual tempestuous fashion. ‘Winny, dear,’ she began, and Isabella’s heart sank as she recognised a gleam of sardonic amusement in the tall gentleman’s eye, ‘Mr Lewiston has so kindly offered to resolve all our problems for us. I have—’

Clearly, Sophia must be stopped before Isabella was even further embarrassed. Her predicament was already wretched enough. ‘Yes, I know, Sophia. Thanks to the kind offices of these two gentlemen, we have somewhere to sleep tonight, even if we are constrained to share a bedchamber. My lord,’ she added pointedly, ‘you must let me make you known to my cousin, Miss Sophia Winstanley. Sophia, this is Lord…’

‘Amburley, at your service, Miss Sophia Winstanley,’ he continued coolly, as if Isabella had known the name all along. He favoured Sophia with a brief, hard smile and bowed over her hand. Then, turning to Isabella, he took her hand also, adding, with another bow, ‘And at yours, Miss Winstanley, of course. The burdens of a companion on a journey such as this are not lightly borne. I hope I may have helped to relieve them in some small way. If there is any other service you require of me, ma’am, please do not hesitate to ask. And now we will leave you. I am sure you will wish to assure yourselves that your accommodation is adequate.’ With a further bow, he released Isabella’s hand and left them to return to the coffee-room, followed by a rather reluctant Mr Lewiston.

Isabella looked dazedly at her hand. It felt as if it were burning, yet there was no outward sign of heat. Her face, too, felt as if it were on fire. Was this an example of how a rake’s practised charm was exercised? She shook her head, vainly trying to clear her disordered thoughts. She longed for solitude so that she might attempt to make sense of what had happened. But, of course, sharing a room with the effervescent Sophia would prevent any opportunity for calm reflection. It was hopeless.

Isabella now wished with all her heart that she had never succumbed to the urge to visit that rural orphanage. It had led her into two encounters with a man who affected her composure as no other had ever done. Not that it mattered, for he clearly regarded her as a poor, used, spinster companion, put upon by all and an object to be pitied. She felt deeply embarrassed and somehow shamed. Her only refuge was in the hope—earnestly felt—that she would never set eyes on Lord Amburley again. She did not see how her injured self-esteem could survive a third meeting.

‘You carried that off perfectly, Winny,’ said Sophia. ‘But for you, we should be sleeping in the stables.’

Isabella smiled weakly in response. At least Sophia had not recognised Lord Amburley.

‘Shall we retire to our parlour now?’ continued Sophia. ‘I so much want to tell you about my conversation with Mr Lewiston.’

Isabella nodded agreement. It would certainly not do to learn Sophia’s views about the perfection of Mr Lewiston’s figure and address in the hearing of the coffee-room gentlemen. That would be the final humiliation of an absolutely dreadful day. Fortunately, the landlord returned at that moment, and so they were soon ensconced in a comfortable parlour with easy chairs and a welcome blaze in the hearth. With a sigh of relief, Isabella removed her all-concealing bonnet and sank into a chair. Privacy, at last.

‘I must tell you, Winny, about my encounter with Mr Lewiston. He must have witnessed our arrival, for he was seeing to his horses in the yard. They are very fine, by the bye, so I collect he must be a rich young man.’

‘That need not be so,’ interposed Isabella. ‘Many a young gentleman of address is deeply in debt and hanging out for a rich wife to solve his problems.’

‘I do not believe Mr Lewiston is such a one. How can you possibly suggest such a motive for the young man who helped to rescue us?’ Sophia stopped short as the full import of Isabella’s words struck home. ‘Besides, I am not rich.’

‘No, Sophia, you are not rich but, just for the moment, you have every appearance of it. You ride in a fine carriage with an abigail and servants in attendance. Your shabbily dressed cousin is naturally assumed to be your companion, while you yourself are dressed in the latest fashion. No one would guess it is thanks to your own nimble fingers, you know. No, indeed, you seem to have all the outward trappings of an heiress.’

‘Oh!’ Sophia blushed to the roots of her hair. ‘Oh, dear! What shall we do?’

‘Nothing. Tomorrow we shall wait until the gentlemen have left before we emerge as ourselves. And even then, I shall ensure that there is not so much difference in my own appearance as to cause comment. Then we can forget all about this unfortunate occurrence…and start preparing for your London Season. We must have you do justice to the Winstanley looks.’ Her mischievous smile lit up her eyes.

That final sally was not enough to restore Sophia’s spirits. ‘But what if we should meet Mr Lewiston or Lord What’s-his-name in London? I should die of mortification.’

‘If you should meet either Mr Lewiston or Lord Amburley, you will behave as if nothing had happened, my dear. After all, you have done nothing, except to be your true self. The imposture, such as it is, has been mine, and I shall have to deal with the consequences if we should meet either gentleman again. However,’ she added consolingly, ‘I do not believe we shall. Although I do not go into Society very much, I have lived in London for almost a year now, and I have not heard of either of them. No doubt they are northern gentlemen who do not come to London for the Season.’

In a bedchamber further along the corridor, Lord Amburley was changing his coat, musing abstractedly on his two encounters with the elder Miss Winstanley. She was remarkably sharp-tongued—but perhaps that was not surprising, considering how shamefully she was treated by her young employer. It was not a fate he would wish on any woman, however poverty-stricken.

His valet’s voice intruded insistently. Peveridge was clearly determined to indulge his irrepressible taste for gossip, now that he had an audience of two. ‘Miss Winstanley is a real lady, m’lord, and a considerable heiress to boot, by all accounts.’

‘Is she, begad?’ said Mr Lewiston, who was reclining at his ease in a chair and nursing a glass in his hand. ‘Well, well.’

‘Pray do not encourage him, George,’ said his lordship. ‘I have been trying for years to persuade him out of his reprehensible tendency to gossip, and now you are like to undo all my hard work with a careless sentence or two.’

The valet grinned at Mr Lewiston, as if to say that no amount of effort on the part of Lord Amburley would ever cure that particular malady.

‘Come, Leigh, I will have the truth out of you. Are you not at all curious about the circumstances of the lovely Miss Winstanley?’

‘I know all I wish to know about that young lady,’ countered his lordship. ‘She is young and quite pretty, I grant you. If you listen to Peveridge, she is also rich. You could have concluded that yourself from her mode of travelling, without recourse to Peveridge’s sources.’ Peveridge cleared his throat at this point as if preparing to intervene, but subsided at a warning glance from his master. With barely a pause, his lordship continued evenly, ‘Peveridge can no doubt give you detailed information on her family, her financial circumstances and her marital ambitions. I know nothing of those, nor do I desire to. The rich Miss Winstanley is empty-headed, frivolous and spoilt. No doubt she has been indulged from birth.’

‘How can you suggest such a thing, Amburley?’ growled Mr Lewiston. ‘You yourself admitted you know nothing about her.’

‘I know her kind very well. Did you compare the poverty of the poor relation’s dress with the expense of the young lady’s? The cost of that single fashionable outfit was probably more than the companion receives in a year. And to address her as “Winny”… If there had been the least doubt as to her lowly station in life, that would certainly have settled it.’

‘It could be her name, you know. Winifred, perhaps?’

‘I take leave to doubt that, George. Did you not notice how she blushed? I believe she was quite put out.’ Until the words were spoken, he had not been aware that her reactions had registered with him at all.

‘She did seem a little strained, I admit, but I put it down to the difficulties of the situation. However, you went out of your way to be kind to her, I noticed. Indeed, you were much more solicitous to the poor companion than to the lady.’

‘Since the lady had you to defend her, my friend, she clearly had no need of me. The companion, by contrast, had no one, not even her charge. She is—’ He stopped in mid-sentence. For some reason, he did not feel able to share his assessment of the poor companion, even with his friend. Deliberately, he pushed her shabby image to the back of his mind, before continuing, ‘I sought only to allow her to recover her composure a little. If I succeeded, I am glad.’

‘You are very much your mother’s son,’ said Lewiston, after a thoughtful pause, ‘with your concern for the poor and disadvantaged. Perhaps you should set up a foundation for impoverished spinsters?’

Lord Amburley smiled enigmatically. ‘I have not the means, George, as you know very well—and, in any case, one philanthropist in the Stansfield family is quite enough. My mother does my share, I think—though only among the orphans.’ His eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘You, by contrast, could certainly afford to support such a worthy cause. Why not adopt your own suggestion?’

‘I have not the taste for it,’ came the prompt reply. ‘I fear I fall into your category of empty-headed, frivolous and spoilt.’

The following morning was wet, which dampened everyone’s spirits. Isabella waited anxiously in her chamber for the gentlemen to leave the inn. She had exchanged the hideous brown dress for a simple but modish travelling gown of deep green, which she planned to hide beneath a plain dark pelisse when she emerged. There was also a matching hat, but Isabella would not dare to put it on until she was safely in the carriage and miles from this unfortunate inn. For the present, she would continue to hide her hair completely under the battered brown poke bonnet.

Her main concern now was to avoid any further meeting with Lord Amburley. Until she was sure he had left, she dared not even venture into the parlour, lest he call to see how they did.

She had suffered mortification enough, she told herself. She was resolved to leave without meeting him again, even if she had to resort to ill-manners to achieve it.

Isabella returned to the window to check again on the departure of the gentlemen. To her relief, she saw that the curricle Sophia had described was standing ready in the yard. In spite of her preoccupation, she could not help noticing that the horses were quite as fine as Sophia had supposed. Mr Lewiston had a good eye, then, and might be wealthy after all. What a pity Isabella’s actions had ruined everything for Sophia.

The sound of voices in the parlour next door distracted her from this depressing train of thought. Sophia’s voice, conversing with a man. Thank goodness Mitchell was present as chaperon, so that Isabella need not join them.

She drew near the connecting door and, without quite putting her ear against it, found a position from which she could overhear all that was said. She told herself sternly that it was her duty to listen. Was she not, after all, the guardian of Sophia’s virtue?

The voice proved to be Mr Lewiston’s. Isabella breathed again.

Mr Lewiston was advising the ladies to delay their journey until the rain eased. He feared Miss Sophia might catch cold if she travelled in such weather.

‘But what of you, sir?’ responded Sophia. ‘Are you not about to set out for your prize-fight, or whatever it is you are all here to see? I thought I saw your horses standing in the yard?’

‘They are Amburley’s horses, I am sorry to say,’ admitted Mr Lewiston ruefully. ‘I should give much to own them.’

‘But they are not for sale,’ put in a deeper voice.

Behind the door, Isabella smothered a gasp. A shiver ran down her body and she swayed on her feet. Amburley was there, just a few feet beyond the door. And it was all his—horses, wealth, everything. Surely a titled man of means would be bound to appear in London at some stage, whatever reasons had kept him away in the past?

Light suddenly dawned. What a fool she had been! Of course, he must have been with Wellington’s army. How could she have missed something so obvious? His bearing, his air of authority, everything about him betrayed the soldier. He would be recently returned from the wars. There must be estates somewhere, she supposed. Oh, she prayed they were a long way from London and in need of his constant supervision. She could not bear the thought of meeting him again. A rake—and a hero too, no doubt. There could not be a more dangerous combination.

Chapter Three

Sophia looked around with glowing eyes. ‘Oh, Isabella,’ she breathed, ‘I have never seen such beautiful fabrics. It’s…it’s like Aladdin’s cave.’

‘Just wait until you have seen Madame’s designs.’ Isabella smiled.

Sophia’s dark eyes opened even wider, as Madame Florette’s elegant black-clad figure re-entered the room, followed by a bevy of attendants carrying yet more bolts of splendid silks. Madame waved them into the background, before inviting the ladies to seat themselves on her delicate spindle-legged chairs.

‘Bien, mademoiselle.’ Madame was beaming at Isabella, no doubt in anticipation of a very large order. ‘I am at your service.’

‘Come, Sophia, let us make a start by choosing some simple morning dresses.’ Isabella smiled encouragingly. ‘Madame Florette has impeccable taste. You may trust her judgement.’

‘Mademoiselle Winstanley is most generous,’ responded the modiste with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Mademoiselle Sophia will be a pleasure to dress. Such colouring, such a figure.’

Over the course of the morning, a bewildering collection of gowns was selected for Sophia. Isabella was glad she had taken pains to ensure that there was no mention whatever of price, for it was vital that Sophia’s feckless parents should not find out how much was being spent on their eldest daughter. What little they had was devoted to educating their five sons—and paying their debts. They did not seem to care that Sophia and her sisters were destined to become penniless old maids. As a spinster herself, Isabella had determined that Sophia, at least, should have the best possible chance of making a good match. And she was quite prepared to conceal the expense of the Season from Sophia’s stiff-necked parents, knowing that they would welcome a wealthy suitor with open arms.

‘And for you, Miss Winstanley,’ urged Madame, ‘I have just received the most beautiful jade-green silk shot with gold. With your colouring, it would make an exquisite ball-gown.’ With an imperious wave of the hand, she dispatched a hovering attendant to fetch the bolt of cloth.

The jade and gold silk was irresistible. ‘With a lighter green underdress, mademoiselle, in this aquamarine satin, to bring out the colour of the silk…and then a gold gauze scarf for your arms.’ Madame was sketching rapidly. ‘We will fashion a special ornament for your hair too, I think, to pick up the greens of the gown and of your eyes. It will look ravishing, I assure you.’

‘Isabella, it is too beautiful for words. You must have it, truly.’

Isabella yielded. She knew just how well the gown would become her. Partly as a result of Madame’s beautiful creations, Isabella Winstanley could hold her own among the best-dressed women in London. She was now wearing a carriage dress of emerald green, with a jaunty little hat of the same colour perched on top of her honey-gold curls. Even though Sophia’s dark colouring was the prevailing fashion, it was Isabella’s striking looks that had drawn every eye since their arrival in London.

Isabella was laughing gently with Sophia as they emerged to return to their carriage. Sophia, concentrating on their conversation, failed to notice a gentleman in her path and almost collided with him.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir,’ she began. ‘Why, it is Mr Lewiston! Oh!’ Her face was suffused with the deepest blush, and she began to stammer uncertainly, ‘I…I had not thought…to see you in London. I…’ Her voice trailed off; she was unable to utter another word.

Mr Lewiston saved her, at least for the moment. ‘Miss Winstanley, how delightful to meet you again. I cannot think how I was so remiss as to fail to ask you for your direction in London. I hope you will permit me to call?’

Sophia had no choice but to acquiesce. ‘I am staying in Hill Street with my godmother, Lady Wycham,’ she said. ‘I am sure she would be delighted to meet you.’

‘And would you do me the honour of making me known to your companion?’ asked Mr Lewiston, casting an appreciative glance at Isabella.

‘Com…companion?’ stuttered Sophia, suddenly ashen.

‘I do not think I have been introduced to this lady,’ said Mr Lewiston patiently, ignoring Sophia’s apparent want of wits.

Isabella intervened to save the situation. She extended her hand, noting with satisfaction how steady it was. ‘I am Isabella Winstanley, Mr Lewiston, a distant cousin of Sophia’s. Lady Wycham would welcome a chance to meet you, I am sure. We have heard about your chivalrous rescue of Sophia in the north.’

It was Mr Lewiston’s turn to stammer as they shook hands. ‘Indeed, ma’am, I…I did nothing more than any gentleman would have done for a lady in distress, I assure you.’ Recovering his composure, he continued gamely, addressing Sophia once more, ‘I shall call tomorrow, if I may?’

Sophia answered with a smile and a slight nod. She was still incapable of speech. With an elegant bow, Mr Lewiston handed them into the carriage and stood watching as they drove off.

Sophia sank into the cushions, as far as possible from the window. She had turned extremely pale. She sank her head into her hands, pushing her modish new bonnet askew in the process, and began to sob weakly.

Isabella, too, was a little pale, but she despised such missish behaviour. Her keen intellect was busy searching for a solution to their dilemma. Mr Lewiston had not recognised her, she was certain. If she was careful both in her appearance and her behaviour, she could continue to dupe him. She could not afford to fail.

‘Do not distress yourself, Sophia,’ she said firmly, grasping Sophia’s shoulder and giving her a tiny shake. ‘He did not know me. Nor will he, if we are careful. I shall continue to act as though he and I had just met, and so shall you. If he should ask after your “companion”—though I dare swear he will not so lower himself—you will say that she is with her family.’

‘Oh, I could not,’ protested Sophia, trying to dry her tears with a scrap of lace. ‘I have not your talent for acting a part. Pray do not ask me to, Winny.’ Her voice was quavering; the tears threatened once more.

‘But I require you to,’ replied Isabella resolutely, giving Sophia a stern look, which stopped the gathering tears immediately. ‘Remember, Sophia—what I am asking you to say is no more than the exact truth. “Winny” is with her family.’ Isabella softened her gaze with a slight smile as she continued. ‘However, you must now cease to call me by that name. It would certainly betray us.’

They did not have much time to reflect on the possible horrors of the forthcoming visit from Mr Lewiston, because they were preoccupied with the preparations for Sophia’s first party—Lady Bridge’s soirée—that very evening. Although London was as yet quite thin of company, Isabella had judged it wise to allow Sophia to make some acquaintances at a few small gatherings, before launching her into her first grand occasion.

For this first party, Sophia chose the prettiest of the evening gowns she had brought from Yorkshire. None of Madame Florette’s creations could arrive for some days yet, however many seamstresses she might set to work on them. But Sophia’s home-made gown would by no means disgrace her, since she possessed real skill both in cutting and in stitching.

‘Thank you so much for lending me your pearls,’ said Sophia, as soon as she joined Isabella in the hall.

‘You look lovely,’ replied Isabella warmly. ‘Pink does indeed become you.’

‘While you look quite beautiful,’ responded Sophia promptly, casting admiring glances at Isabella’s classical gown of old-gold silk, and the necklace and earrings of intricate gold filigree. ‘You look like a princess from a fairy-tale.’

Secretly pleased, Isabella thanked her cousin demurely. ‘But you should not say such things, you know. At my age, I am more likely to be the wicked witch than the good fairy.’

‘Nonsense,’ chimed in an older voice. ‘You do yourself an injustice, as ever, Isabella. You look very well indeed, my dear.’

‘Oh, Aunt,’ protested Isabella. ‘How can I retain my countenance, if both of you put me to the blush?’

Lady Wycham ignored that protest completely. ‘Come, my dears, the carriage is waiting.’ The elderly lady, clad in imposing purple and leaning lightly on an ebony cane, led the way to the steps.

Barely ten minutes after their arrival, Sophia was chattering gaily with their host’s two nieces, while the hostess herself was seated by Lady Wycham, enjoying a comfortable coze.

‘Will you favour us with some music, my dear?’ asked Sir Thomas. ‘It is always a delight to hear you sing.’

Isabella inclined her head towards her host and moved to open the pianoforte. First she played a German minuet, its demure rhythm making little impact on the hum of conversation in the salon. Then she turned to a book of Italian songs, accompanying her low, rich singing voice with soft arpeggios. Almost as soon as she started to sing, the level of noise in the room fell, as the guests stopped to appreciate her beautiful voice. Sir Thomas watched her with a beatific smile on his face. Hardly anyone moved.

At the end of three songs, she made to leave the instrument but was met with a chorus of requests for an encore. She felt the warmth of a flush on her cheeks as she nodded her acquiescence. ‘Very well,’ she smiled, ‘but just one more.’ Her choice this time was completely different, a sad Italian ballad, which she sang very quietly, but with great expressiveness. The room remained totally hushed until the last note had died away, and then there was a burst of enthusiastic applause.

Isabella felt pleased; she knew she had performed well. She raised her eyes from her music to acknowledge the applause—and looked straight into the hard, dark eyes of Lord Amburley.

For a moment she sat immobile, stunned. How could this be happening? She felt her flush return and deepen under his gaze, while she strove both to regain her composure and to find an escape route from this nightmarish encounter. What could she do? It was so terribly difficult to order her thoughts with his penetrating gaze resting on her face. Had he recognised her, perhaps? Heavens, he was coming over to the pianoforte. She rose hurriedly in an attempt to avoid him, but it was too late. Sir Thomas was before her.

‘I think you cannot have met Amburley,’ began her affable host. ‘He has not been in town for some years. The wars, you know. He arrived a little late this evening but, luckily, in time to hear you sing. May I make him known to you?’

Isabella nodded dumbly, trying to recover control of her decidedly wobbly limbs. Her mind was still in a whirl. Foremost among her thoughts was the awful certainty that he could not possibly be the libertine she had earlier judged him to be. Rakes were not received by the upright Lady Bridge.

‘Miss Winstanley,’ continued Sir Thomas formally, turning slightly to be sure of including his lordship, ‘may I present Lord Amburley?’

‘Your servant, ma’am.’ His lordship had stopped by the far end of the instrument, Isabella noted, just near enough to avoid being impolite. He now bowed distantly to her, without moving forward to shake hands. ‘My compliments on your performance. You have a most…unusual voice.’ His voice was cool and expressionless, his manner stiff.

Curtsying politely, Isabella contrived a slight smile which did not reach her eyes. Inwardly, she was suddenly seething, her anger forcibly expelling her earlier weakness. She had been much too generous in her previous assessment of this man. Not a rake, perhaps, but both arrogant and overbearing in the extreme. She had received many compliments on her singing in the past, but a cold and patronising ‘unusual’ was certainly not one she would cherish. Better that he had refrained from voicing his evident disdain. Hateful, hateful man!

She would not allow him to overset her. Let him begin the polite conversation, if he dared. The spark of challenge was unmistakable as she raised her head proudly to look him in the eye.

If Lord Amburley observed that fiery spark, he gave no outward sign of recognition as far as Isabella could tell. Indeed, he seemed to be completely devoid of any human feeling—he just stood motionless by the pianoforte, surveying Isabella through half-closed lids.

Isabella refused to be cowed. Clearly his lordship did not desire to prolong their conversation. She certainly had no wish to do so. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I must rejoin Lady Wycham,’ she said politely, turning to leave. Sir Thomas nodded genially. Lord Amburley responded with only the slightest bow, keeping his hard eyes fixed on Isabella throughout. She could feel his gaze boring into her back, as she moved away to join her great-aunt once more, keeping her pace measured and deliberate. She might feel like running from him, but nothing—nothing—would be allowed to betray her inner weakness to such a man.

‘Why, Isabella,’ exclaimed Lady Wycham, ‘whatever is the matter? You look quite ill. Have you the headache, my dear? You really should not have agreed to perform for so long.’

‘I am quite well, truly. It is just a little warm with so many people in the room. I shall be recovered in a moment, I assure you.’ Taking a deep breath, Isabella raised her eyes to survey the company and discovered, with a sigh of relief, that Lord Amburley was no longer anywhere to be seen. A little of her colour returned.

But she had forgotten about Sophia, who was signalling urgently from across the room. Isabella swallowed a moment of panic. What should she tell Sophia? She reminded herself sternly that he had shown no sign of recognition—with luck he had completely forgotten his encounters with ‘Winny’.

Sophia drew Isabella into a shadowy alcove, desperate to know what had happened. ‘What did he say? Did he recognise you, do you think? Oh, what are we going to do?’

‘Be calm, Sophia,’ answered Isabella, doing her utmost to appear so herself. ‘There is no reason to be agitated, I am sure. Lord Amburley did not know me. We were introduced by Sir Thomas, that is all.’ She cut Sophia’s protest short, lest the child fret herself into an attack of the vapours. ‘He will, of course, recognise you when you meet, and you must acknowledge him, as you would any other gentleman. Remember that your “companion”—“Winny”—has gone to stay with her family. You may say, quite truthfully, that you are staying with your godmother and your distant cousin Isabella. Can you do that, do you think?’ She laid a gloved hand gently on Sophia’s arm.

‘I shall try,’ promised Sophia, looking pale and strained.

The inevitable meeting with Lord Amburley took place at supper, towards midnight, just when Isabella had begun to hope that he might have left. Isabella and Sophia were seated in the midst of the same group of young people they had joined earlier, and all were enjoying Lady Bridge’s generous hospitality.

Isabella felt, rather than saw, Lord Amburley’s entrance. Turning her head fractionally so that she could observe the doorway out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he was lounging near the door, apparently engrossed in discussion. She clenched her hands together in her lap to stop them from shaking.

Let him not notice us, she prayed silently, and if he does, I will not blush. Heavens, why cannot I have more self-control? What can it be about that man that oversets me so? He may be used to intimidating others, but I refuse to let him do so to me.

Trying to hide her confusion, she sipped gingerly at her champagne flute.

‘Miss Winstanley,’ said the well-remembered voice immediately behind her, ‘how delightful to meet you again—’ Isabella started and turned, only to find that he was clearly addressing Sophia, not herself ‘—I beg your pardon,’ he corrected himself, ‘I should have noticed that both Misses Winstanley were present. Miss Sophia, I hope you are well after your ordeal on the North Road? Are you fixed in London for the Season?’

Sophia answered with commendable self-possession that she was. A short, polite exchange ensued, after which Lord Amburley quickly withdrew. Sophia visibly relaxed.

Isabella noted that his lordship had not enquired after ‘Winny’, nor had he favoured her with any further conversation at all. She concluded that he had not given her another thought. Unaccountably, she felt piqued.

‘Lord Amburley is not much given to light conversation, it seems,’ she said softly to Sophia. ‘Perhaps that is just as well, in the circumstances.’

‘I am glad he is gone,’ confided Sophia. ‘There is something about his eyes that frightens me. I felt as if he could read my very thoughts.’

Isabella’s eyes widened in sudden recognition—for that was exactly how she had felt earlier, at the pianoforte. Then, she had not been able to put it into words. Now…now she had to admit that Lord Amburley would be a very dangerous man to cross.

Chapter Four

While society ladies were sleeping away the exertions of their late night, Lord Amburley was much occupied. He had never lost the soldier’s habit of rising early, though nowadays he used the time to exercise his horses rather than to inspect his troops. He revelled in the solitary beauty of the park and the freedom he enjoyed there in the early morning. Later in the day, there were always too many prying eyes for his comfort—the rigid etiquette of the ton sat very uneasily on the shoulders of the man of action that he had been.

It was a beautiful, late spring morning, but Amburley barely noticed the birdsong or the budding trees. The huge grey he rode seemed to be itching to gallop across the fresh, dewy grass but was held to a sedate walk by an iron hand. The horse tossed his head in protest.

Lord Amburley was still in Sir Thomas’s drawingroom, listening to a heart-stoppingly beautiful voice—and worrying at the riddle of the woman behind it. He had observed her closely while she sang. She was remarkably handsome—her glorious golden hair and her glowing complexion were a revelation to him. Only those unforgettable grey-green eyes confirmed her double identity—and her duplicity. She had been totally in control, too, until she caught sight of him. From then on, her agitation—and Miss Sophia’s—had been apparent, though she had masked it well in the supper room. A good actress, he supposed.

But what—in truth—was she? On the road, he had met a poor relation with a sharp tongue and more concern for poor Jonah than for polite behaviour. Now, she was transformed into a lady of the ton. One guise must be false, of course—and, remembering her guilty reactions of the previous evening, he knew which it must be.

None the less, he found he could not help admiring her. She had more than beauty—she had spirit. No shrinking violet she, in spite of what she was. And yet, her inexcusable behaviour must surely be condemned by any right-thinking man?

The grey shook his head again, more forcefully. ‘All right, old fellow. You’ve made your point. You think I’m good for nothing this morning, don’t you? Well, we’ll see about that.’ He let the horse have his head. The grey needed to shake the fidgets out of his legs. If only Amburley’s own concerns could be so simply resolved.

Around ten o’clock, while Lord Amburley was partaking of a light breakfast in his rented house in Jermyn Street, Mr Lewiston was announced. ‘Good God, George, you are up betimes,’ exclaimed his lordship, waving his friend to a chair. ‘I have not known you to emerge before noon, unless there was a prize-fight to attend. What brings you here at this hour?’

‘I have some news,’ replied Lewiston. ‘I must tell you that I encountered Miss Winstanley yesterday, quite by chance. You recall the young lady we rescued on the North Road? Well, it was she. And I have discovered her direction in London. Quite wonderful luck! I mean to call on her today. Will you accompany me?’

Lord Amburley did not immediately reply. ‘Did you, indeed? And was she still in looks?’

‘Indeed she was. She looked quite lovely. And so animated, more so than before, I fancy. I think that that dowdy companion we met up north had a malign influence on her. Miss Winstanley seemed in much brighter spirits without her louring presence.’

‘Miss Winstanley was alone?’ asked Lord Amburley sharply.

‘Of course not,’ snapped Mr Lewiston. ‘She was accompanied by a distant relation—a Miss Isabella Winstanley. She is much older than Miss Sophia and a perfectly proper chaperon. Though I should perhaps warn you that she is a most elegant female herself, not beautiful exactly, but certainly striking.’

Lord Amburley raised an eyebrow. Isabella Winstanley was much more than striking, surely? But that was not a subject for discussion with Lewiston. ‘And what has become of the poor companion? “Winny”, was it not?’

‘I have not the least notion. In any case, what has she to say to anything? You are not about to have another attack of philanthropy, are you, Leigh?’

‘No. Merely curious.’ Lord Amburley busied himself with the coffee-pot as he spoke. ‘Tell me about your encounter, including the distant cousin.’

‘There is little more to tell. Miss Winstanley— Miss Sophia Winstanley, I mean—almost collided with me outside Florette’s. We exchanged a few words. Miss Sophia introduced me to her companion, and then she told me she was staying with Lady Wycham in Hill Street. Lady Wycham is her godmother, you know.’

‘Well, no—in fact, I don’t know her ladyship, I’m afraid,’ responded his lordship flippantly.

‘Sometimes, Leigh, you are quite exasperating. I did not expect you to know Lady Wycham, dammit; I was simply explaining how things are. If you’d just let me finish…’

‘Oh. Is there more?’ His lordship sat back, calmly drinking his coffee.

Lewiston continued doggedly. ‘Kenley has told me all about the Misses Winstanley. Your man Peveridge was right about her being an heiress. Apparently Lady Wycham is very well-to-do, and Miss Winstanley is her nearest relative. She is expected to inherit everything. I dare say she will be the catch of the Season—beauty, breeding and a fortune into the bargain.’

‘With Kenley involved, she will certainly become the centre of attraction—he is a gossip-monger of the first order. I have never understood why he spoils his own chances of winning heiresses by spreading the news all over London. After all, everyone knows he’s mortgaged to the hilt. But you mean to be first in line yourself, I collect?’

Lewiston glowered in response. ‘I have no need of her fortune, as you know perfectly well. I mean only to further my acquaintance with her and, perhaps, to warn her about some of those who may have mercenary motives.’

This was serious, Amburley realised. And there was an edge in Lewiston’s tone that suggested… ‘I trust you do not include me in that category, do you, George?’

Lewiston laughed. ‘Why, no, of course not. I know you are not hanging out after an heiress for a wife…or indeed any wife at all, as far as I can see. And even if you were, I doubt you would choose someone of Miss Winstanley’s tender years. The cousin, now, might be more to your liking. I’d say she is past five-and-twenty, but she is very well-looking, none the less. I gather she is a poor relation of some kind, though, and totally dependent on Lady Wycham’s generosity, so you couldn’t really afford to—’ Lewiston broke off at Amburley’s dark frown. ‘What is the matter, Leigh?’

‘I will thank you not to interfere in my private affairs, George. I know you mean well… However, what is important at present is that I prevent you from making a complete ass of yourself in this case.’ Lewiston gave an audible gasp. ‘As I said, an ass,’ repeated his lordship. ‘You clearly did not look closely at Miss Isabella Winstanley. If you had, you would have recognised the “malign” companion of our earlier encounter.’ Lewiston now looked as if he had received a blow in the solar plexus.

‘I chanced to meet both ladies at Lady Bridge’s soirée last night,’ continued Lord Amburley evenly. ‘Miss “Winny” is attempting to pass herself off as a lady of fortune, no doubt in the hope of catching a husband. Your Miss Sophia, probably abetted by Lady Wycham, has clearly put quite some investment into her companion’s appearance, for she appeared as a very fine lady indeed. Miss “Winny’s” manners are irreproachable, of course, but then that is often the last resort of the impoverished. It’s a pity she is indulging in such a shameful masquerade. She would have been better to take honest employment as a governess. She is certainly well qualified for that. She plays and sings delightfully.’

Lewiston put his cup down with a clatter. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he gasped.

‘What other explanation can you offer?’ countered his lordship grimly. ‘We both met Miss “Winny”. There can be no doubt of her lowly station in life. Unless I am mistaken in my identification of her as Miss Isabella—and I assure you I am not—there can be no other explanation. Your Miss Sophia is not only rich, frivolous and spoilt, she is also prepared to perpetrate a disreputable fraud upon you and other unsuspecting gentlemen of the ton. I have to say I am not surprised. Heiresses tend to have little regard for morality.’

He rose from the table and strode to the window, frowning out on to the busy street. ‘I see that you doubt me. It is understandable, perhaps, that you think my judgement has been swayed by my own experience of society ladies. However, once you have paid your respects in Hill Street and looked upon Miss Isabella Winstanley with new eyes, you will doubt no longer, I promise you.’

‘I am sure you are wrong, Amburley,’ said Lewiston coldly, making to rise from his chair, ‘and I shall take pleasure in telling you so, as soon as I may. Such a delightful and well-bred girl as Miss Sophia would never be party to so base a deception. It is not possible.’

‘As you wish,’ replied Amburley calmly. ‘But since my opinion cannot be put to the test for some hours yet, let us turn to happier pursuits. I was intending to take a turn in the ring at Jackson’s parlour this morning. Will you join me? It might improve your temper to plant me a facer.’

‘No doubt it would, if I could do it,’ admitted Lewiston, forced into unwilling laughter, ‘but I know very well that I cannot. You are much too skilled for me, and I prefer not to suffer your left again, thank you. I will gladly accompany you, though.’

Good humour temporarily restored, they left for Gentleman Jackson’s boxing parlour.

Although Mr Lewiston’s dress was the height of fashion and his coat owed its immaculate fit to the artistry of Weston, he nevertheless looked nothing out of the common way by comparison with the tall and imposing figure of Lord Amburley at his side. Mr Lewiston kept fingering his cravat—a mathematical that he had laboured over for nearly two hours. It felt too tight. ‘I think, perhaps, we should not go in, Leigh,’ he suggested, tugging at it yet again.

‘Do you tell me you do not care to catch Miss Sophia in her outrageous behaviour, George?’

‘What? Oh, heavens, no! This cravat of mine. It’s not, I fear, quite what I should like. Perhaps I should—’ At that moment, the great door swung open to reveal the uncompromising stare of Lady Wycham’s butler. Retreat became impossible.

Lady Wycham greeted them amicably from her place on the sofa in the blue drawing-room. ‘Sophia has told me all about your gallant rescue, Mr Lewiston. Believe me, we are most grateful to you both.’

‘It was nothing out of the ordinary, ma’am, I assure you.’ Mr Lewiston blushed. ‘I was glad to be of service,’ he added with a smile for Sophia, sitting beside Lady Wycham.

The elder Miss Winstanley was seated on the other side of the room, entertaining another guest. Mr Lewiston could hear her voice fairly clearly, but was unable to study her face without turning round. Surely this voice was different—lighter, younger?

After a few minutes, Lady Wycham asked Sophia to present Mr Lewiston to those other callers with whom he was unacquainted. ‘Forgive me if I do not rise to make the introductions myself, sir. I am afraid I am no longer as spry as I once was.’ While Lord Amburley, looking faintly amused, remained in conversation with Lady Wycham, Mr Lewiston accompanied Sophia to the window where Sophia performed the introductions, first to Miss Isabella Winstanley, with the reminder that they were ‘distant cousins, you will recall’, and then to the Earl of Gradely, who bowed and left.

Mr Lewiston appraised Miss Winstanley with some care. She was the same height, pretty much, he admitted, but ‘Winny’ had been thin, while this lady, though slim, was elegantly formed. No. Amburley must be wrong.

‘Is this your first visit to London, Mr Lewiston?’ enquired Isabella, looking into his face and determined to maintain the bright, youthful character that had successfully deceived him so far.

He did not immediately reply. For a moment, Isabella fancied his mind was elsewhere. She hastened to fill the silence. ‘Have you visited Westminster Abbey since you arrived in London, sir?’ she said quickly. ‘I assure you it is a magnificent edifice and repays a journey. Sophia and I attended divine service there on Sunday last. It was truly moving. The music in particular was most beautiful.’

Mr Lewiston looked suddenly nonplussed. He stammered a little as he made to answer Isabella. Then he paused for a moment, as if trying to collect his wits, before finally responding to Isabella’s inconsequential conversation in much the same vein. When Lord Amburley strolled over to join them, some minutes later, the conversation was still centred on such delights of London as might properly be discussed before ladies.

Mr Lewiston tried to bring his friend into the discussion. ‘You must have seen all the sights, of course, Leigh?’

‘Too many years ago,’ agreed Lord Amburley, making no attempt to include Isabella in his remarks. ‘I am more familiar now with the great churches of Madrid than of London, I fear. I shall be forced to reacquaint myself with them, now the war is finally over.’

Isabella was incensed. She determined that she would no longer be ignored by this arrogant man. She would force him to acknowledge her. ‘Were you many years in the Peninsula, my lord?’ she asked innocently.

‘I joined Wellesley in eighteen ten, ma’am,’ he replied tersely, directing a stern gaze at Isabella.

She swallowed, refusing to be intimidated. ‘And your family was content for you to go? I fancied it was more usual for the heir to kick his heels at home, and that only younger sons joined the colours. I collect your parents did not share the received opinion?’

‘No, ma’am, you are mistaken,’ he rejoined sharply. ‘The heir did indeed remain at home. I was the younger son merely, and required to make my own way in life. I inherited the title only in eighteen twelve, on the death of my elder brother.’

Isabella paled with anger at his condescending manner. How dare he? He had purposely made her simple question sound impertinent. ‘Did you leave the army then, sir?’ she continued calmly, refusing to be daunted by his hard eyes.

‘No, ma’am. I remained until Boney was sent to Elba.’

‘Even then, he was afire to be off again when Boney escaped,’ interposed Mr Lewiston, ingenuously, ‘and would have gone, had it not been for Lady Amburley’s entreaties.’

‘You allow yourself too much latitude in interpreting my motives, George,’ returned his lordship, with a generous smile that softened his features markedly. In that moment, he seemed to Isabella to reveal a character totally different from the hard, taciturn man she had judged him to be. ‘My mother’s wishes happened to coincide with my duty. I was not in a position to quit the estates again, however much I might have been tempted.’

‘But you have yielded to temptation now, my lord, have you not, in coming to London?’ Without pause for thought, Isabella had decided that, if he would condemn her for impertinence, she would give him cause. She fixed an innocent smile on her lips.

Lord Amburley turned back to Isabella and surveyed her slowly. It was exactly the same calculating look he had given to ‘Winny’ on their encounter at the Bell inn. Then suddenly, he laughed. ‘Touché, ma’am. I have indeed yielded to the delights of the London Season. Though, before you reproach me further—’ Isabella lowered her eyes, suddenly conscious of the impropriety of her outburst ‘—I should reassure you that my estates are now in good enough order to be able to survive without my ministrations for a month or two.’

Isabella raised her gaze again to discover that he was now laughing at her. Infamous! Her earlier embarrassment was replaced by righteous anger. She must—and would—find the means of repaying him in his own coin…and soon.

The door had hardly shut behind the two men, when Lewiston launched into a slightly incoherent recital of the stages of his enlightenment. ‘What the devil do they mean by entertaining Gradely? He’s the worst sort of fortune-hunter. Puts me in mind of some ravening beast, waiting to prey on the innocent and helpless. If he should make her an offer…’

Amburley waited patiently for the tirade to end before gently steering his friend back to the question of Isabella’s identity.

‘I would not have believed that they were one and the same, but for her eyes. They are a most unusual colour. I noticed that at the inn. But she did not guess that I had rumbled her, I’d swear to that,’ Lewiston added, with obvious self-satisfaction, ‘so we still hold all the cards.’ He paused. ‘It’s a devilish tricky situation, though, Leigh,’ he added uncertainly. ‘You are quite justified in saying they have practised a disreputable deception on us, yet I cannot readily believe Miss Sophia is truly guilty. She is such an innocent… In the circumstances,’ he continued, after a moment, ‘I thought it best to say nothing, at least for the present. To be honest, I wanted time to think.’

‘Very wise, George,’ agreed Amburley. ‘Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.’

‘What the devil do you mean, “revenge”?’ exclaimed Lewiston. ‘What need have I, or you for that matter, to wreak vengeance on that poor girl?’

‘Easy, George. Remember that they set out, quite deliberately, to dupe us. Let us consider the situation dispassionately, before we pronounce upon the appropriate retribution. The facts are simple. Miss Sophia Winstanley, the heiress, has a distant cousin, Isabella, also called “Winny”. Said cousin is only a poor companion, but has now been dressed to the nines in order to appear as an equal. We do not know why, nor who is responsible for this disreputable scheme, though I must say that it is much more likely to have originated with the rich Miss Winstanley than with the poor relation.’ He cut short his companion’s attempted defence of Sophia. ‘However, I attach the largest part of the blame to the elder Miss Winstanley. A lady of her years and experience should never have consented to such a bird-witted escapade, however tempting the bait. It was always bound to fail.

‘By the way, George,’ he added, ‘I think you owe me an apology, for doubting my ability to detect a fraud.’

Lewiston’s jaw dropped momentarily.

‘Do not bother to beg my pardon, old fellow,’ Amburley said, with a sardonic smile. ‘I understand that you are much more concerned about Miss Sophia’s feelings than mine.’

‘Leigh, you are quite outrageous,’ returned his friend. ‘Yes, of course you were right. But what are we to do?’

‘For the moment, I think, we shall simply wait and observe developments. We could easily spread the tale now, of course. Nothing simpler. But I think—not yet. I confess to being intrigued by this potentially disastrous make-believe of theirs. I should like very much to know what occasioned it. Indeed, I intend to find out. Then I shall decide what is best to be done.’ He paused. ‘I beg your pardon. You, of course, will take whatever action you think is right. It is not my place to make decisions on your behalf.’

Lewiston shook his head. ‘I have no present intention of betraying them, Leigh. Indeed, I rather think we should not unmask them at all, unless it is clear that mischief is afoot. To be honest with you, I cannot believe it is more than a silly prank.’

‘Ladies of Miss “Winny’s” age and background should not become involved in pranks,’ declared Lord Amburley flatly. ‘I may yet bring her to rue it, I dare say. However, I agree that, for the present at least, we should simply watch and wait.’

They turned the corner and approached his lordship’s door. ‘Are you bidden to the Duchess of Newcombe’s ball tomorrow, George?’ Lewiston nodded. ‘Doubtless both the Misses Winstanley will be there. We shall have ample opportunity for spectator sport. It promises to be better than a prize-fight.’

Chapter Five

Sophia awoke early next day, the day of her first ever ball. She made no attempt to go back to sleep, scrambling out of bed and into her dressing-gown without ringing for her new maid. Then, eyes shining with excitement, she hurried along the corridor to Isabella’s room, where she knocked briefly and entered, without waiting for an invitation.

‘Isabella, forgive me for…’ Her words trailed off, and she looked at her cousin in astonishment. ‘Good God,’ she exclaimed, ‘whatever are you doing, dressed like that at this hour?’

Isabella was not best pleased at the interruption to her plans, nor was she prepared to indulge Sophia’s curiosity. With a stern look, reminiscent of Lady Wycham at her most haughty, she replied sharply that her private business was of no interest to her young cousin.

‘But those are the clothes you wore to visit the orphans,’ protested Sophia, refusing to be silenced. ‘If anyone were to see you, there would be a scandal. Surely—’

‘Sophia,’ interrupted Isabella sharply, ‘I shall thank you to allow me to be the judge of what I may or may not do. And where I go is of no interest to anyone but myself.’ She turned to her maid. ‘Have you my gloves, Mitchell? Thank you.’ Drawing them on, she spoke more gently to Sophia. ‘Now go back to bed, my dear. It is much too early for you to be about. Even on the day of your first ball,’ she added, with a slight smile. ‘Say nothing to anyone about what has happened here, even to me. And ask no questions. They will not be answered.’ With a quick nod, Isabella opened the door and was gone.

It was still quite early when Sophia entered the breakfast room. Even so, Isabella was before her, now dressed in a light morning dress of cream cambric trimmed with green velvet ribbons and calmly pouring coffee. Sophia’s mouth formed an O, but no sound came out.

‘Good morning, Sophia dear,’ beamed Isabella. ‘I hope you slept well, for it will be a long night, I fancy. Will you have some coffee? Or shall I ring for chocolate?’ Isabella was quite determined that no allusion to their earlier encounter would be permitted, but Sophia surrendered with only token resistance.

As the day wore on, Sophia’s excitement visibly increased, until Isabella at last managed to persuade her to rest in the late afternoon. Relaxing on her own chaise-longue, Isabella abandoned herself to thoughts of her own attempted début, nearly ten years before. Then, with her father still alive, she had been viewed as a potential heiress, but it had not brought happiness, merely a train of grasping fortune-hunters. She shuddered at the memory. She and her brother had been wise to pretend that everything had been left to him. Better to be an old maid than to be pursued for money alone. Isabella had no regrets, now, about pretending to be dependent on Aunt Jemima. Her life was her own, and she could live it in comfort, even though she would die a spinster.

She smiled with sad irony at the memory of her come-out. White and pastels were all very well for brunettes like Sophia, but pale-complexioned blondes tended to look merely insipid. And gentlemen were unlikely to be enamoured of a lady who looked them straight in the eye, or worse, overtopped them when she rose from her seat. Lord Amburley, now, was a much better partner for a tall lady. She would not even reach his shoulder. Dancing with such a tall gentleman—waltzing, perhaps?—might be delightful. She would put her hand on his shoulder, where the warmth of his body could be felt through the fine cloth of his coat. His gloved hand would rest in the middle of her back—perhaps even against her bare skin—while he guided her firmly through the throng of dancers. She would feel his warm breath on her face as he complimented her on the lightness of her dancing. His dark eyes would…

Isabella checked herself severely before her musings advanced even further into the realm of daydreams. A man should not become the subject of missish fancies just because he happened to be rather taller than the ordinary. He certainly had little, other than height, to recommend him. Unless, perhaps, that underlying sense of humour which had betrayed itself when she taunted him? Resolutely, Isabella put his lordship from her thoughts and rose to begin her preparations for the ball.

Madame Florette’s jade creation was a wonder of expensive simplicity, allowing the beautiful shot-silk overdress to fall in graceful folds from a high waistline below a deeply scooped décolletage. The neckline and the tiny sleeves were edged with the aquamarine satin of the underdress. The open edges of the overdress were similarly trimmed and finished with tiny aquamarine satin buttons and loops.

Isabella was more pleased than she was prepared to admit. She had almost persuaded herself that she was now past the age when a lady hoped to be admired, and that she should settle quietly into spinsterhood. But faced with the fairy-tale gown, she knew a moment of youthful excitement ill-suited to an ‘ageing spinster’. Let us see whether he can ignore me now, came the unprompted thought.

Soon Isabella was standing in front of the pier glass, critically assessing her reflection. Mitchell’s new way with her hair was most becoming, she decided. The rather looser knot of curls on top made her look very young. And Mitchell’s suggestion of aquamarines was right too, mere trumpery though they might be.

Answering a light tap at the door, Mitchell admitted Lady Wycham’s maid. ‘Can you come to my lady, please, miss? She’s took bad.’

Isabella immediately hurried to Lady Wycham’s apartments. She found her great-aunt lying on her bed, partly dressed for the ball, but with a silk dressing-gown over all. She was very pale, and a hand was pressed to her throat.

‘Oh, Aunt,’ gasped Isabella, ‘is it one of your spasms? Shall I send for Dr Ridley?’

‘I shall be well again in a moment. Parsons should not have fetched you.’ She looked severely at her faithful maid, but it had no visible effect. ‘Only I fear I may not be able to accompany you tonight.’

‘But we shall stay here with you,’ exclaimed Isabella. ‘We cannot possibly go when you are unwell.’

‘Nonsense, Isabella. I am quite recovered now.’ She attempted, unsuccessfully, to sit up. ‘Perhaps not quite enough to accompany you, but certainly enough to be left in Parsons’ care. I insist that you take Sophia to the ball. You must simply make my excuses to the Duchess.’

Isabella was torn between her duty to her aunt and her desire not to disappoint Sophia. Her indecision must have been apparent.

‘Isabella,’ said Lady Wycham curtly, ‘what is the matter with you? Have you windmills in your head, child? I take it you will do as I ask?’

‘Dear Aunt, I should rather stay here to see to your comfort—’ Lady Wycham drew breath sharply, as a preliminary to another biting retort ‘—but I know that you will not tolerate it. So, if you insist, I shall chaperon Sophia to the Duchess’s ball.’

‘I do wish it, my dear. Thank you. I know I can trust you to ensure she behaves as she ought.’ A sudden look of concern shadowed her face. ‘You will make sure she does not waltz?’

Isabella smiled reassuringly. ‘Have no fear, Aunt. I have been drilling Sophia for weeks on the subject of the waltz. She knows she may not dance it until she has received permission at Almack’s. And that is one rule she will not dare to break.’

Lady Wycham gave a sigh of relief and smiled lovingly at Isabella. ‘You look quite beautiful in that gown, my dear child. Do not waste your looks among the chaperons tonight. Promise me that you, too, will dance.’

Isabella knew that, if she was to be Sophia’s chaperon, it would hardly be proper for her to dance. Chaperons did not do so. A small voice whispered that chaperons did not dress in gowns of shot silk either, but she pushed that thought to the back of her mind, while she grappled with Lady Wycham’s request. She could not refuse without upsetting the old lady, so she agreed, consoling herself with the thought that, at her age, she was unlikely to be asked to dance at all.

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