‘Like I said. I know nothing.’

‘If I said somebody’s life depended on you telling me, would you?’

‘If I said that my livelihood and my family’s home depended on me not telling you, would you leave me be?’

An awkward silence descended, filled only by the rustle of Sally’s apron as she picked up a paperweight from the desk, dusted it and slammed it back down. Lou took in other details of the room – the handwritten papers scattered across the desk; the bookcase packed with sport and military history titles; a pair of hairbrushes and a porcelain bowl on the washstand; an armchair beside the fire with an ashtray on the arm; a pair of riding boots beside the door; a small battered leather case lying on the bed bearing the monogram TM. ‘Whose room is this?’ Lou asked, as though any confirmation were needed.

‘Captain Mandeville’s. What of it?’ Sally snapped.

‘Nothing … nothing at all.’

The hall downstairs was empty. Lou held her hands out to the flames in the hearth and moved in closer, closer still, until the heat forced her to recoil. What had just happened? Any normal person on finding out that this experience was real – real! – would have gone off to explore and marvel at the house, the furniture, the people. But not her. Oh no, she had to roll up her sleeves and interfere in a situation that was none of her business. When would she ever learn to keep her nose out of what didn’t concern her? She should go upstairs to apologise and reassure Sally that she had no intention of shattering the peace of her life. And she would have, if only the very thought hadn’t made her guts churn. Because in imagining Sally, she placed her in the room with the shelves of books, riding boots and battered suitcase.

As though reeled in by an invisible thread, Lou was drawn away from the fire. Further along the hall, she came to the portrait below the stairs. Not twenty minutes since, she had seen those blue eyes cloud over. George’s treatment of Ambrose may have started the process, but it was her uninvited presence and unwanted questioning of Tom’s feelings that had seen him run from the stables just to escape her. She wrapped her arms around her waist and held herself.

She should leave this place. She should return to her own life before she did or said something to put an obstacle in the way of Tom’s marriage. With any luck, their conversation had been enough to convince him to rethink his plans. Why wouldn’t he come to his senses and marry the beautiful, witty, wealthy Emma Caxton?

Hurrying down the hall, she made a beeline for the front door. She reached the morning room, and Bertie looked up. He beckoned for her to join him. Reluctantly, she made a detour and knelt beside him. She reached into the ballroom of the dolls’ house, removed her miniature self and placed her in the cigar box. Bertie retrieved the doll and placed her back in the house.