He laughed softly, his eyes still shut. ‘Nothing that they would recognise as business. My father settled an income on me on the condition I stay away from England. I study plants, collect them, then send samples and my paintings of them back to Kew Gardens.’

‘Why?’

‘Why do I collect plants, or why must I stay away from England?’

‘I think I understand the plants,’ she said slowly. ‘A plant can tell you so much about the land. My sister-in-law’s roses die here, apart from the yellow banksias, the ones named for Mr Banks.’

‘You know his work?’ The weariness in his voice had suddenly vanished.

‘Yes.’ She did not say that her kind brother bought her every book in the catalogue on the subject, nor refer to her own correspondence with others in the society. ‘But why must you stay away from your home?’

‘Because it is not my home. My mother is an actress — a famous one. My father is an earl and prominent in government. Both are married, but not to each other. My mother was fond enough of me to allow me to be brought up in England, but once I reached my majority my identity would embarrass them both.’ He changed the subject quickly. ‘I very much look forward to meeting your brother, Miss Clancy.’

‘Horatio?’

‘Your other brother. I’m sorry, but I only know him as M. Clancy. He writes most interesting treatises on terrestrial orchids that behave quite unseasonably in this country. I had the privilege of reading one of them to a meeting of the society.’

Admitting she was M. Clancy would probably end all correspondence with England’s horticulturalists and botanists — the only female yet admitted to that select group of scientists had been the goat who had accompanied Lieutenant Cook on his momentous voyage south, and even she had been of such senior years and snappish disposition that there had been little chance she might pollute one of the lectures by attending one. Maria’s correspondence was her deepest pleasure. To lose it would be . . .

She did not want to think what it would be like to lose it, to have no purpose now in hunting out new specimens nor trying to work out their lives and place, beyond her own knowledge. But nor could she lie to the man on the bed. The last couple of nights had formed a strange unspoken intimacy.

‘I am afraid I am M. Clancy,’ she said stiffly. ‘Maria Clancy.’