‘My dears, you don’t understand the lower classes like I do. Some of those girls could turn a veritable saint’s head. They’re evil, preying on men who are otherwise exemplary.’

Isabel looked at her father, avoiding Henry’s warning glance. ‘So, Papa, am I to understand that men cannot help these appetites? Even men of good birth?’

Lord Barkham began to choke on his apple pie.

‘Don’t be silly, Isabel. A doxy’s a doxy, whatever her age. There’s many a good man who’s been taken in by a pretty face. These girls, some of them little more than children as your mother pointed out, are natural sluts. It’s inbred in them. A woman of good birth never acts the strumpet. You wouldn’t understand, Isabel. You see, my child, men must be iron-willed and have faith in God and their own constitution. Look at me.’ He waved his arms expansively. ‘I attend church regularly, and even in the thickest snow I never wear a heavy coat. It’s in the constitution, you see? Sound in mind and body, I am, and always have been.

‘The namby-pamby men who get involved with these chits are obviously mentally unstable. They have no place in civilised society. They can’t resist temptation, just haven’t the willpower of stronger, more intelligent men, and these chits know it.’

‘Thank you, Papa, for explaining it so eloquently. I really do understand exactly what you mean. Don’t you, Henry?’

Henry paled and cleared his throat before answering. ‘I think it’s hardly a suitable subject for discussion in front of ladies.’

Immediately he realised his mistake. He had just implicitly criticised Lord Barkham.

Barkham glared at his son-in-law, a milkwater sop if ever he’d encountered one!

‘How are your own charitable works, my dear?’ he asked Isabel.

She looked at him and smiled. This was going even better than she’d expected. She knew her father was only asking her the question to force the issue with Henry.

‘I still work with Mrs Prosser Evans, of course, though I am thinking seriously of joining Mother’s Little Band of Helpers. I feel that the child prost — I mean, the poor children, really need a guiding hand.’

Molly and Mrs Horlock had finally agreed and both women were relieved. After the initial bout, where each woman had carefully sized up the other, they had realised their common goal and were now co-conspirators.

Both had one end in mind: the removal of Briony’s child. Molly pushed her hair back from her flushed face and drew her legs away from the kitchen fire so she could face the older woman head on.

‘But isn’t that dangerous? I mean, Briony wouldn’t die or anything?’