Lochiel came agonisingly close to her hiding place, but he didn’t spot her. Breathlessly, she waited until he made his way back to the riverfront before risking a glance. She could barely make him out, a dark figure, hesitating, unsure of which direction to take. When he finally made his choice, Margaret counted to fifty before edging out, spitting dust from her mouth. Picking up the hem of her ball gown, she fled in the opposite direction. She had no idea where she was going. She didn’t care. She was alone, her whole body energized by her flight, with every step casting off the fetters of her disastrous London Season. Emboldened, she ran faster, relishing the tug of the wind in her hair, enjoying the visceral thrill of her speedy if somewhat ungainly progress.

What a sight I must be! Laughing, she pictured herself, her crinoline bouncing and swinging like a mainsail flapping in the breeze, her satin dancing slippers slipping and sliding in the mud and the slime, the pins dislodging one by one from her hair, which was unravelling from its regulated curls and flying out behind her. Back at Montagu House lay chaos, but this impetuous, grand gesture would finally force her parents to accept that she was deadly serious. Whatever happened next, she would not be marrying Lord Rufus Ponsonby.

Running at full tilt in satin slippers on ground that seemed to consist entirely of mud was hard going. Eventually forced to come to a halt, her chest heaving, Margaret sucked in air that filled her lungs with an acrid metallic tang. Above her, the sky was starless as it always was in London, for even at the height of summer, a cloud of soot from myriad chimneys cast a pall over everything. She had no idea how far she had gone, but looking over her shoulder, there was no sign of Lochiel.

Her exhilaration began to fade as she gazed around her. Impulsive grand gestures were all very well, but she’d have made her point just as effectively if she’d returned to the garden and hidden in the shrubbery, as she’d originally intended. Damn and blast the man. It was his fault that she’d run off like a spooked horse and ended up who knew where.