Margaret stared sightlessly out the window of the first-class carriage, her father’s words chiming mockingly in time with the rhythmic pistons of the Scotch Express, darkening her already severely chastened mood. The huge locomotive expelled enormous puffs of smoke as it powered north, giving her only fleeting glimpses of the towns and countryside they passed through. She was heading home to Dalkeith. As little as twenty-four hours ago, the prospect would have filled her with delight, but the memory of that dreadful interview with her father made the prospect of anything other than her imminent demise utterly unappealing.

If she died, it would at least lend credence to the version of events her parents had announced at last night’s ball. A sudden illness that required lengthy recuperation involving fresh air and seclusion, apparently. She would prefer something quick and painless. If the train crashed—but, no, she didn’t want anyone else to be harmed as a result of her folly, especially not dear Molly, sitting stoically opposite her.

You’ve let me down. You’ve let me down. You’ve let me down, the pistons taunted remorselessly. Margaret put her hands over her ears and bowed her head, her eyes smarting with unshed tears. Despite Lochiel’s shocked reaction, until she entered the kitchen of Montagu House last night, she hadn’t realised quite what a dishevelled picture she presented. Papa’s austere butler had almost dropped the salver of glasses he was carrying. The stunned silence of the servants—kitchen maids, porters, chambermaids, and footmen—told its own story. And as for Molly—the look of horror on her maid’s face made it clear that at the very least she thought Margaret had been ravished.

But worse was to come. She had been forced to stand before her father in her tattered dress, looking and smelling, as Molly had forthrightly informed her, as if she’d been dragged through a midden backwards. Papa wouldn’t meet her eyes, fixing his gaze on the wall about a foot above her head. The way he’d spoken, the clipped tones, barely able to contain his fury, made her quake in terror.

The memory made her shudder. She had tried to stick to her resolve to explain her actions, but she had not been permitted to speak, not even to apologise or beg forgiveness, far less admit the error of her ways. He didn’t want to hear her lily-livered excuses, he’d said. No amount of self-justifying waffle could explain her dereliction of duty. Having failed dismally to fulfil her only purpose in life, he considered her redundant. He may as well have placed a black cap on his head when he sentenced her to exile in Dalkeith for an indeterminate period.