When Margaret had finally been dismissed, emerging from the study emotionally flayed and reeling, Mama and Victoria were waiting outside in the hallway. Her aching heart had leapt, thinking they were preparing to plead her case, beg her father to display some mercy or simply offer some succour. But they were waiting only to reinforce her ostracized status, pointedly turning their backs on her. Mama, with her handkerchief to her nose, informed her that she stank of the gutter.

Bowing her head in shame, it was only then that Margaret noticed that having lost her reputation, her family’s good name, and her bridegroom, she had also somehow mislaid her mother’s bracelet along the way. The one Papa had given her to mark their own betrothal and lent especially for the occasion. Ignominy heaped upon ignominy! Could her fall from grace get any worse?

“We’ll be coming in to York soon, my lady,” Molly said, dragging Margaret back to the present. “It’s our only refreshment stop, so it would be sensible to take advantage of the facilities, if you take my meaning.”

“Thank you, I will, but I don’t want anything to eat. You and that poor footman in the corridor, dispatched all this way just to chaperone us, will need some sustenance, though.”

“Jarvis has his own sandwiches. You must be hungry, for we left King’s Cross at ten and it’s almost two now. You had nothing for breakfast but a slice of bread, and you left half of that.”

“I’ve lost my appetite and I don’t think I’ll ever regain it.”

“Come now,” Molly said with a forced smile, “the situation is dire but not as desperate as that, surely?” Reaching for the basket which the porter had placed in the luggage rack above her, she opened it. “Take a look at this now. Luckily there’s no need for us to put ourselves at the mercy of the railway company’s catering, if that’s what’s worrying you. It was a bit of a scrabble, for we left in such a rush that I’d hardly time to pack our portmanteaus, but Monsieur Henri very kindly put together a picnic for us. See, there’s some chicken in aspic, and a big slice of that pork pie that you’re so fond of.”

Until now Margaret had been too shocked and shaken to cry, but this small thoughtful gesture, the first since she had returned to Montagu House last night, touched her heart. She burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Molly. I’m completely ruined, and I have dragged you down with me.”

Her maid pursed her lips, handing her a handkerchief. “There’s no use in crying over spilt milk. Truth is, I never really took to London; it’s far too big and noisy. I’ll be glad to get home to Scotland.”