She lit up, sunshine emerging from behind a cloud. ‘Will you, will you really?’

‘I’ll ask. No promises.’

5

VIVIAN’S MOTHER BARELY slept. She’d guessed it all. She couldn’t believe it but she knew it. The girl was stupid. Impatient and rash. Mrs Foster feared the worst. The very worst. They had left the ball immediately after meeting on the stairway. Vivian could not have been allowed to return to the throng. Not in that state. It was all so obvious to anyone who wanted to look. She was flushed, her eyes were bright and unfocused, the lace had gone from her neckline.

He looked as guilty as hell. Wet-lipped. Swaggering.

His mother must not see it. That was their only hope. Lady Thorpe was fond of Vivian, but was fond enough? The boy’s interest would wane now, that was certain. Might he be propped up by a combination of a belief in doing the right thing and his mother’s endorsement of Vivian? Not that Lady Thorpe would endorse her if she ever suspected . . . How far? How far had the girl gone? Not too far, surely. Mrs Foster shivered, felt sick and exhausted. Her eyelids scratched. Had Vivian whetted his appetite or doused the fire? Stupid, stupid girl. Women were given so little to play with, and now she had not just shown her hand by clearly admitting to her affection; she had thrown in the cards by indulging with him physically. How far had it gone? That was the only pertinent question. She could not ask her daughter directly. If she did, there was no going back. No pretending it wasn’t the case. Tight lips were required today.

And for ever.

Last night the ball had been rife with rumours. None of them good. For weeks the talk had been how adorable Miss Vivian Foster looked when dancing with Mr Nathaniel Thorpe. No one had seemed unduly concerned that the daughter of a banker was shooting for the eldest son of Sir Robert Thorpe with his thousands of acres of land. People had simply concentrated on how exquisite she was to look at, how charming and demure. Mrs Foster had been seduced into believing it was a possibility; other less cautious types spoke openly of it being a probability; one or two used the word ‘certainty’. Last night everything had shifted. It was like standing on the shore whilst the tide dragged at the wet sand, the ground slipping away from under one’s feet, causing one to stumble. They had all talked about Lady Cynthia Winters and Nathaniel Thorpe. Besides the fact that Cynthia was the daughter of Lord and Lady Winters – a highly respectable, influential and wealthy couple – she was also Lady Feversham’s god-daughter. Mrs Foster’s oldest and most loyal friends had pointed out that this meant she came with a fortune and the fringe benefit that her godmother was an incorrigible flirt, by which of course they meant the most outrageous seducer, currently rumoured to be looking for a new young lover. Nathaniel was a young man who might be able to have his cake and eat it. The question was whether he was worldly-wise enough to realise as much and cynical enough to accept such an arrangement. Mrs Foster thought of his wet lips. His swagger. She feared he was.