And that was how Charlotte conquered the biggest catch on the market. She rejected him just as quickly. When her papa summoned Charlotte for a private meeting with the Earl of Slaslow, Charlotte turned Braddon down flat, gently explaining that she liked him enormously, but wouldn’t he be happier with Miss Barbara Lewnstown? Barbara and Braddon seemed so well-suited, given that she loved horses just as much as he did.

Charlotte’s mother went to bed for three whole days, and wouldn’t speak to her daughter for two weeks. Braddon went away glum and unconvinced, and when he next glimpsed Miss Lewnstown he gave a ferocious grimace and turned away.

By 1801, Charlotte had received solid offers of marriage from some eight gentlemen, only two of them known to be interested in her dowry. The other six wooed her for her green eyes and her slow, unhurried smiles.

No, Charlotte will never get married, her mother and father admitted, lying in the ducal bed on a Thursday evening.

“It’s the painting!” the duchess said. “Oh, Marcel, she’ll dwindle into an old maid … I’m so unhappy,” she said in a burst, tears rolling down her face.

“Well,” said Marcel uncomfortably. “Violetta married quite late; why give up hope for Charlotte?” Marcel was a large, quiet man whose French first name had been given to him by his romantic mother. It had caused him quite a bit of embarrassment in the past few years, especially in 1797 when republican France threatened to invade England.

“I think,” he said, settling his wife’s head firmly into the crook of his shoulder, “we should just loosen the reins a little. What if she doesn’t want to go to parties? Let her paint.” He thought of adding the fact that he was tired of arguments about balls, but he didn’t.

The duchess wriggled her head against her husband’s shoulder. He was a sweet man, but he had no idea of the daily vexations that greeted a woman who never married, the snubs and insults that were already being doled out to Charlotte.

“But what about when … where will she live?” Adelaide said despairingly. “Horace will inherit this house and the one in the country, and he’ll want to start a family, and who’s to say that he would want a maiden sister living with him, especially one who has a reputation for an unladylike interest in painting!”

“I’ll tell you what,” said her spouse comfortably. “The other two girls are settled. Winnie’s husband will never lack blunt and Violetta’s marquess is doing just fine. I’ll turn that Welsh estate over to Charlotte, you know, the one that I inherited from Aunt Beatrice. It’s not entailed, and it turns a pretty profit. With the land and her dowry, she’ll be right and tight.”