‘The Habsburg Emperor has died,’ said he. His voice was quite flat. ‘The advisors to his son talk of nothing but war with France. The French Queen is his aunt, you see . . .’

I raised my eyes to him.

‘And what of it? Is there to be war between France and Austria?’

‘It is likely,’ he stated, dropping his gaze to his lap, where it lingered for what seemed a lengthy while. ‘I am afraid I have been called to Paris, Hetty. I am to depart this week.’

My heart filled with heaviness. I sighed and rumpled my brow, but continued to sketch, pretending his words had not caused me disappointment. Instead, I pushed a smile on to my mouth.

‘But now I shall have this keepsake to remind me of you. I shall have it set in a frame and will look upon it every day, until the original who inspired it makes his return.’

Allenham’s expression lightened.

‘Upon that day you may depend, my dear angel.’

I believed his journey to Paris would be much the same as any of his others. When he called again to bid me farewell, I did as I had ever done and began to count the days from the instant he vanished from my view. I imagined that it would require three days to arrive at Paris, and then a further handful more to transact his business there. He would write to me as often as time permitted and inform me when he was likely to take his leave for Brussels. Then I would begin to number the days until his return, quietly, hopefully, patiently.

A week had passed and no letter arrived. Several more days followed. When at last a packet was placed into my hand, I tore at the seal with such eagerness that I feared I would shred the very words I had so longed to read. However, what my eyes discovered written there disconcerted me greatly. It was not a lengthy missive detailing his days upon the road or his diversions abroad, but rather an officious, if not anxious scrawl: