‘Scandal,’ said Mr Savill, interrupting the silence.

At first I was not certain I had heard him correctly.

‘Scandal?’ I said, puzzled, turning to him. He bore a most curious expression, like a child who held a purloined sugar plum in his mouth.

‘Mmm, yes, my lady. Scandal. The usual reason a woman of Mrs Elliot’s sort would come to Paris. The French, as you know, are far more forgiving of transgressions than are their English cousins.’

I returned his look with faint bemusement.

‘I . . . am afraid I do not take your meaning, sir?’

My companion’s brow twitched playfully, as if to insinuate that I did.

‘Some years ago, she was found abed with Lord Valentia. Frightful scandal. Her husband, Dr Elliot, a miserable old dog, initiated proceedings for criminal conversation against him. Poor Mrs Elliot was then cast adrift. She had only her lovers to support her, but there were a fair many of those to keep her in ribbons.’ He snorted with a sort of debauched glee.

I stared at him. I could not move, for the shock of his revelation had frozen me quite in place.

You see, the name Grace Dalrymple Elliot was not unknown to me. While I had never made this lady’s acquaintance, those of my London circle had spoken of her frequently. She was to them an absent sister. ‘Dally the Tall’, as she was known, was a cherished companion of Mrs Mahon, a woman of the demi-monde who had been as a mother to me. Indeed, it was even said that Mrs Elliot had been an intimate of my true mother, Kitty Kennedy, before her demise.

It was not until that moment that I saw Savill for the villain he was. He had set a trap for me with such a light touch that I never once suspected him to be hard at work spinning his web. Now he hungered for my response. He veritably smacked his chops in anticipation. Like a butterfly with one fair leg stuck upon the spider’s silk, I began to flutter and flap.

My friends, permit me to put this plainly to you: no virtuous young wife or girl delicately bred would have had any cause to know the name Grace Dalrymple Elliot. However, a woman of the town, a femme galante, a demi-mondaine, a dame entretenue, a gentleman’s whore would. My Irishman’s intentions were to lure me into the home of a courtesan, either to seduce and debauch me or to expose me. Whichever the course, it was a wicked scheme, and I would not stray willingly into this spider’s snare.

He continued to search my face. Although I attempted to disguise my indignation, I sensed my cheeks burning hot. After a spell, I could scarcely breathe. Gently I lifted my hand and steadied myself against the carriage wall.