The monster did not reply. Instead, he continued his slow progress about the dining room. He paused to peer from the window; he ran his finger along the glass case of a rapidly ticking clock. Then, spying Madame Bonet’s bill upon the pier table, he took it into his hands.

‘I shall do no such thing,’ stated he while inspecting it.

I took an uncertain step backward, towards the door.

After a moment, he looked up at me.

‘You think me cruel? You are quite mistaken. You see, dear madam, I have come to relieve you of this burden.’ He gestured to the tally of expenses and took several more cautious steps in my direction. ‘I intend to dispatch this. I shall discharge your obligations and make an apology to Madame Bonet. I shall explain that it was all an unfortunate error on my part. All shall be made well – and, in return, I shall conclude that you have come to your senses and now agree to my proposal.’ His tone was beguiling, as good-natured as the chidings of a lover.

The disgust rose into my throat.

‘Proposal?’ I said. ‘Sir, you fancy that I am without means and therefore in your debt? Then it is you who are quite mistaken.’

Savill’s eyes narrowed.

I would have done well to have said no more. It was never my intention to provoke him; I merely wished to make myself plain.

I lifted my chin and glared at him. ‘Has it not become apparent to you that your trap has failed to ensnare me? You have lost the game, sir. I never wish to speak to you nor see you again, and if you do not leave me this instant, I shall cry murder.’

Andrew Savill remained fixed in place. The only part of him I observed moving was his upper lip, which had begun to twitch furiously.

‘Damn you,’ he seemed to mutter.

I took another step backward, but before I could remove myself from his range, he flung himself at me with a roar: ‘Damn you! Insolent bitch!’

I screamed and raised my arms to repel him, but it was far too late. Mr Savill was too inflamed with rage. Down came his fist as hard as a hammer upon my left cheek. The blow came with such strength that it sent me tumbling. I fell against the mantel and, in doing so, unbalanced a porcelain urn, which smashed to the floor beside me. For a moment, I lay almost insensible, horrified and gasping, before attempting to clamber to my feet.

He stood over me, surveying the scene, like a filthy-faced boy gazing at the butterfly whose wings he had stripped. He straightened his waistcoat and ran his fingers down the gold buttons, which he claimed had been a gift from Queen Caroline of Naples. Then, without uttering a single syllable more, he stomped out of the room.