‘Nonsense,’ she clipped my words before pressing her dish to her mouth. ‘You owe me nothing, Miss Lightfoot. You are known to my truest and dearest of companions in London and so it is my duty to claim you as a friend in kind. Had I been lost upon the streets of London, I would have expected no less of you, my dear.’ She held my gaze, as if I were one of her admirers.

Somewhat ashamed of myself, I lowered my glance. Not a day before I had endeavoured to avoid making her acquaintance, and now I found myself very much indebted to her.

‘But of course.’ I blushed, unable to think of a single appropriate word to express my gratitude. Instead, I stood there, awkward and aware of Mrs Elliot’s eyes as her maid tied on my skirts.

‘Is that . . . is that the gentleman, Lord Allenham, of whom you spoke?’ she asked, breaking the silence. I turned to her, startled by the mention of his name. She gestured to the miniature portrait which I supposed Thérèse had laid upon my dressing table, beside my boxes of pins and my nécessaire.

‘Why yes, yes it is.’ I took the small watercolour into my hand and passed it to her.

She gazed at it for a long while, smiling thoughtfully.

‘He is most handsome. I can well imagine how he captured your heart.’

I shook my head and smiled bashfully.

‘I fear I have not done his features justice, for he is far more handsome even than that . . .’

‘You are too modest, Miss Lightfoot. Why, if this is by your own hand, you are most accomplished indeed. I should very much like to see what else your brushes have produced.’

I was about to dismiss this as polite flattery, but before I could protest, I noticed that my hostess had fixed her eye upon my folio of watercolours, which had been laid upon a nearby table.

‘Is that not the very book of sketches which you described to me last night?’ she enquired, before directing her housemaid to fetch it.

I felt my cheeks flush hot as she opened the cover. I had displayed my renderings to no one but Allenham, and even he was shown them with much reluctance. I observed her turn over each sheet of paper: the winter scenes taken from my window, the views from the Egmont Palace and the Parc de Bruxelles, the portraits of Madame Vanderoi and her servants, the interiors of my apartments.

‘These are most charming,’ she exclaimed with an expression of genuine delight.

I shrugged.

‘It is but a diversion, though one I enjoy.’