I had gritted my teeth in anticipation of what I was to discover at this Café du Plaisir at the Palais-Royal. However, much to my relief, the evening did not end as I had feared. I might have placed more trust in Mrs Elliot’s judgement. This was no gambling hell or dark stinking bagnio, but rather a curious establishment more closely resembling a watchmaker’s shop, where patrons were served refreshment through a mechanized system of pulleys and trapdoors. Mr Drummond slapped his knee with delight as he pulled upon levers and drew bottles of wine from the cellar through the hollow legs of a table. Alas, a good deal of this was imbibed, but as we were joined by a nephew of the Earl of Abercorn and his abstemious po-faced bear leader, the night did not prove so entirely disagreeable.

My champion returned me to the rue de Miromesnil in the last hour of darkness. He begged no more from me than a handful of innocent kisses, which I granted him. To this very day, I have never been asked to trade so little for so much male kindness.

I had believed myself the only soul awake as I returned to my rooms, but no sooner had I roused Lucy from her chair than there came a soft rap upon the door. Victoire stood in her night shift with a candle.

‘Madame bids you to come,’ she whispered.

I followed her along the corridor and across the house to Mrs Elliot’s apartments. There I found my friend between the parted curtains of her Turkish bed. She sat with a single light and bright, eager eyes.

‘Hetty, I have lain awake all night in anticipation of your return. Tell me, dear, what has become of Mr Savill?’

She gestured to the bed beside her and so I climbed upon it. There, I regaled her with all the details of Mr Drummond’s performance, with tales of Savill’s cowardice and the promise of a duel, the notion of which I claimed to abhor. At that, Mrs Elliot laughed.

‘Child, you have nothing to fear on that account. It is well known that Mr Savill has been challenged no less than four times and has never once shown himself upon the field. At each occasion he made off long before the fateful day. He is notorious for it! Why, his name is not even Savill, but O’Mara. He had it altered by Royal licence when he married his wife, who, poor creature, had been an heiress. He posed as a gentleman and now has run through near all her fortune.’ My friend shook her head. ‘Indeed, I would venture that he is at this very moment upon the road to Calais!’

At this I laughed heartily and with relief. Mrs Elliot joined me, before sighing and bidding me to lay my head upon her shoulder.