All about us were arranged a variety of perches. Some, which had been set into glazed Chinese urns, resembled bare trees, while others, formed from ceramic, appeared to twist and grow from the mirrored walls. Upon them rested the sleepy occupants of this aviary, this fantastical volière. The sudden appearance of light roused a few of its inhabitants from their slumbers. Finches and canaries primped themselves. A white cockatoo examined us with a single open eye.

‘It is remarkable!’ I whispered.

‘But there are further delights, mademoiselle,’ said he, beckoning me through a second set of jade and gold doors. We mounted a stair that led into a set of three rooms, the largest of which was elaborately furnished with lacquered chairs and tables, cabinets and sofas, in a riot of reds and greens and blacks. Here, as in the house, the walls were decorated with a profusion of birds and blossoms, though they had been rendered in the Chinese style and painted on to gilt panels. As the lantern’s glow fell upon them, they gleamed like a necklace of gems.

I cooed and marvelled as the Duke turned his light about the room. Then, all at once, I found his arms about me and his mouth buried against the side of my throat.

‘Oh, Mademoiselle Lightfoot, what a game you play me,’ he murmured. ‘How I should like to devour you, like a little quail!’

How you laugh at me, reader. Indeed, how hindsight permits me to laugh at myself. This is what comes of believing a libertine capable of reformation. But, alas, a dog will ever be a dog. It matters not how well groomed or disciplined the creature, when presented with a plate of meat he will never fail to lick his jaws.

I struggled in his arms, greatly ashamed of myself, and once that emotion fell away, there came another: fear. It was not Orléans who inspired it, for he was no brute like Andrew Savill. Rather, I feared for myself. I feared Madame de Buffon.

This situation was not at all what I would have designed. I had not imagined it would have occurred so instantly as this. I had arrived at La Volière entirely unprepared. I had not conceived of a strategy, nor had I even contemplated what action I might have taken should I find myself the recipient of Orléans’s overtures. When I had accepted Madame de Buffon’s invitation, my concern was only to ingratiate myself with her. And now . . . now, well, all that had been spoken of Orléans’s mistress, every sharp word, every warning throbbed in my head. I should incur her wrath in the same fashion as had Madame de Morency.

‘No, monseigneur,’ I commanded him, pulling away.

The Duke ceased. His look was one of utter bemusement, as if no person had ever spoken those two words to him.