Miss Snapper’s restive mind turned to Alice’s uncle, as it frequently did. He had not said he would return, but surely he would visit London again some time to see how his niece fared. He had said he planned to make an extended stay on the Continent, but what French anti-Bonapartist wanted to be anywhere on the Continent at such a time?

A little smile played around Miss Snapper’s thin lips. She felt sure a certain attraction had sprung up between herself and Alice’s uncle. Now, if Alice were to become married, Miss Snapper would lose her position. But, her busy mind raced, Alice would need his permission to marry, and surely he would return for the wedding. Miss Snapper closed her eyes and gave herself up to a blissful dream of Alice’s wedding where she, Miss Snapper, would stand beside Alice’s uncle, the Comte, receiving the guests. “This marriage has put ideas in my head, Miss Snapper,” he whispered, pressing her hand in a feverish grip. By the time Miss Snapper emerged from this particular dream, she was convinced that Alice’s uncle had been well and truly smitten with the fair Miss Snapper and had not received enough encouragement.

Alice was dancing with Harold Webb a second time and they seemed to be getting along famously.

“Ye… e… es,” thought Miss Snapper, observing the couple through narrowed eyes. “A marriage. That is what is needed to bring him home.”

It was with pleasure that Miss Snapper, therefore, gave Webb permission to take Alice driving at the fashionable hour next day. It was with less pleasure that she discovered she had a rebel on her hands. Webb was due to call for Alice at five in the afternoon. Miss Snapper, rising late, discovered that Alice had left much earlier with her lady’s maid to go shopping.

She fretted and fumed until Alice returned, her carriage laden with parcels.

“What have you done?” cried Miss Snapper as two footmen carried in the parcels. “Such extravagance! What your dear uncle would…”

“I have no time to talk to you, Miss Snapper,” said Alice firmly. “I am awaiting the court hairdresser, Monsieur Antoine. Tiens! How red your face has become, Miss Snapper. A soupçon less rouge, I pray.”

And with that Alice swept on up the stairs, leaving Miss Snapper glaring impotently after her.

But Emily Snapper was not easily defeated. Taking a deep breath, she mounted the stairs to Alice’s bedroom and stared in dismay at the array of silks and satins spread about the room. “That is not all, madam,” said Alice gaily. “The rest, they come later. The ones that are being made specially.”

“You must give me your uncle, the Comte’s, direction,” said Miss Snapper firmly. “He would not approve. Only see this gown! It is nigh transparent.”