That this little French chit should have so much while she, Emily Snapper, sprung from one of England’s oldest families, had nothing, was a thought which planted the seeds of burgeoning hate.

She longed for a weapon but never did she think for one moment that it would be Lord Harold who put it into her hands.

He called one day while Alice was out with her maid expressly to see Miss Snapper and, as that lady listened eagerly, the problem was soon explained.

Alice and her dashing clothes and smart hair crop was, hem, attracting too much deuced attention. He wanted his wife to be modest and well, don’t you see, more the way she had been when he had seen her at the opening ball of the Season.

“Leave it to me,” said Miss Snapper, patting Lord Harold’s hand with her own bony one, encased in a lace mitten.

“Is Alice expected soon?” asked Webb.

“She should be back in half an hour,” said Miss Snapper. “That gives us time to discuss a little plan of campaign…”

Alice, very flushed and beautiful, sailed in some forty minutes later from her walk and then stood, quite still, surveying her fiancé and Miss Snapper. Miss Snapper had a little curved smile pinned on her mouth, and Webb was staring at the toe of one polished boot.

He did not even rise to his feet.

“What is the matter?” asked Alice. “Has something gone wrong?”

Webb continued to stare at the toe of his boot.

“Sit down, my love,” said Miss Snapper, patting the edge of the striped sofa next to her. “Lord Harold Webb and I have just been talking about you.”

“Tiens!” said Alice. “I would have thought Harold would have had the courtesy to speak to me about anything that worried him.”

“There are times when the advice of an older woman is needed,” said Miss Snapper smugly. She had not enjoyed herself so much in weeks. “Now, I have told you, Alice, that your mode of dress and behavior leave much to be desired. You would not listen to me. Perhaps you will listen to Lord Harold Webb.”

Alice sat down nervously on the sofa and looked inquiringly at the handsome face of her fiancé.

“Alice,” he said heavily. “There is something about you that is not… well… quite… well, hem… your behavior is not that of a lady.”

Alice, the scullery maid, crouched on the sofa, half putting up a hand as if to ward off a blow.

Webb saw her cringe and that excited him in a pleasurable way. “Yes,” he went on in a more assured manner. “I wish to take you to meet my parents this weekend. They are surprised that I should consider marrying a foreigner. They will be even more surprised if they find I am escorting a fast female.”

“What is up with my appearance?” demanded Alice, fighting to regain some of her spirit.