It was agreed by even the most impartial observers that Miss Felbridge possessed a talent with the harp, although one matron, whose daughter had mangled a song in Italian, was heard to say that ‘the harp is much overrated for its complexity and leaves the fingers sadly coarsened’. At the conclusion of her piece, and to strong applause, Caroline, almost weak at the knees with relief, returned to her mama. She also found Henrietta in close attendance, accompanied by Mr Newbold and Lord Henfield, who looked preoccupied. Henrietta took her hands, which shook slightly.

‘You were superb, Caroline, honestly. I am sure your performance will be the highlight of the evening that everyone will remember.’

‘Just for a moment, at the beginning, my mind went entirely blank,’ whispered Caroline.

‘But you remembered, which is what counts, dear child.’ Lady Elstead beamed at her daughter. She could relax, and bask in the reflected glory. She enjoyed basking.

‘I hope you were listening very carefully, Mr Newbold. Did I make any mistakes?’ asked Caroline diffidently.

‘None at all, Miss Felbridge,’ announced Mr Newbold decisively, having not listened to a single note, as Henrietta well knew. Having decided that he had put Henfield on edge, but that the man was unlikely to give ground and go away, Mr Newbold played his hand with subtlety, and withdrew, fairly sure that Henfield would manage to make things worse for himself without his assistance. In this he was not totally wrong.

‘Thinks himself so dashed clever,’ muttered Lord Henfield, watching Mr Newbold as he made another lady laugh.

‘Well, he is,’ said Henrietta reasonably, also watching the gentleman. That she did so raised Lord Henfield’s hackles. She turned to look up at him, her eyes serious, and her look searching. ‘Do I treat you as if all this were a game, Charles?’

‘Yes,’ he answered honestly, and rather heavily. He meant the London Season, but she meant how she treated men as a whole.

‘You think I am just a flirt?’

‘Of course not, Henry. It is just—’

‘I sound like one, act like one?’ She was suddenly angry, not at him, but at herself, because Mr Newbold’s words had struck deep, and she so wanted to disregard them.

He looked at her, and for a moment his expression was bafflement, because he could not see how she could be at odds with herself, and yet that was how he read her. Then he assumed he had got it all wrong again, and it was he who was the source of her frown and bitter words.

‘I do not understand, Henry. Why is everything so very different in London?’ It was becoming a familiar cry, but she could not answer him. There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Henrietta turned away to speak with a young lady in a jonquil crêpe gown. Lord Henfield was left feeling at a loss.