Lord Henfield strode, almost blindly, towards St James’s, his mind in turmoil. His first thought was to leave London, which he had never liked particularly, and go home to Shropshire. Doing so would, however, necessitate telling Sir John what an almighty fool he had been, and returning to the world of which she had been such a vital part, and which was now, he felt certain, lost to him. At the same time it would mark him as defeated in her eyes, and he would not have her think him weak. The answer was thus to remain, to brazen it out, pretend he was unconcerned at her childishness. Yes, he told himself, for all that she had vaunted her ‘grown-up’ status, what he had witnessed was an exhibition that showed the petulance, the frustration, of adolescence. She had become modish in looks, but she was still a green girl, trying to pretend. This reading of the matter eased him a very little, although a part of him doubted its veracity. He told himself that he ought to take the positive from their argument: Martley had not won her heart. Young Felbridge had never counted, for that was the adoration of calf-love, but Martley was not green, was in fact a rather decent fellow, and he had a certain unthreatening charm to him. Perhaps he ought to have offered to assist Henry in her quest to see her cousin betrothed to the man. No, it was none of his, or Henry’s, concern.

The removal of Martley from the lists still left Netheravon and Newbold at the head of the ‘pack’. Netheravon was, thought Lord Henfield, rather lightweight, and would bore Henry after a few months, and he seemed very social. She claimed she was relishing her Season, but underneath, he saw her as essentially a girl who would be happiest involved in local matters back in the country. All that he had seen of her here had been an elaborate act, a pretence of pleasure. In Shropshire she was natural, at ease, truly happy.

Newbold was the greater worry. He could not accuse him of toying with Henry, because for all the light talk and entertainment he provided, he was not attempting to have her fall in love for sport. Yet even if he were serious, well, he was twice her years, and he was at the other extreme, too knowing, too clever. Henry had novelty value, for she was showing herself to be rather more incisive than most of her peers, which might be mistaken for maturity. Lord Henfield grimaced. Newbold would not have been edified by this morning’s display. How would the man react if she behaved like that as his wife?