Had he told all this to Lady Vernham, she would have probably assaulted him with her reticule for being a prize idiot, but he had not told her. Instead he watched, and grew ever more miserable. The day after Mr Newbold’s unsuccessful approach at the opera, Lord Henfield almost literally bumped into Henrietta in Piccadilly, outside Hatchard’s bookshop. She was accompanied by a maid, but not by her cousin, which was unusual. Henrietta had been walking, eyes lowered, and he had been walking without thinking where he was going. He came up short with a garbled apology, and only then did it sink in that it was Henrietta. There were shadows under her eyes, and her expression was one of desolation.

‘Miss Gaydon, Henry … I …’ He stared at her.

Henrietta’s heart gave such a lurch she felt that she would collapse at his feet. ‘My lord.’

‘Something has overset you. Tell me, is there any way …’

‘It is too late, too late for everything,’ she murmured, and her eyes swam. ‘My poor cousin’s heart is broken, for Lord Martley’s offer has been refused.’ She took a deep breath. ‘No doubt you will say that the decision was fair, but …’

‘I have never suggested that.’

‘It was not fair. Lord Martley now even has the means to support Caroline even if his parents object but my aunt … You would not help.’ It was a cry from the heart, without thought, for there was no realistic way in which Charles Henfield’s support could have affected the outcome, but suddenly she felt that if he had been in agreement with her it would have made a difference in some unspecified way. ‘So you see, we end up married as we are told.’ It was an accusation that blamed him, and he was without an answer. ‘My poor, sweet cousin!’ She gulped, and sniffed.

‘Henry …’ His hand went out to her, and she was filled with a desire to throw herself into his arms and weep upon his chest, but this was Piccadilly, and she could not.

‘Who would be a woman,’ she breathed, and moved to step past him. ‘Good day to you, my lord.’

He could not prevent her, could not take her by the arm and force her to walk with him. He raised his hat, made the polite response and strode on, filled with self-loathing. He went not to his club, but back to the Vernham residence, where he met Lady Vernham in the hall, pulling on her gloves. She halted, and began to remove them.

‘Barlow, tell Caxton I will not require the carriage after all. And bring coffee to the Green Sitting Room.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Lord Henfield, a moment of your time.’ It was a command. He did not want to talk, but he felt incapable of refusing her, in her own house.