When the postillions brought the horses to a standstill before Lady Leyburn’s house, Lord Henfield opened his eyes, having achieved a half-doze where he had lost track of time, and descended from the chaise a little stiffly, turning to offer his hand to Miss Yate. He therefore did not see the gentleman who was at that moment leaving the house. The gentleman, thunderous of face, came down the shallow steps in two bounds, and as Lord Henfield turned at the sound, planted the unsuspecting viscount a facer.

Lord Henfield fell heavily upon the pavement, momentarily stunned, as Miss Yate cried out. He got up shakily, rubbing his chin, and stared into the face of a man in regimentals who looked very much as though repeating the blow was the least of his intentions.

‘No, no, Clement, you misunderstand.’ Miss Yate stepped forward, and pressed her hands to the broad chest of the irate officer.

‘I do, do I?’ He did not sound at all convinced. ‘I come to London to seek you out, Dorothea, and find you have … absconded with a man, this man.’ He began to set Miss Yate aside.

‘How could you think that I would … Oh, Clement!’ Miss Yate dissolved into tears, which left ‘Clement’ caught between the natural inclination to clasp her to his manly bosom, and the equally natural desire to blacken Lord Henfield’s eye, or, more probably, break his neck. Taking advantage of the momentary hesitation, Lord Henfield raised a placating hand, and managed to speak.

‘I do not know what faradiddle you have been told, sir, but I assure you that I accompanied Miss Yate not on any clandestine escapade, but upon an errand of urgency and mercy. We went to Oxford, where her brother was assumed to be very ill.’

‘And yet his mama has not gone to his side? I find that hard to believe.’ The officer still looked bellicose.

‘Well, it turns out that he was not ill, but that is beside the point.’

‘Beside the point? I do not see …’

‘It is true, Clement. Jasper has got himself into debt and was rusticated and did not dare tell Mama, and then he wrote to me saying that he had caught a fever and needed money …’

‘That brother of yours ought to have been taken in hand, Dorothea. Loose fish, that is what he will become if he does not mend.’

‘I resent that, Hathersage.’ The youthful Lord Leyburn climbed down from the post-chaise, and scowled at the officer.

Lord Henfield, having now gathered his wits to such extent that he recalled the ‘suitor from Norfolk’, lowered his hand from his aching jaw, and extended it.

‘My name is Henfield, and all I can assume is that you are long acquainted with Miss Yate.’

‘Clement Hathersage, captain, Second Dragoons.’ The hand was taken in a strong, if not vice-like, grip, and shaken with more vehemence than enthusiasm. ‘I … we … not that Lady Leyburn has changed her mind … but …’