‘However, if you do not make our rendezvous tomorrow morning, I shall hold Leyburn personally responsible, and’ – Captain Hathersage looked at the young man – ‘brother or not, I will make him wish he was indeed lying sick of a fever in Oxford.’

‘I never said—’

‘Be quiet, puppy,’ interjected Lord Henfield, aware that the five of them on the pavement might yet attract attention from within the house. ‘Miss Yate, if you are going to explain your absence, and indeed, your absence with me, do you require my presence, at least to ensure your brother gives his tale honestly?’ Lord Henfield was pragmatic.

There was a silence. Both gentlemen looked at Dorothea Yate, whose brows knit together.

‘I do not think so, my lord, although I am grateful for your offer.’

‘Then we need to plan tomorrow. If you would care for me to accompany you to Doctors’ Commons for the special licence, Hathersage, and also find a church, I am happy to oblige.’

‘Thank you, Henfield. I, er, am sorry about knocking you down. No great harm done, I hope?’ Captain Hathersage looked a little shame-faced.

‘No loose teeth, and I am sure a cold compress will leave my jaw without visible signs of bruising.’ He sounded very serious, but his face, admittedly aching, broke into a smile. ‘Now, let us decide when and where we are to meet.’

There was some short discussion, after which Lord Henfield directed the postillions to take himself and Captain Hathersage to his club, where they might dine, and finalise arrangements.

Miss Yate ushered her brother, already complaining, to the front door of the house.

It had been agreed that Miss Yate would meet with her intended and Lord Henfield at nine in the morning, in Hanover Square. At such an hour it was almost deserted, which made her feel safe, but also conspicuous. Her maid, Matty, who had proved her loyalty with the journey to Oxford, carried a band box, and a valise, containing those few things Miss Yate felt she could least do without, which ranged from a nightgown to her late grandmother’s pearls. Although the day looked set to be warm, she had a cloak over her pelisse, as the best means of carrying it, and she presented an unusual figure, making circuits of the square. She was most relieved when Lord Henfield stepped from a hackney, and bowed to her.

‘Good morning, Miss Yate. I see you have managed your “escape”, presumably without resort to a drainpipe.’

‘Indeed, my lord. Our exit, whilst attended by nervousness upon my part, was remarkably easy. I had my maid place the valise and my cloak outside, by the tradesman’s entrance, with a scullery maid paid a shilling to guard it, and once we had left upon the grounds of an urgent repair to a hat, she went down the steps and collected those incriminating items.’