The truth was that Henrietta was happier, and yet also a worried young woman. Charles still felt something for her, she was sure of it, and in her view he had achieved, by whatever means, nothing short of a miracle. She had expected yesterday that he would seek her out, and he had not been at the party she had attended, although she had seen Lady Vernham, who had commented favourably upon her dancing. Yet surely, she reasoned, he must want to see her delight, receive her thanks? Where was Charles?

The opening of the Waterloo Bridge, on this, the second anniversary of the Great Victory, was going to be a grand spectacle. The bridge itself had been built for some time, and had been renamed, having initially been designated the Strand Bridge, but today was the grand, official opening. His Royal Highness the Prince Regent, who revelled in the reflected glory and loved the uniforms, was going to perform the opening ceremony. There would be enormous crowds, and of all sorts of persons. Fortunately, Lord Elstead had a cousin who held a senior civil position within the Navy Board, and had secured an offer to view the event from the security of Somerset House, which was very conveniently situated at the north bank end of the bridge. The Elstead party set off in two carriages at half past one, but found the thoroughfares already congested, and Lady Elstead, who viewed large gatherings of the populace as intimations of revolution, looked quite agitated, gripping her reticule tightly, and staring straight ahead of her. Every time the carriage was forced to halt, she shut her eyes. By the time they reached Somerset House, at a snail’s pace, it was a quarter past two, and when her ladyship alighted, her knees almost gave way beneath her.

‘Thank goodness,’ she declared, as they passed through the Strand entrance and into the open space of the courtyard beyond. ‘There are just too many people in London.’ She sounded vaguely affronted that anyone other than the Ton, and those whose services they required, should inhabit the capital.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lord Henfield strode purposefully through Berkeley Square. It was impossible to dawdle, and if he was early, well, he could wait. As he entered South Audley Street he consulted his pocket watch, which told him that it was only five and twenty minutes before two. He stared at the face, willing it to be wrong, but then shook his head and continued. Miss Yate, quiet, downtrodden Miss Yate, had been bold and seen her hopes fulfilled. He would also be bold.