‘I told you before that he does not fondle my ears or tell me off for hiding bones under the library rug, you know, but you are right, and I ought to be pleased. We have missed a dog since old Rufus died, and he had got to be too old to go out with Papa when he went shooting.’

‘Then why such a long face? I would think you would be like a cat on hot coals, eager to experience the capital.’

‘Oh yes, yes I am, but …’

‘But …?’ He cast her a sidelong glance. She did have a most enchanting profile, he admitted to himself.

‘I have never been away, not for more than a week with my grandmama, after Mama … It feels like … desertion.’

‘Ah.’

‘And I do not know my Aunt Elstead, beyond recognising her if she walked into the room.’ Henrietta sighed.

‘Ah.’

‘The “ahs” are not helping, Charles.’

‘Sorry, Henry. I suppose the nearest I can think of was going off to school, which was pretty dashed scary at the time. One wondered, as you do, about fitting in, making friends and all that, but you know, it just “happens”, and you have to remember that all the other young ladies will be nervous and feeling vulnerable too. And there is even the advantage of not getting thrashed at all-too-frequent intervals.’

‘It is different for men.’

‘She says, from great experience.’ He smiled at her.

‘But when they “go to Town” they generally do so after university, and have a wide acquaintance among their peers.’

‘And have less guidance, not that it would be popular at the time. We all thought ourselves very grown-up and were no more so than … pups. We therefore tumbled into a few scrapes, but learned a lot.’

‘I cannot imagine you in a scrape, Charles.’ She looked at him, his face open and honest. She could not think of him engaged in the least devilry.

‘I do not know whether that delights me or horrifies me. Do you think I am too virtuous, or too boring?’

‘You are never boring. Charles, and as for virtuous … virtue may sound boring but actually it is to be applauded, since vice is to be deplored.’

‘I once let a chicken into the master’s lodgings when I was up at Oxford,’ admitted Lord Henfield confidingly.

‘Well, sir, if that is the limit of your vice …’

‘Er, and its three “friends”. One laid an egg under the master’s wing chair.’

‘Most reprehensible.’ Henrietta’s lips twitched. ‘Were you apprehended?’

‘I confessed, and did “penance” by clearing up the mess, and you would be amazed how much mess four hens can create, and having to write an ode, in the style of Horace, “To a Chicken”.’

‘Goodness! I am sure that taught you a lesson, and not in Latin.’ She bit her lip to prevent herself giggling the more.