‘Raving? Oh, oh! I see! No, no, sir, enough to give a fellow nightmares, but … No, you see, I escorted Mama to see some dashed boring pictures this morning, and Lady Elstead was there with young Felbridge, and her daughter and niece, Miss Gaydon. I did the decent and introduced the two young ladies, et cetera, but it was abundantly clear that I might as well have lit some enormous firework. Mama and Lady Elstead squared up like prize fighters, not literally of course and … I had no idea, sir. None at all.’ Lord Martley looked both perplexed and rather hard done by.

‘Best just leave well alone, my boy. Women … Odd creatures.’ This was no help whatsoever.

‘But have I missed something, sir? Or does this date from some distant past antipathy?’

‘You were not to know, I grant you. I am not myself sure of the details, but I know that the pair of them have been at daggers drawn since their come-out, and everyone knows not to let them within spitting distance of each other.’

‘Everyone except me,’ sighed Lord Martley gloomily.

‘Well, as I said, you were not to know, so there is no blame, and I am sure your mama will forgive you.’ Lord Pirbright paused. ‘The Gaydon chit is quite a hit this Season, so I perceive. Decent stock, and like to inherit a nice estate in Shropshire.’ He went no further in approbation, but glanced at his heir’s profile.

Lord Martley did not say anything, though the implication was that Miss Gaydon was not ‘beyond the pale’, at least in his father’s view. What irked him was that if he was not to blame then no ‘forgiveness’ ought to be needed. He tossed off the end of his port, wished his father a pleasant evening and left, in pensive mood.

Henrietta had put the rather embarrassing incident out of mind, and was trying not to wallow in homesickness, which talking with Charles had brought on like the tide coming in. London was alive, full of exciting things, and people, but as to being at ease in it, no, Henrietta was putting on an act attempting to persuade herself as much as others. If it were just for these few months she felt that she could cope, no, better than cope. She would store up memories that would provide plenty to look back upon. The trouble lay in the fact that it was all preliminary to her leaving Papa for good, and running her own establishment. In itself this was not frightening, having been de facto mistress at The Court for over a year, since Mrs Claines, the housekeeper, had gently shifted the responsibility for the household decisions to her, and guided her to the point at which they were perfectly normal.