She dressed for the evening with a small frown between her neatly arched brows, and Sewell admonished her that if she kept the expression for too long she would encourage a permanent wrinkle.

‘You mark what I says, Miss Henrietta. You keep looking like you’ve lost a guinea and found a farthing, and that pretty face of yours will set firm all miserable, and then what will the young gentlemen make of you?’

‘Sometimes, Sewell, I wish they would make less anyway,’ sighed Henrietta.

‘No you do not, for being courted is what every young lady wants and aims for.’

‘It would be helpful if one could limit the number and quality, though, and I have already rebuffed three strong hints of wishing to apply to my papa from a man who was himself old enough to be my papa, a shy baronet from Kent with a stammer, and my sighing poet. In none of them could I find anything to admire, and I am not at all certain any of them considered more than my face and figure, unless it was also my likely inheritance.’

‘Is that what has put you in this mood, Miss Henrietta? Well, you just stop thinking of those gentlemen, and consider the ones you do like.’

‘But I am not sure I like any of them enough to marry them, even if they asked, Sewell. Perhaps I am cold-hearted.’

‘Don’t think such silly thoughts. Now, you look perfect, so off you go and dance every dance.’ Sewell fixed a final pin in Henrietta’s hair, and beamed into the mirror at her. It was impossible not to smile back.

Her myriad suitors found Miss Gaydon even more emotionally elusive than usual. Mr Munsley danced a quadrille with her, and plied her with compliments which, he later lamented to his crony, Lord Chilwell, he had spent all afternoon devising.

‘Perhaps that was the problem, Munsley. She might have thought you lacked spontaneity,’ suggested his friend gently.

‘But I had practised until they sounded perfectly natural, I would swear it.’ Mr Munsley shook his head sadly. ‘You know what, Chilwell, it was like trying to grab smoke.’

‘Grab smoke? Never tried that, not even when foxed. Waste of time anyway.’

‘Exactly. I am probably wasting my time with “the Glorious Gaydon”, but dash it, she is a beautiful creature, and witty too.’

‘You mean “too witty”.’

‘Chilwell, you may be right. Pity.’

Lord Netheravon, whose wits did not require him to prepare his speeches beforehand, nevertheless might have agreed with the unfortunate Mr Munsley. Having failed to secure the chance to lead her into supper, he won a waltz, and the opportunity to sit out a country dance and entertain her with the unfortunate tale of his latest bet upon a horse. She smiled, she laughed even, as he described his confidence and the disbelief when he heard how it had not even got beyond the starting line.