“Well,” Mother says brightly, “don’t let us keep you hanging around here in this draughty hallway, Cuthbert. I’m sure that you young folk have lots to talk about. Beatrice will show you in and get you a drink, won’t you, darling?”

“Of course, Mother,” I grind out.

“Capital, capital.” Philip Astley beams, rocking back on his heels and tucking his hands into his pockets.

I lead Cuthbert through to the drawing room, wishing that my bones would crumble to dust so that Hobbs could sweep me up and dispose of me in his typically discreet and efficient manner and I wouldn’t have to participate any further in this scene. There are around a dozen people in here, locked into the never-ending cycle of small talk. Father is presiding over the drinks trolley and he gives me a knowing look that indicates this is part of a tremendous scheme and he’s very pleased with its progression. He stops just short of rubbing his hands together in glee. I lift my chin and treat him to a cool, quelling stare. His expression falters a little.

My father is bluff and hearty, with a bristling moustache and watery blue eyes. He taught me to ride, one thing that we both love, although he was disgusted by my refusal to join the hunt on the grounds I thought it a barbaric exercise in cruelty. And I have never seen him more furious than the time I laid down false trails to draw the dogs away from the fox they were hunting, leaving them chasing their tails in circles. “What does a girl want with all those brains?” I have overheard him sigh more than once.

“Ahem!” He clears his throat now. “So, this must be the famous Cuthbert!” He slaps the poor boy on the shoulder with such enthusiasm that he stumbles.

I think the truth of the situation is starting to finally dawn on Cuthbert and he darts a frightened, rabbity glance between me and my father. His hand goes to his collar, as though it is too tight.

“How – how do you do, sir?” he manages, his voice feeble as weak tea.

“Let me get you a drink, Cuthbert,” I say firmly, taking pity on him. I can see that it is going to be up to me to navigate us through this particular storm – Cuthbert doesn’t seem like a very take-charge sort of character.

“Oh, th-thank you,” he stutters, his neck flushing a mottled red as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down gratefully.

While Father is occupied with someone else I pour out two glasses of punch, stiffening Cuthbert’s with a splash of something stronger which I hope will provide him with some Dutch courage.

“Thank you,” he says again, taking a deep gulp and then dissolving into a coughing fit. It’s possible that I overdid it on the liquid courage front and I pat him on the back.