A glowing ember bounced onto the hearth, but Patricia chose to ignore it. She had a small army of servants to do menial tasks, leaving her with nothing to do other than to change her clothes three times a day with the help of her personal maid. There were always invitations to accept and others to send out, but Patricia’s life nowadays was one of socialising, entertaining and being entertained. With a husband many years her senior she was used to being treated as delightful and decorative by his contemporaries, who either patronised her or flirted outrageously, which did not amuse their matronly wives. Patricia had learned as a bride of twenty to parry the gentlemen’s advances with a fluttering of her long eyelashes or a sweet smile, whilst inwardly writing them off as pathetic old men. She stretched her feet towards the comforting blaze, smoothing the satin skirts of her emerald-green dinner gown. She knew this colour suited her and it was Greystone’s favourite. The décolleté neckline flattered her youthful figure and brought a sparkle to her husband’s eyes. She loved Greystone, but she was not in love with him and never had been. She had married with her eyes open and her sights set on wealth and position, but she had kept her side of the bargain and her husband had nothing with which to reproach her. They had agreed from the start that there would be no children from their union. Greystone had two grown-up daughters, Christina was now married to the local squire’s son in Rockwood village, and Sylvia, as yet unwed, who lived in the family home Greystone Park, chaperoned by her formidable cousin, Martha Collins and her timid companion, Miss Moon. Patricia was fond of her stepdaughters, although they had found it difficult to accept their father’s decision to marry someone less than half his age, but they had gradually come round. Perhaps, she thought dreamily, she ought to bring Sylvia to London at the start of the Season. Sylvia at the age of twenty-three was too old to be a debutante, but there might be some eligible bachelors who would find her naïve charms attractive. Miss Collins and Miss Moon would not be included in the invitation. Patricia had had enough of domineering women, her mother and Hester, their former housekeeper, included.

Patricia jumped at the sound of someone knocking on the door. ‘Enter.’

Foster appeared in the doorway with his usual impassive expression. ‘Begging your pardon, my lady, but there is a gentleman at the door who wishes to see you.’ He approached Patricia’s chair, once again proffering the silver salver on which sat a deckle-edged visiting card. ‘Shall I tell him that you are unavailable?’

‘Who on earth would have braved the fog to visit at this time in the evening?’ Patricia studied the copperplate writing with a sigh. ‘Tell Lord Eldon that I am otherwise engaged.’