‘Is he mad?’ whispered Elizabeth to herself, paling.
‘If he has written anything indelicate or offensive—’167began Lady Chalford, with a belligerent snort.
‘Not indelicate, no. Dangerous, yes. I must warn him.’
‘That what he writes is dangerous?’ Amelia was confused.‘Is it seditious?’
‘But it is difficult to broach.’ Elizabeth was still talking to herself, ignoring her cousin. ‘Oh dear, what should I do?’
‘Elizabeth, may I see what is written, my dear?’ Lady Chalford held out her hand, and Elizabeth gave her the sheet of paper. Lady Chalford scanned it, her eyes narrowing.‘Foolish man!’
‘Am I right to be concerned, Aunt?’ enquired Elizabeth, frowning.
‘I am not sure. It is not such a situation as one might have foreseen. He is not what one would consider a violent man.’
‘But volatile, ma’am. I think the least I can do is warn Sir Lucius Radstock, for I know of no other men in Town bearing the name. If I write to him … what if he was hurt?’
‘I daresay Lucius Radstock can rebuff and repel any attempt by young Mr Escott, Elizabeth, without resort to excessive violence, but I am more concerned that if they do meet, there will be scandal. No, Sir Lucius is experiencedenough to avoid that I think, I hope.’
Elizabeth’s hands were to her cheeks.
‘What does he say?’ Amelia could contain herself no longer.
Elizabeth took the poem from the table.
‘O fair Divinity Sublime, let not
The curlèd lip and jealous eye so green,
Nor Persecution that I face persuade168
You that my love is less, My Beauteous Queen.
For burning is my tortured heart
When Malice raw keeps us apart.
‘Persecution!’ She sniffed derisively. ‘In what manner does he think himself persecuted?’
‘Perhaps,’ offered Amelia diffidently, ‘he saw you with Sir Lucius in attendance.’
‘In attendance? But you could not describe … we rarely …’ Her voice petered out.
Whilst Sir Lucius Radstock had not made any ‘push’ for her, and often seemed, she thought, to regard her with some amusement as if she were a diversion, it was true that he was often close enough for their eyes to meet; and though it meant nothing, obviously, perhaps so biased a mind as the poet’s might read more into it.
‘It is ridiculous,’ she huffed, but defensively. ‘Sir Lucius does not haunt me, not like Lord St Loe, Mr Chorley or Mr Browndown, who do not have any real interest in me.’
Amelia was bold enough to look sceptical at this last remark.
Elizabeth continued, hurriedly.
‘I cannot bear to suffer long, and so
Would rather face my Fate, though it might be
That in the noble cause of Love I fall
To rise no more, yet you must surely see
