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‘What time are you back?’ Her eyes, not as deeply blue as her father’s, twinkled at him. ‘I want to play you the Haydn etude I’ve been practising.’

Ivor Asprey’s pen was poised over a letter and he responded in a distracted voice, ‘I won’t be home until you’re in bed, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, Papa! I never see you. You’ve always got something more important to do!’ She pulled her hand from the crook of his arm. ‘Where are you going?’

He put down his pen and cast his intense gaze over her for the first time that morning. ‘You look very charming, my dear,’ he said with a warm smile. ‘I like that dress. Is it new?’

‘No, Papa! It’s my old calico I wear for lessons. You know that,’ she said in an exasperated voice, and he laughed.

‘My sweet daughter, you can’t expect me to keep up with all your costume choices.’

‘Well, at least tell me where you are going tonight.’

‘I’m going to see Mr Kean in Hamlet at the theatre.’

‘Oh, I’d so like to see Mr Kean. Can I come?’

‘No. I don’t know that the play is suitable for a young girl of sensibility.’

‘Well, I’m reading Shakespeare with Miss Stafford. She says all of life is in his works.’ Elinor Asprey’s face turned serious and she looked into her father’s eyes. ‘And life is sometimes tragic, is it not, Papa?’

These words made him glance at his daughter with apprehension. There were times when he feared she was too wise for her years. He nodded and appeared to soften his stance. ‘Miss Stafford is right. I’ll see what the production’s like and perhaps I can take you at a later date.’

‘Are you taking Lady Linus tonight?’ Her teasing tone had returned.

Ivor was brusque. ‘No. I’m going on my own. This is business not pleasure.’

‘But Papa, that would be perfect then for Lady Linus, don’t you think?’ She met her father’s surprised look with an innocent gaze, while Nicholas Digby suppressed a smile.

It was well-known in the household that Portia Linus considered herself the perfect wife for Ivor Asprey, taking pride in how clever and rational she was, a veritable bas-bleu continuing the worthy tradition of her intellectual forbears. The Duchess also approved of her as a suitable helpmeet for her brother. But that brother’s daughter, his secretary and governess all thought her a prosy, nosy personage with strong improving opinions on the lives and behaviour of others, that she chose not to keep to herself. Elinor had confided to Miss Stafford how she dreaded the thought that Lady Linus might become her stepmother.

‘I hope you’re not being pert, young miss!’ Her father’s voice was stern. When she dropped her eyes, the colour rising in her cheeks, he added more equably, ‘Lady Linus is an admirable young woman and you’d do well to heed her care of you.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ Elinor Asprey said just as Sarah Stafford knocked and entered.

‘Good morning, sir, and Mr Digby. Elinor, it’s time for your French conversation. I would be pleased if you would come and join me.’ An attractive young woman, the governess had a warm friendly manner that hid her quiet authority. Elinor Asprey had learned early that she could not get round Miss Stafford as she could the maids. But for six years this young woman had been the nearest she had to a mother and had embarked on not just educating her intellect but also nurturing her heart.

Elinor flung her arms round her father’s neck and buried her face in his immaculate cravat. ‘Oh, Papa. Take care. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You’re all I have.’ Her words were muffled but tumbled out with such feeling that those in the room felt the poignancy of her fear of loss.

Her father put down his pen and enclosed her in a quick embrace. He held her close for a moment then recovered his poise and said with a steady voice, ‘Run along now. And you be a good girl and I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He kissed her pale cheek.

‘You promise?’ Her anxious eyes searched his face.

‘I promise. We’ll have breakfast and I’ll tell you about Mr Kean and you can read me your latest Latin prose. What are you reading?’

Her face lit up. ‘Miss Stafford’s book of Aesop’s Fables. There are beautiful pictures of the animals and it’s in Latin, English and French. So I can read it all.’ She followed her governess from the room, turning at the door to cast her father a mischievous smile.

* * *

Ivor Asprey set out to walk across St James’s Park to Westminster rather later than he had hoped. It was a fresh morning; the overnight rain had washed the air clean and the birdsong seemed even louder than usual but he was distracted by the thought of a speech he was due to give the following day on the hours and conditions of child labour in the mills. Parliament did not sit until late afternoon but he had work to do. Various men and women hailed him as he passed. He had just reached the Canal when he heard the hooves of a galloping horse. Nothing faster than a canter was allowed in the royal parks and he turned with some asperity to see his nephew astride a beautiful grey stallion, his flying white tail catching the morning light. The young man pulled his horse up and leapt to the ground.

‘Uncle Ivor, sir! Forgive this rude intrusion but I wanted you to be the first to know. Boney’s been forced to abdicate! The war is over!’ His youthful face was flushed and laughter bubbled up with excitement and relief. Despite the usual reserve he felt with his forbidding uncle, he grabbed him in a hug.

Mr Asprey returned his embrace, then asked urgently, ‘How do you know? Who told you?’

‘I’ve just seen Castlereagh’s private secretary riding in the avenue. We were at school together. He hailed me, only just conveyed the intelligence to the King. The generals insist on Napoleon’s exile.’ He was still breathless with the import of it all.

‘It is indeed tremendous, Charles. Rumours were rife, I know. Once Paris fell it would not be long. After all these years, good news indeed.’