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‘Oh, yes! His flashy waistcoats and ridiculous starched collars were enough to make Beau Brummell wince – very publicly. He indulged in every excess of a young man with more riches than sense. And paid for it with his life.’

‘Lud! Duelling?’

‘No, racing his curricle on the North Road, turned it over and broke his neck. Augusta was decorously grief-stricken. But Mama felt she was happy at last to be freed to follow her own interests, with the help of a half portion of the revenues of a considerable estate and a good house in Town.’

‘But no children?’

‘Luckily for them, no.’

Lucie gave a surprised laugh. ‘Oh, Bella. She can’t be too formidable. Mama liked her enough to make her my godmother.’

‘There may have been other reasons for that.’ Sybella pursed her lips, but her eyes were merry.

‘You mean she hoped Lady Godley might one day have to play the fairy godmother?’

‘We’ll soon see just how artful Mama was.’

As they approached Maidenhead, the numbers of livestock and every kind of private carriage and public stagecoach on the road were increasing and James’s enthusiasm for counting horses and curricles had been quelled by tiredness. His bright face was enfolded in his mother’s arm, and he was trying not to fall asleep. ‘Soon there?’ His voice was plaintive.

‘Very soon, about two miles to go. Look, it’s Maidenhead Thicket already, look at its avenue of trees.’ She did not add, ‘And look out for the footpads and highwaymen lurking amongst them once the day fades,’ as she did not want to excite her son or alarm her sister.

Twilight was already upon them as their carriage rolled into the bustling courtyard of the venerable Bear Inn. It had extensive stabling for up to a hundred horses and wayfarers were met by the sight and sound of milling horseflesh, steam rising from their bodies and streaming from their nostrils, newly arrived postilions stamping to get the life back into their frozen limbs after hours of exposure to the wind and cold and every kind of fellow traveller, from the humble and road-stained to the most fashionable and imperious.

Cold, stiff and weary, the family and their servants disembarked from their coaches and Nurse bundled James into the folds of her travelling cloak as they entered the ancient firelit interior, grateful for the comfort and warmth on offer. That night, despite retiring to unfamiliar and lumpy beds, everyone slept the sleep of Morpheus to begin the new day refreshed and ready for adventure. Gem was particularly alert: he knew the notorious Hounslow Heath awaited them and had to be crossed in order to reach the less rackety outskirts of London. Once more, he stowed George’s pistol under the rug at his feet and clambered into the driver’s seat to take up the reins.

The sisters climbed back into their coach but without James, who had elected to travel this last stage with Nurse and Alice. The day was less cold, but the cloud lay low and heavy, and the passing horsemen and carriages loomed out of the dead grey light to disappear as quickly back into the mist. The road threaded its way through the Thames valley and the views were less distinguished. Freed from James’s chatter, the sisters produced the books they had packed to read.

Sybella had chosen Self-Control, a sensational novel from Mary Brunton, and looked across quizzically at Lucie. ‘It’ll be interesting to see what has taken the reading public by storm.’

‘Oh, Bella, I’ll borrow that after you. It’s meant to be quite daring, you know.’ Lucie chuckled. ‘Rakes and ravishment and wild kidnapping, and an escape alone down a river in a canoe. It sounds just my thing!’

‘You are incorrigible. The Vicar’s wife recommended it and lent me her edition. I’ve got both volumes here with me.’

‘Well, mine’s perhaps as exciting.’ Lucie extracted a handsome volume from her portmanteau. ‘I’m about a third through. There’s a beautiful Irish heroine, the Wild Irish Girl of the title.’ She held up a handsome blue book with gold lettering. ‘And she’s the daughter of a prince and called Glorvina. I think I’d like to be called that. The hero’s English and, like yours, a disgraced libertine. But this one writes countless letters to his friend which spill the story.’

‘Who’s the author?’

‘Sydney Owenson. I think a woman. It’s certainly written with a female sensibility.’

Sybella looked thoughtful. ‘Why do you think rakes are so attractive to women, at least in fiction?’

‘The whiff of brimstone and the desire to reform them?’

‘I think it might be the suggestion of a male world of freedom and appetite we are not supposed to know. But what’s exciting in fantasy is not so happy in real life. Lucie, dear heart, take care not to be lured by the practised seducer.’

‘And I suppose when it comes to real life, I must choose someone unimpeachable?’

‘Mmm.’ Sybella was already deep in her novel and did not look up. ‘Sounds like a good plan to me.’

‘Someone like Captain James?’ Lucie enquired and they both laughed.

‘Well, you couldn’t do better than that.’

‘It’s very hard for any living, breathing man to measure up to a dead hero, you know.’

‘I know. And that’s something I have to protect young James from. George doesn’t help, he talks of the Captain as if he’s trailing clouds of glory. I don’t want James thinking his father a heroic lump of stone he can never approach.’

‘Well, the best thing you could do is marry again.’ Lucie looked at her sister to gauge her reaction. ‘And have another child,’ she added boldly.