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‘I can’t believe that is true, my lord.’

‘Well, my rapscallion son amuses himself in claiming he and your sister are twins. Fustian, of course! But he’s been quizzing me about my friendship with your sainted mama. I can assure you of her absolute propriety in every matter of the heart. I cannot, of course, assure you of mine.’ The fleeting devilment of his smile made her heart skip. Sybella had never before encountered such a virtuoso of seductive charm, although in the Duke’s case she knew his magnetic force was now purely benign, part of a grand largesse of spirit that seemed to warm the hearts of everyone in his orbit.

‘Sadly both my parents and my husband, a Hussar in the Peninsular War, are now buried and I am responsible for Lucie and my son. You can imagine my protective feelings for both.’

‘My dear Mrs Lovatt, I knew about the demise of your mama and papa but am desolate to hear your valiant warrior has been lost to you. Captain Lovatt, was he?’ She nodded and he continued, ‘My son too, holds all my affection and hopes and you, of all people, will appreciate the depth of my feeling for him. I hope your son will bring you all the joy mine has to me.’ He stopped and looked across at Lord Ravenell, a sparkling lodestar at the centre of an admiring group of young men and women, and his father’s smile was suddenly clouded. ‘But I hope your son does not become the source of grievous fear.’ This was said almost under his breath.

With a resolute shrug, he turned back to Sybella, as solicitous as ever. ‘I see Lady Godley requires us to move through to the dining room. May I escort you?’ With the greatest elegance, he proffered his arm for Sybella to lay her gloved hand upon.

At that point, there was a faint stir in the room and she looked towards the drawing room door. Lord Rockliffe had arrived late, dashing in his immaculate evening wear, all in black except for his beautifully starched and folded linen cravat, its snowy landscape sparkling discreetly with three diamond pins. The perturbation to the company was caused less by his dramatic presence than by the woman he had on his arm. Sybella had never seen such a proud demeanour. The lady, no longer in the first flush of youth, nevertheless had a splendid figure and the most luxuriant hair of an unnaturally brilliant russet, piled in artless curls on her head and entwined with flowers and ribbons. Her face was haughty and imperious, with large dark eyes under finely arched brows, owing more to artifice than nature. She surveyed the room and her eyes seemed to rest for a time on Mr Brabazon, who had turned at her entry. Sybella noticed his expression, usually so sardonic and dispassionate, darken. He turned his back and offered his arm to a grand dowager in a magnificent golden turban.

The Duke too had been watching the show with a lively eye. He glanced down at Sybella and roguishly asked her if she would appreciate elucidation. She met his gaze with a querying eyebrow as he led her into the dining room, his voice low. ‘You are no longer just out of the schoolroom, so I hope I do not offend your sensibilities.’

‘You forget, my lord, I have been a married woman.’

‘I fear that is no proof against all the trifling eccentricities of my sex,’ he murmured, then watching Lord Rockliffe and the lady’s progress through the room, explained. ‘There is no love lost between Rockliffe and Anthony Brabazon, but it seems now that there is a love shared. La Grande Coquette is Mrs Markham, an impoverished divorcée of good breeding who relies on the patronage of friends. She’s an expensive taste for Mr Brabazon but I think tonight he has just realised, not an exclusive one.’

‘Oh, lud! Lady Godley said her party would only become a succès de scandale if one guest was to call out another. I hope no ghastly premonition. Gentlemen don’t indulge in duelling any more, do they?’

‘The wildest and most fatuous do. But I don’t think Rockliffe would risk Brabazon’s pistol. He’s a deadly shot. Nor do I think Brabazon such a fool.’ He turned to find Mr Brabazon in the crowd and watched him lazily surveying the room. ‘Don’t be deceived, my dear, by his languorous manner. That man misses nothing. Like a panther, he can wait and wait before pouncing. And can be ruthless when necessary.’

Sybella felt a prickle of unease trace its way down her spine. She did not wish Mr Brabazon as an adversary but would fight her corner against anyone for her sister’s happiness. ‘And who, pray, is the turbaned woman on Mr Brabazon’s arm?’

‘That, Mrs Lovatt, is the mother of the picturesque heiress, Lady Cleome Stafford, over there.’ He indicated the petulant beauty gazing discontentedly into Lord Lynwood’s lively face. Sybella was fascinated to see how beautifully dressed this young woman was. As Lucie had suspected when they had first caught sight of her incongruous flame in Maidenhead, Lady Cleome’s clothes declared in their detail and becoming design that they had indeed come straight from Paris. Her gown was of a pearlescent pink silk cut daringly low over her pale bosom with a gauzy gold organza over-dress, the high waist emphasised with gold cords and tassels and the hem stiffened slightly to ripple enticingly round her ankles when she walked. There was not a flower or ruffle to be seen and the gorgeous simplicity was so understatedly elegant that Sybella considered her own dress critically, and found it sadly de trop.

The Duke had followed her eyes. ‘I know dear Anthony is obstinately determined his young ward should offer for her, but I wouldn’t want to rivet my young ’un to such a sulky chit, even should she be as rich as Croesus.’

‘But, my lord, is that not easy to say when you yourself are so flush in the pocket?’

He gave a surprised laugh. ‘You’re very frank, Ma’am. I am indeed flush in the pocket, as you so colourfully put it, but Mr Brabazon has pockets even deeper and more flush than mine, you know.’

‘I apologise for the directness of my language. I’ve been too long in the country with only my husband’s man, George, to converse with. My son too, is sadly learning soldier’s cant. Forgive me.’

‘I’m afraid that such words issuing from the lips of a beautiful and well-bred woman can only act as a lure to susceptible minds like mine. But I digress. Why should Brabazon be so concerned about his ward’s choice in marriage?’

‘I think he fears Freddie is drawing the bustle too freely.’ She checked herself and looked apologetic.

‘Fear not, I know precisely what you mean.’

She inclined her head and continued, ‘Lord Lynwood will soon attain his majority and have control over what remains of his fortune to squander as he chooses. I doubt Mr Brabazon cares to mop up after his cousin all his life and would like to settle the noble young blade with a rich wife.’

At this point, the man in question approached. ‘Your Grace, may I reclaim Mrs Lovatt?’

The Duke inclined his head. ‘It’s been a pleasure I hope to repeat. But Anthony, don’t “Your Grace” me, dear boy. I’m William to you.’

Mr Brabazon bowed and smiled but seemed distracted as he drew Sybella back into the drawing room. There they found the piano-forte open and chairs arranged in informal groups ready for the musical entertainment to begin. ‘Did you find the charming Duke as delightful as his son?’ He looked down at her quizzically.

‘Oh, indeed. But more serious as befits his greater age. And you, sir, must have been gratified to see your ward escort Lady Cleome in to supper?’

‘You’re being provoking, Mrs Lovatt,’ he drawled. ‘My satisfaction, however, did not last long. Look who that boy is dangling after now.’ They both glanced towards the door to see Lucie with Lord Lynwood on one arm and Lord Ravenell on the other. All were laughing, she a bit too warmly for propriety, at something one of the young gallants had said. ‘They are both unruly bucks and your charming sister is encouraging them in their prodigality.’

‘Why so severe? They are youthful and have much to learn. You must agree, however, together like that they make an affecting picture. Your ward’s handsome looks and raven-black hair is such a foil for the golden beauty of his companions.’

‘If you are getting rhapsodical, Ma’am, I would as readily see Lord Lynwood’s good looks as a foil for Lady Cleome’s beauty.’

‘The Duke considers her a sulky chit he would be loath to see riveted to anyone he cared for.’ Needled, Sybella had spoken without thought and with a meanness that was unworthy. She immediately regretted her vulgarity.

‘He did not say that! And if he did, you are ill-mannered indeed to repeat it. I did not expect that of you, Mrs Lovatt.’ The stormy front turned colder and Sybella felt her cheeks burn with mortification at having opened herself once more to his disapproval. What made it sting all the more was she knew he was right. To evade his hard gaze, she fleetingly hung her head.