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‘Lord Lynwood!’

‘Apologies, Lady Godley, Lucie.’ He bowed with no great contrition as Lady Godley frowned disapprovingly at his vulgarity.

The day of Almack’s ball arrived. Sybella was getting ready to dress and not really looking forward to the fuss of it all, thinking longingly of home. But she knew any sacrifice of her interests was worth it for Lucie, who was enjoying herself so much. This evening would be her formal presentation for, with the decline of the Court’s role, the assemblies at Almack’s had become the centre of the haut ton and the make-or-mar introduction of young women to society.

Sybella sat on her dressing stool in her chemise, her hair down, deep in thought. Lucie had attended parties and soirées and met more young people, but her real friends continued to be the two racy lords. Sybella wondered about the marriage prospects of them both. She had never seen Lucie so gay in any company before and her ease and laughter in their presence warmed her heart. Lord Ravenell was so preternaturally charming that to see them together made everyone think their pairing was heaven-sent. But Lucie had confided that she thought of him with only the greatest fraternal affection, which was theatrically reciprocated.

Sybella sighed, she was uneasy. Her husband had told her of certain young officers, often the most delightful and charming, the most attractive to women, who preferred the company of their own sex. She did not know of Lord Ravenell’s predilections, but he had never pretended to be enamoured with Lucie beyond the fantasy of kinship and she wanted her sister to know what it was to be truly loved by a man. Then there was the unruly passion of Lord Lynwood. There was no doubt about his interest in the opposite sex, but his guardian was promoting the attractions of Cleome Stafford. His own feelings, however, were hard to fathom, perhaps even to himself.

Sybella was brushing her hair in front of the looking-glass, feeling weighed down with responsibility. The crop planting at the estate had begun and George had written with questions about what best to plant in the fifty-acre field. Scipio was also causing trouble in Lady Godley’s stables, in need of a good long and tiring gallop to rid him of the fidgets. Had Mr Brabazon meant it when he suggested an expedition to Richmond Park? Gem had told her it would take about two hours to get there, with a break at an inn on the way.

She could not work out what she felt about the enigmatic Mr Brabazon. In London society, where gossip was rife and rumour and scandal the fuel of social discourse, no one really knew his game. There were whispers about various women in whom he was believed to have some sort of interest. It was generally known what a complete hand he was with his horses, what a high-stakes gambler and how inadvisable it would be to call him out with either pistols or swords. Lord Lynwood told Lucie he had once seen his guardian box with Gentleman Jackson at his boxing academy in Bond Street, and have his lethal right hand commended by the great man himself. Lord Byron too, along with other young bucks and blades, was a habitué and practised the noble art, as they called it. According to Lord Lynwood, it encouraged fitness, heart and nobility of spirit.

Mr Brabazon did not advertise any of his activities and an air of mystery surrounded him. People shook their heads and muttered that he was a deep one, and others warned he was not quite the nonchalant Corinthian that he appeared to be. Sybella was troubled by long-suppressed emotion that threatened to rise in her breast. She feared opening her heart to such feelings again; she feared betraying the memory of her beloved husband. Mr Brabazon disturbed her hard-won serenity of spirit and she wondered whether she’d rather just go to Richmond Park with Gem, who could easily take advice on the best route. Perhaps that plan would be simplest. She put down her hairbrush, feeling there were still a few areas of her life over which she had dominion.

Dressing for Almack’s was a major undertaking. Alice had been practising a fashionable new hairstyle on Lucie, called Sortilège de Vénus, a plaited and twisted chignon dedicated to the goddess, with a few artfully teased tendrils of hair round the face and spiralling down to her shoulders. Her ball dress had been specially made from another Parisian fashion plate, a satin underslip in a shimmering oyster-pink with a gauzy over-dress in pale gold, giving the effect, Sybella told Lucie, of the sun just coming up over a cornfield at the Manor. It certainly enhanced her colouring, emphasising her burnished curls and making her skin warmly glow. The tiny puff sleeves were tucked, as was the low-cut neckline, with pearls sewn at intervals, creating delicate swags. These swags of fine gold tucks continued at the hem.

‘Lucie, you look wondrous fair. I wish Mama was here to see you.’ Sybella felt tears spring to her eyes but quickly blinked them away. She was pleased with her own dress too. She had very much wanted to refurbish her old much-loved ball dress because she had always felt it particularly becoming. Clever with her needle, she had made a new over-dress in an organza imported from France in a silvery shade called Frisson Divin. This combined so pleasingly with the dusky blue of the silk under-dress that she felt surprised and excited by her own appearance. Alice had ingeniously swirled her dark hair up in a less complex rendition of Venus’s Spell, but both Lucie and Sybella felt they had managed to come as close as any well-brought-up young Englishwoman could get to being goddesses of the classical world.

Lady Godley was ecstatic at how beautiful they both looked. ‘Like the moon and stars,’ she said with some emotion. Her maternal instinct, chilled into dormancy by Lord Pomeroy’s dullness and then stifled by his death, now bloomed unconstrained. Love, pride and an unexplored capacity for self-sacrifice surprised her. She waved them off in her smart town coach with something of the anticipation and anxiety of a mother osprey edging her offspring off the cliff edge.

In only a few minutes, Sybella and Lucie alighted in King Street, St James’s, outside the modest brick façade of the famous Assembly Rooms. Sophisticated and jaded palates might well complain of Almack’s lack of excitement; people grumbled about the insipid routs and blamed the staidness on le régime de cotillion, the absolute power of the patronesses. These self-anointed queens, however, had managed to maintain over decades a resolutely respectable place of social assembly for the nobility of both sexes. This was a rarity in the golden age of the gentleman’s club and the rise of raffish behaviour generally.

Indeed, as Lady Godley had told her goddaughter, Almack’s had become known as the Marriage Mart for this very reason of its probity. It was where ambitious mamas could safely offer their young daughters for notice and appraisal in a morally unimpeachable environment. The young gallants and noblemen, the focus of maternal hopes for advantageous alliances, could also be assured that the young women had been vetted for their suitability. In defence of the Draconic rules, Lady Godley pointed out that given these flammable constituents, and the libertine age in which they all lived, the lack of any major scandal was entirely to the patronesses’ credit.

The Carey sisters entered through the porticoed door and were dazzled by the scene before them. Lucie grasped her sister’s arm, her face radiant. More than a thousand candles cast their lambent light over the throng of young women in their gorgeous dresses and young men in close-fitting coats and pale knee breeches, all slowly mounting the great staircase. The elderly and portly found this impressively long run of stair impossible to navigate without at least two stops to recover their breath, but Sybella and Lucie tripped lightly up, filled with anticipation at what awaited on the first floor.

They were hailed by the Lords Lynwood and Ravenell lounging on the mirrored landing, their bored, handsome faces suddenly alight. ‘Dashed good to see you! Things are looking tolerable now you’re here. There are some terrifying mamas and their silent mousey daughters. Val and I were getting ready to leave and go on somewhere more exciting.’

‘Oh, no, you can’t do that, Freddie. We’re relying on you both.’ Lucie took Lord Lynwood’s arm and Sybella put her hand on Lord Ravenell’s as the sisters were led into the ballroom. They gasped. The long room stretched across the width of the front of the building with six tall arched windows. Two great glass chandeliers, burning with hundreds of candles, hung from the lofty ceiling, and rococo looking-glasses in the panels between the windows reflected a thousand flickering flames and the fragmented colours of the ball dresses.

‘What a beautiful room!’ Sybella found it hard to tell where the room ended and the looking-glass world began. Everywhere was reflection and soft candlelight and promenading men and women preening and peering, their faces made more expressive and seductive in the flattering, shadowy light.

Lord Ravenell indicated the sofas arranged round the walls where mamas and their daughters sat and waited for dance invitations and couples convened between dances to rest and converse. ‘The sofa at the head of the room,’ he said, pointing to a long plush affair, ‘is the lair of the noble patronesses.’

The orchestra struck up and began to play a country dance. ‘Will you do me the honour?’ Lord Ravenell bowed and gave his arm to Sybella, while Lord Lynwood followed suit with Lucie. The floor was suddenly filled with smiling couples tracing the undulating patterns of the figures of eight, away and together and then twirl and loop. There were some couples struggling to get their steps in the right order, disrupting the dancing of their neighbours in the set, others were fluent and graceful.

It did not surprise Sybella that Lord Ravenell was the most graceful of dancers and she sensed the many eyes upon them. Dancing with him seemed effortless and made her feel almost equal to his grace. His conversation too, rippled along as lightly as his steps, complimenting her on her dancing, the charm of her dress, pointing out acquaintances with some bon mot that captured the character in a phrase that made her laugh: ‘That gaudy-feathered matron over there in the puce sarsenet and plume is Lydia Plumstead, a hellcat who’s put four husbands to bed with a shovel,’ he said as they twirled past an extravagantly dressed lady in conversation with a red-faced man. Then, catching sight of a rotund gentleman, he explained, ‘That’s Lord Brislington, was a captain in the navy. Stowed all his rum rations in his cabin, careened the ship, took on water then sank. Four crew drowned. More upset by the lost rum than anything.’

Sybella glanced across at Lucie and saw her laughing unselfconsciously at something Lord Lynwood had said. She was struck once more by how unaffectedly beautiful her sister was, particularly when she was happy and at ease. The music stopped and they all made their way to the small room where glasses of lemonade were handed out to thirsty dancers.

‘Thank you so much, Freddie. I’ve never enjoyed a country dance so much. And I’ve never had my toes jumped on quite so much either!’ Lucie was hanging on Lord Lynwood’s arm, rubbing her toes through the light slipper.

‘That’s unfair! You went wrong in the eight and slipped your foot under mine.’

‘Lord Ravenell dances like a dream.’ Sybella sipped the lemonade and found it really sour, as she had been warned.

‘Do you ladies waltz?’ Lord Ravenell led the way back into the ballroom.

‘Yes, we’ve been taught by a dancing master back home.’ Lucie’s eyes were shining. ‘I love the waltz.’

‘That may well be, but you’re new to this game and are forbidden to dance the waltz until one of the noble dictators comes across and introduces you to a partner of her choosing. It’s crack-brained, but there it is. After your first dance, you can then waltz with whomsoever you like.’

The orchestra began to play and Sybella and Lucie stood uncertainly at the edge of the dance floor. Sybella was just about to sit on a sofa when she saw a remarkable vision approaching. A tall, imposing lady dressed in apple-green silk and wearing enormous emerald earrings that dangled to her shoulders sailed across the floor, bearing down on her with intent. She was on the arm of Lord Rockliffe, himself appearing particularly vampiric, all in black emphasising the pallor of his skin and glittering eye.

‘It’s Lady Jersey!’ Lucie whispered urgently to her sister.

‘My dear Mrs Lovatt.’ The majestic patroness inclined her swanlike neck as she spoke. ‘I am glad indeed to see that you and your sister were able to grace our gathering with your charming presence. May I offer you Lord Rockliffe as a partner for the waltz?’