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‘We don’t know that, Lucie. I think Mr Brabazon’s feelings go much deeper than he would like the world to know.’

‘I wish he’d show them a bit more often then. He seems to be so distant and superior and amused. More likely to admonish than praise.’

‘But dearest, you are comparing him with the most devoted of fathers. Not many parents are as doting as the Duke, or me, for that matter.’

Lucie suddenly remembered the gossip. ‘Just think of Lord Rockliffe.’ Lucie was round-eyed as she continued. ‘Freddie was telling me he has so many side-slips, as he calls them, children from his libertine liaisons with wives and widows, Cyprians, adventuresses and Covent Garden bawds. And he refuses to acknowledge any of them.’

‘Lucie! I do think Freddie, and Val, no doubt too, should not speak to you as if you were just another young blood like them. I’ve told you before, you are not meant to speak about these things so frankly. I agree it’s foolish, but we have to abide by society’s niceties and sense of propriety. Until you’re married, at least.’

‘I’m only talking to you and not upsetting your sense of propriety, I’m sure. Freddie just wanted to warn me about Lord Rockliffe. And it’s hard to do that without being improper,’ she said reasonably. ‘He also thought you might be a bit susceptible to his charm and I should alert you to the danger.’ She grinned mischievously at her older sister.

‘That impudent young jackanapes! As if I don’t recognise exactly what sort of man his lordship is and can’t manage for myself!’ Sybella felt her colour rise, partly with exasperation at being thought in need of advice from such a callow youth and partly at her own heart which, to her shame, had beat a little faster in the company of such a practised seducer. It was shaming to have her body betray her, and unsettling to find her certainties shaken.

She left the breakfast table to write to George, who was in charge of their new planting rotation system back at the Manor. She had been wondering how the clover and turnips crops were growing, chosen as a soil-enriching alternative to letting the fields lie fallow. As she wrote, her longing for home and her old life was less marked and this gave her unhappy pause. Was she being led astray by society’s trifling pleasures? she wondered. Worse still, were her high principles and good sense at risk as she declined into the sort of flighty, inconstant widow whom men like Lord Rockliffe courted for their sport?

Casting such uneasy thoughts aside, Sybella gathered up her son and with Nurse as her chaperone set out for the Egyptian Hall and the curiosities that Mr Bullock had collected for his museum from the voyages of Captain Cook to the South Seas. Even her jaded spirits revived at the thought of James’s excitement, and the satisfactions on offer to her own enquiring mind.

Lucie entertained herself by setting off with Alice for Hookham’s Circulating Library on New Bond Street. Despite being so busy with the social round, she had finished reading The Wild Irish Girl at a gallop. It had been exciting and transported her to Ireland with its headlong story. But she had decided against changing ‘Lucie’ to ‘Glorvina’, the author’s heroic name for her heroine. She was hoping to find a new book to absorb her equally. Her search, however, was rather dilatory as she was distracted with anxious thoughts about the outcome of the dangerous curricle race.

As she emerged from the busy interior, with an indifferent book under her arm, Lucie was momentarily dazzled by the sunlight. Taking Alice’s arm, they began to walk towards Grosvenor Street. Just ahead was a smart curricle pulled up by the roadside with a handsome Hussar in the driving seat. He turned his head and she recognised the distinctive profile. Lucie walked quickly up to the carriage and hailed him shyly, ‘Captain Fortescue.’

He turned and greeted her bright face with a winning smile. ‘Miss Carey, how do you do?’ He quickly jumped down to take her hand. ‘You’ve caught me just before I return to the Peninsula. This is my last day of pleasure.’

At that moment, a vision of loveliness and high style emerged from the milliner on the corner of Brook Street, carrying two striped bandboxes. Captain Fortescue hurried forward to relieve Cleome Stafford of her burdens, and the fervent gaze she cast towards his devoted face was not lost on Lucie.

‘Miss Carey, we meet again.’ The young woman’s voice was like a sigh. ‘I hope you and your sister are well?’ Her face was framed by the exaggerated brim of a fine straw bonnet trimmed with azure blue silk and forget-me-nots. She was astonishingly elegant in Parisian blue, an enormous white fur muff dangling casually from one hand.

‘We are indeed. How nice to see you and the Captain again. I hear he’s about to leave to rejoin his regiment.’ Lucie noticed with interest the blush that crept up Lady Cleome’s fair skin and the doleful droop of her head, and felt a sympathetic pang. She had seen her sister wave goodbye to her dashing newlywed Hussar, only to endure the agony of the news he was never coming home again. In a rush of sisterly feeling, Lucie put out a hand and touched her arm.

Lady Cleome Stafford lifted her eyes and met her concerned gaze. ‘He has asked me to write to him. Mama does not know.’ It was evident to Lucie that the Captain was not of high enough birth in the estimation of the young heiress’s self-important family, considered by all to be excessively high in the instep and contemptuous of those of lesser fortune and blood.

‘I won’t mention it.’ Lucie smiled, then took her hand and fervently said, ‘You will always find a sympathetic audience with my sister and me at Lady Godley’s.’ Lady Cleome nodded, her eyes bright with tears. Then Captain Fortescue bowed and bid Lucie farewell. He handed her ladyship up into his curricle, along with her maid and all the attendant bandboxes and packages.

‘We will meet again,’ the Captain said gaily as he swung himself up into the driving seat and ordered his groom to release the horses’ heads, and they trotted off into the traffic.

Lucie walked thoughtfully home, trying to ignore Alice’s excited chatter about the succession of dandies, fops and Corinthians who strolled down Bond Street, some disappearing into the discreet entrance at No. 13 of Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy. Others on horseback or driving their curricles and phaetons greeted each passing acquaintance and quizzed the ladies who modestly averted their faces as they hurried by, their maids in attendance.

Lucie, who had been so diverted by this parade of exquisites when she first came to London, now hardly noticed them, so absorbed was she by her own thoughts. She wondered how Lord Lynwood would deal with the new emotional shift in the landscape. His desultory courtship of Lady Cleome now seemed even less likely to succeed. Lucie was not even clear about her own feelings. All she knew was that she really cared that both Val and Freddie came back safe from this madcap escapade to Epsom.

It was not until supper time that there was a hammering on the door at Green Street and Samson disapprovingly announced the Lords Lynwood and Ravenell. The two young men, their arms around each other’s shoulders, burst into the drawing room, dusty, dishevelled and in very high spirits. ‘Oh, Freddie, Val, you’re safe!’ Lucie sprang up and ran towards them to clasp their hands.

Lady Godley glanced across at them askance. ‘You’re half-cut, my lords!’ she said as quellingly as she could.

‘Only a trifle disguised, my lady,’ Lord Ravenell said laughing and bowed deeply over her hand. Lucie knew her godmother could not resist the young men’s charms and noticed how close she came to ruffling the golden curls that were inclined towards her. ‘We had a small celebration in a tavern on the way back.’

‘So who won?’ Lucie enquired.

‘Val, of course.’ Lord Lynwood’s handsome face was flushed, and his Byronic locks windswept, not by the usual careful artifice but as a result of their exertions on the road. Their driving coats were mud-splashed, their once immaculate white-topped boots smeared with dirt and their muscles were aching from controlling their high-bred horses at speed over twenty-one miles.

Sybella came forward to join her sister, who was beaming as she looked from one face to the other. ‘You must be famished, can we invite you to share our meal? That’s to your liking too, Augusta?’ She turned to Lady Godley.

‘Of course, the dear boys need some food to soak up that liquor.’

‘But we’re not dressed. We’re still in our driving rig we were in such a hurry to come and tell you we were back, and had survived.’

‘I know. It’s quite improper, but as it’s only informal, we don’t mind. There’s enough victuals to go round, I’m sure. Cook always thinks she’s feeding a small army.’ Lady Godley pulled the bell rope for Samson and asked him to show the young men upstairs to a bedroom and a basin of hot water each, so they could divest themselves of their coats and clean the superficial grime of the road from their persons.

The next two hours were enjoyably spent with their lordships sharing every triumph and near disaster along the way with a rapt and appreciative Lucie. ‘We rattled through Knightsbridge, Val just ahead. Then we were behind the mail coach and no chance of passing for a good mile.’