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‘Augusta! I thought that term was considered very vulgar and you should more properly call such a man friend a cavalier servente.’

Lady Godley’s laugh pealed out. ‘Lud! Bella. I was told exactly that by Lord Byron himself when I met him at the Oxfords. Regardless of what people say, I find that rascally lord a very amusing and appealing boy. Do you know, he rapped my knuckles with my own fan! Quel coquin.’

‘Lucie’s been reading Childe Harold and is in love with the noble poet from his words and portrait alone.’

‘Like most of the women of London, I’m afraid. And some of the men too, no doubt,’ Lady Godley said drily.

Sybella was slightly startled. ‘What do you mean, Augusta?’

‘Oh, just that any handsome and wayward young man who so advertises his amours attracts rumours. There are certain poems, too, which give me pause.’ Lady Godley continued to drink her coffee, seemingly unperturbed.

‘Lucie, of course, thinks him the most romantic of beings despite never really seeing him in the flesh. She did catch sight of him at a big party given by Lady Jersey but he was surrounded by admirers and she glimpsed no more than his dark curls and eyebrows.’

‘Lord Lynwood has something of his looks, if not his poetic genius or histrionic manner. Could that be part of his attraction for her?’ Lady Godley asked ingenuously.

Sybella gave her a piercing look. ‘Freddie Lynwood is a completely different kind of man. She certainly likes him a great deal, ’tis true. Anyway, as you know full well, Augusta, Lucie’s engaged to marry Lord Ravenell!’

‘As you know full well, my dear Bella, betrothals can be broken.’ With that provocative riposte, she left the breakfast table in good cheer.

For once, Sybella was ready in time when she heard the summons of the big brass knocker on Lady Godley’s front door. The friendly timbre of Samson’s voice meant someone of whom he approved had been allowed into the sacred portals of his domain. Not only had she dressed early, but with more care than usual, in her best afternoon pelisse, with grey silk frogging across the close-fitting bodice of silk velvet. The colour, a beautiful lilac-blue shade called Billet-doux, if she remembered correctly, was the rage two seasons before when the garment was specially made for a trip to London, cancelled at the last minute when James caught the measles.

Sybella was gratified that it still fitted so well. On her head, she wore a chapeau de gaze, which Alice had pleasingly trimmed for her with the offcuts from the frogging and silk velvet of the pelisse. Not one to spend long in front of the looking-glass, Sybella hoped she looked as splendid as she felt. What had happened to her? There was a youthful spring in her step. She welcomed back a spirit she feared had long gone; the thrilling sense of her own power to attract. She picked up her lilac kid gloves and descended the stairs, feeling fully alive once more, and open to life.

Samson had shown Mr Brabazon into the library. Sybella entered quietly and found her guest with his back to her, studying the shelves of Lady Godley’s collection of Greek and Latin literature. He had picked out a leather-bound volume and was reading, apparently deep in thought. For some reason, Sybella found herself reluctant to break into his reverie. She watched him quietly, his height and broad shoulders contrasted with the elegance of his hand as he turned the page. He had removed his gloves and she noticed for the first time the split skin on the knuckles of his right hand. She should have been shocked, she knew, at the sight of a gentleman brutally knocking down another in front of her eyes but instead it had aroused a peculiar excitement at the evidence of his physical power and authority, and an unexpected depth of emotion exercised on her behalf.

Sybella walked quietly towards Mr Brabazon and he turned. The expression on his face startled her. Usually so guarded and stern, the lines around his mouth had softened; his eyes, no longer hard and cold, were now filled with amusement and a gleam of something that made her heart skip a beat. He stood with the book still open in his hand as he gazed at her with an intensity that made her feel he was acquainted with something deeper in herself.

‘Mr Brabazon.’ She came forward with her hand extended.

‘Mrs Lovatt,’ he said softly as he bowed and kissed her fingers. They were silent for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes as if seeing for the first time. Then he spoke. ‘Before we go, I’ve got something to show you.’ He held out the book. ‘I’ve been reading about bees in The Georgics, look what Virgil wrote for you.’ He began to translate pretty fluently from the Latin:

Of air-born honey, gift of Heaven, I now take up the tale.

He read on quickly, then started translating for her again.

First, find your bees a settled sure abode, where neither winds can enter,

Nor sheep and butting kids tread.

He read on and, glancing up, caught her eyes looking at him intently. ‘You have made this paradise for your bees already. Virgil could be describing the orchard at the Manor.’ He laughed. ‘But here, the final piece for you and your bees, Mrs Lovatt.’ He translated again:

When now the golden sun has put Winter to headlong flight beneath the world.

And opened the doors of Heaven with summer ray,

Forthwith the bees roam the glades and forest o’er,

Rifle the painted flowers, or sip the streams,

Light-hovering on the surface…

Some say that unto bees a share is given

Of the Divine Intelligence.

‘Oh! That captures so exactly my feeling for them. Their ancient essential quality.’ Sybella’s hands had fluttered to her face, so overcome was she by the connection. ‘I never knew this poem. Another voice who understands bees, but from the Ancient World. It makes me want to go home to see them again.’

‘And play music to them?’ he said quietly.