James Trenchard was sitting at a particularly fine Empire desk with ormolu mounts in his office in the Gray’s Inn Road. On the first floor, above a firm of solicitors and at the top of a sweeping staircase, it was a large paneled room with some serious pictures and impressive furniture. Without ever saying it, James had a sort of vision of himself as a gentleman businessman. Most of his contemporaries would have thought of this phrase as an oxymoron, but that was his view and he liked his surroundings to reflect it. There were drawings of Cubitt Town on display, carefully arranged to advantage on a round table in a corner of the room, and a beautiful portrait of Sophia hung above the fireplace. Painted during their stay in Brussels, it captured his daughter at her most beguiling; youthful and confident, staring straight at the onlooker, she was wearing a cream dress with her hair arranged in the style of that time. It was a good likeness, very good really, and a vivid reminder of the girl he knew. Probably for this reason, Anne refused to hang it in Eaton Square as it made her too sad, but James liked to look on his darling lost daughter; he liked to remember her in moments of rather uncharacteristic quiet solitude.

Today, however, he found himself contemplating the letter on his desk. It had been delivered when his secretary was with him, but he wanted to read it in private. Now, he turned it over and over in his plump hands, scrutinizing the florid script and the thick cream paper. He did not need to open it to know who sent it, as he had received an identical letter to tell him he was on the application list for the Athenaeum. This would be the answer, from Edward Magrath, the secretary of the club. He held his breath—he so desperately wanted to be accepted, he scarcely dared to read it. He knew the Athenaeum was not most people’s idea of a fashionable club. The food was notoriously bad, and in Society it was seen as a London stopping place for an assortment of clerics and academics. But it was still a place for gentlemen to meet, no one could deny it; with the difference that, under their slightly revolutionary rules the club also admitted men of eminence in science, literature, or the arts. They even had members in public service, without significant birth or educational requirements.

This policy made the membership far more diverse than the clubs of St. James’s. That was how William Cubitt had been accepted, and hadn’t James helped him and his brother to build half of fashionable London? Wasn’t that a public service? William had put him up for membership months ago, and when they’d heard nothing, James had pestered him to chase the nomination. He knew he wasn’t ideal member material, even given their more liberal rules—to be the son of a market stall trader was not the sort of lineage much admired by the bastions of the Establishment, but would God be so cruel as to deny him? He knew he would never have a chance of joining White’s or Boodle’s or Brooks’s, or any of the other really smart places, but didn’t he deserve this? Besides, he’d heard that the club needed cash, which he had, and plenty of it. Of course there was a risk he would be snubbed and sneered at, and Anne would never understand what such a place could give him that his home did not, but still, he needed that sense of belonging to the Great World, and if all he had to offer was money, then so be it. Let money be enough.

In fairness to him, there was a part of James, if a small part admittedly, that knew his ambitions were nonsense. That the grudging approval of fools and dandies would add nothing of real value to his life, and yet… he could not control his secret passion for acceptance. It was the engine that drove him, and he must travel as far and as fast as he could.

The door opened and his secretary came in. “Mr. Pope is outside, sir. He would like the honor of an interview.”

“Would he? Then bring him in.”

“I hope I don’t disturb you, Mr. Trenchard,” said Charles, walking briskly round the door, “but your clerk said you were in, and I have some news.” His smile was as warm and his manner as charming as ever.

“Of course.” James nodded, putting the letter down on his desk. He stood to shake the young man’s hand, wondering at the pleasure it gave him just to look upon his grandson. “Won’t you sit down?”

“I won’t, if you don’t mind. I’m too excited.”

“Oh?”

“Lady Brockenhurst has been kind enough to write and tell me how much she and her husband wish to invest. And I believe I have all the money I need.” He was obviously near to bursting, but he restrained himself. He was a fine young fellow, no doubt about it.

“Nobody has all the money they need.” James smiled, but he was very torn. Seeing the chap so full of energy and enthusiasm, his dreams on the verge of coming true, he found it hard to be anything but pleased. Still, he couldn’t delude himself. The strangeness of the case—a great lady in high Society investing a fortune in the business interests of an obscure nobody—was bound to draw comment, and combined with the inexplicable attentions Lady Brockenhurst had showered on Charles in public the other night, it could not be long before someone put two and two together.

Charles hadn’t finished. “With your investment, sir, and hers, it means I have all I need to pay off the mortgage, fund the new looms, retool the factory, and generally improve our output. I can plan my visit to India, organize the supplies of raw cotton, appoint an agent out there, and then sit back and watch as our production moves to the forefront of the industry. Not that I will sit back, of course,” he added with a laugh.

“Of course not.” James smiled, too. Inwardly, he was cursing that he had not undertaken to fund the venture fully in the first place, thereby removing the need for the Countess to intervene. He could easily have done it, but he’d thought it would make things too smooth for Charles, that the boy ought to learn something about doing business in the modern world, but now he could have kicked himself. Then again, Lady Brockenhurst would have found some other way into Charles’s life. Once she knew who he was, nothing would have kept her away for long. Why oh why had Anne felt she had to tell her? But even as he asked himself this same question for the thousandth time, he understood they were on the path of no return. Their fall would not be long in coming now. “Well”—he chuckled pleasantly—“I confess I’m a little surprised. When I heard the other night that the Countess was taking an interest in your endeavors, I asked myself how likely that was, and I suppose I doubted that she would make good on her promise. But she has. I was wrong, and I am heartily glad I was wrong.”

Charles nodded eagerly. “I’m going to stock up on raw cotton as and when I can get it, until I have enough for a year’s production. That done, I’ll sail for India and put the last piece of the puzzle in place. Then I believe I shall be all set.”

“All set, indeed. And you still have no clue as to the reason for Lady Brockenhurst’s interest? She never said anything about why she wanted to help? It seems so odd.”

“I agree.” Charles shook his head in disbelief. “She likes me. She ‘approves’ of me, whatever that means. She asks me to her house. But she’s never explained how she came to hear of me in the first place.”

“Well, well. One mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“No. And I’ll find out the truth one day. She did say that I reminded her of someone she was once fond of. But that can’t be the real reason, can it?” He raised his eyebrows at the very idea.

“I shouldn’t have thought so. There must be more to it than that.” What a good liar I am, thought James. I did not suspect it of myself, but clearly I can look into a man’s eyes and lie to him as easily as I can write my own name. We learn about ourselves with every day that passes.

Absentmindedly, he picked up the letter from the desk and opened it. It was indeed from Edward Magrath. He skimmed the first couple of paragraphs to the last sentence and there it was: “And we take great pleasure in accepting you as a member of the Athenaeum.” He smiled, but rather wryly, as he wondered how long it would be before they came to him and asked for his resignation.

“Good news, sir?” Charles was watching him from his position in front of the chimneypiece.

“I’ve joined the Athenaeum,” he said, dropping the letter onto the desk.

What a bitter irony it was—just as he had finally transformed himself into an insider, of a sort at least, it was all about to come crashing down around him. Caroline Brockenhurst would never keep her word now. Or if she did, others would guess the truth. She must have told her husband for a start, for him to agree to the investment. In this he was quite wrong, as it happens. She had only to tell Lord Brockenhurst that she wished them to support young Pope and he was happy to let her lead the way, as he had always been in every undertaking. But James was right. If the news did get out it would be all around London in a day, and then Sophia would be branded a slut, and he, James Trenchard, would be the father of a strumpet. Anne’s pity for the Countess would be their undoing.

With the sword of Damocles hanging over his head, James Trenchard decided he might as well make the most of this moment, as it was sure not to last. So he invited Charles to luncheon at his new club, by way of celebration, and they headed out into the bright sunshine. As he sat by his grandson’s side in the carriage, Quirk at the reins, on the way to Pall Mall, James could not help thinking that this might have been one of the happiest days of his life. After all, here he was, about to enter the hallowed halls of what would certainly be the smartest club he would ever have a chance of belonging to, with Sophia’s son by his side. At that thought, he allowed himself a smile.

Walking into the grand hall with its splendid staircase dominating the space, its marble floors, its statues, its white and gilded columns, James’s heart beat a shade faster. The stateliness that had been so threatening before, when he had come as a guest of William Cubitt, suddenly seemed transformed into the welcome of an old friend.

“Excuse me, sir,” came the voice of an officious-looking man dressed entirely in black save for a white shirt. With his pale gray hair and sharp blue eyes, he reminded James of Robespierre. “May I help you, sir?”

“My name is Trenchard,” said James as he fumbled in his pocket for the letter. “James Trenchard.” He flapped the paper in the man’s face. His confidence seemed suddenly to have deserted him. “I am a new member here.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Trenchard.” The man smiled and bowed politely. “Welcome to the club. Will you be taking luncheon with us today?”

“Absolutely,” confirmed James, rubbing his hands together.

“With Mr. Cubitt, sir?”

“Mr. Cubitt? No.” James was confused. Why did they think William would be there?

The club servant was very important. He frowned slightly, to demonstrate a slight dismay. “It is customary for a new member’s first luncheon to be with the person who proposed him, sir.”

His superiority was becoming hard to take. “Is it a rule?” asked James, his smile hardening on his lips.

“It is not a rule, sir. Just a custom.”

James felt that old familiar knot of anger starting to form in his chest. In one way all he wanted was to be mistaken for a member of this society, but in another he wished that he could grind the lot of them to dust. “Then it is a custom we must set aside for today. I am here with my”—he paused and gave a quick cough—“with my guest, Mr. Pope.”

“Of course, sir. Would you like to go straight into the dining room, or would you like to sit in one of the drawing rooms first?”

James was regaining control. “I think we’ll eat straightaway. Thank you.” He smiled at Charles, back at the center of his own life.

They were escorted through the hall, past the staircase, and into the dining room beyond. With large sash windows overlooking the lush green of Waterloo Gardens, the room was airy and spacious, and by the time they had been shown to a table in the right-hand corner and asked if they would like anything to drink, James was beginning to feel quite mellow.

He ordered two glasses of champagne and laid the large white linen napkin across his lap. This really was delightful, a long-held dream come true, and as the waiter poured the wine James took in the rest of the room: the groups of men lunching together, the large vases of flowers, the paintings of racehorses hanging in a row along a side wall. Why must all gentlemen pretend to be interested in horses, he wondered vaguely, picking up his glass.

“Your good health, and the good health of your new venture.” He tried to clink Charles’s glass before he remembered he should not and drew his own back. Did Charles notice his mistake? If he did, he didn’t show it. Of course, thought James, my grandson is too much of a gentleman to care about such things. For a moment, he almost envied the younger man. “I am very proud of you,” he said, and it was true. His grandson was the man that James so wanted to be but felt, deep inside, he never would be. Cool, unflustered, relaxed in these surroundings, Charles might be a little unsure in the arcane chambers of Brockenhurst House, but not here, where many prominent men worked for their living. James wondered if he should just tell him the truth. Soon the news would be out and he would know it anyway. Wouldn’t it be better to tell him who he was, here and now, in this pleasant, peaceful atmosphere, and not let him pick it up as gossip at a party?

“It takes a certain type of man to get this sort of venture off the ground as quickly as you have: a chap who is focused and determined, who works hard, with a keen sense of reality. I can see a lot of myself in you.”

“High praise, Mr. Trenchard,” replied Charles with a laugh, bringing James back to the present with something of a bump. Of course he couldn’t tell the boy now before the secret was out. Maybe no one would guess. Maybe Lady Brockenhurst would go mad. Or die. Maybe there would be another war with France. Anything could happen.

“I mean it. Very well done,” James added hastily before his emotions got the better of him. “And in business terms,” he continued as brusquely as he could, pulling out some papers from the inside pocket of his coat, “I think the profits, despite the initial outlay, could be immense. Nor do I suppose you’ll have too long to wait. People need cotton, it’s a fact.” He smoothed down the papers. “And if you study this column closely…”

“Excuse me, sir.” James looked up. Standing in front of him was the same man who’d welcomed them into the club. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Trenchard, but business papers are not allowed in any part of the building. And that is a rule. I am afraid,” he added, in case his rudeness had been excessive.

“Of course.” James’s ears went puce. Was he not to be allowed one moment of dignity in front of his grandson, or must his humiliation be total?

“That was my fault,” said Charles. “I asked Mr. Trenchard to show me. I am not a member, so I hope I may be forgiven my ignorance.”

“Thank you, sir.” The club servant was gone. James watched the young man sitting opposite him. With a jolt, he realized this fellow would never know the insecurity that had bedeviled his grandfather’s life. He would not feel undermined by others’ ease with Society’s laws; he would never find himself at sea in a social gathering.

“They’re very officious, I must say,” said Charles. “They should be proud of any member who has some business papers to show.” Trenchard looked down at the table. Charles was defending him. Naturally, that must mean he felt sorry for his patron, but he also felt enough affection to want to spare his feelings. There was a good deal of comfort in that thought, and then the first course arrived and they both tucked in and the rest of the luncheon passed without incident. They ate salmon and partridge and apple snowballs, followed by a slice of cheddar and a cube of quince jelly. I’m eating luncheon with my own grandson, thought James, and his heart danced in his chest until he thought it might break open his waistcoat.

“I didn’t think that was bad, did you?” He finished the small glass of port they had ordered with the cheese. “Given the reputation the kitchens here enjoy.”

“I thought it was excellent, sir.” Charles’s face was serious. “But I’m afraid I must go. I shouldn’t have been away for as long as this.”

James pushed back his chair and stood. “Then we will walk out together.”

They ambled into the hall, only to be met by an extremely irate Oliver Trenchard. “Oliver? How did you know where I was?”

“They told me at your office. I’ve been here for twenty minutes.”

“Why didn’t you ask them to come and get me?”

“Because they told me the time you arrived, and I couldn’t believe you would take an hour and a half for luncheon. When did you become a member?” His petulance was embarrassing. What a poor specimen he made next to his secret nephew, thought James as he patiently waited for Oliver to regain control of his temper.

“I apologize if I’ve wasted your time,” he said. “Mr. Pope and I were celebrating some good news.”

“Mr. Pope?” Oliver’s head swung around. Wrath had clouded his vision, and he had failed to notice the young man standing nearby. “Mr. Pope? Why are you here?” Oliver could hardly contain himself.

“We were having luncheon together.” Charles was conciliatory and as polite as he knew how to be, but it had no effect.

“Why?”

“Mr. Pope has received some wonderful news,” announced James. “He’s managed to get all the investment he needs for his company. And I had just heard I’ve been accepted as a member of this club, and so we came here to celebrate.”

“More investment?” Oliver looked from one man to the other.

“Your father has been wonderfully kind and encouraging,” said Charles. But if this was meant to stem the tide of Oliver’s rage, it didn’t work.

“But you were already sure of my father’s money. That wasn’t what you were celebrating today.”

“No. Today I had the welcome news that another investor is willing to advance everything I need and more.”

Oliver stared at him. “You seem very adept at getting people to put their hands in their pockets, Mr. Pope. What does it take to inspire such enthusiasm? I suppose we only have to remember the Countess of Brockenhurst leading you around her drawing room like a prize heifer. If I had your gifts, Mr. Pope, I can see my troubles would be at an end.”

“That’s enough.” James was in an agony of guilt. The plain truth was he vastly preferred his bastard grandson to his legitimate son. He could only suppose that Oliver was jealous because he suspected his father’s preference, but if so, he was right. He spoke sharply. “If Lady Brockenhurst chooses to support Mr. Pope, it is no business of ours—”

“Lady Brockenhurst?” This time Oliver’s expression was simple astonishment. “So one minute Lady Brockenhurst is expressing a slight interest in your affairs, and the next she is giving you ‘all the investment you need’? Heavens, what a sea change.” His voice was dripping with venom.

James cursed himself. He’d let the cat out of the bag without meaning to in the slightest. Oh well. It was too late now. He could not unsay it.

“She believes in my business, yes,” corrected Charles. “She has faith in it and she is expecting a return.”

“It is a very good project,” confirmed James. “She has made a wise decision.”

“Really?” Oliver’s eyes narrowed.

There was a pause. Charles shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Thank you for luncheon, Mr. Trenchard,” he said eventually. “But now I must leave you, gentlemen.” He nodded briefly to Oliver and walked out of the club.

Oliver turned to face his father. “Will you please enlighten me as to the appeal of that man?” He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I simply don’t understand why my own father and now the Countess of Brockenhurst would give money to some pushy bumpkin from nowhere. What’s behind it? There is some element to this business you have left unsaid.”

“You’re quite wrong. He is talented, and his business is a good one.” Even as he spoke, James knew he had not answered the question. “And his late father, the Reverend Mr. Pope, was an old friend of mine—”

“So old I’ve never heard of him.”

“Have you not?” James smiled tightly. “Well, he was, and he asked me to look out for his son when Charles first came up to London and found employment in the cotton trade. Naturally, when I heard that his father had died, I felt the responsibility all the more, and I wanted to help him as much as I could.”

“Well, you have certainly managed it, haven’t you?” Oliver’s voice was bordering on the shrill. “You’ve helped ‘Charles’ a great deal.” His sneering tone was making James uncomfortable. “In fact, you’ve helped him rather more than you’ve helped your son. Here,” he said, shoving a bundle of papers at his father. “I came to give you these.” He did not trouble to wait until James had hold of them but withdrew his hand too soon, so they cascaded to the floor, surrounding James in a sea of paper.

“Mr. Trenchard.” James’s nemesis in black walked swiftly over. “Do let me help you.” Together they squatted, gathering up the sheets of numbers and figures, to the evident disapproval of two elderly members on their way out to the street.

James didn’t return to the office. He was too shaken by Oliver’s rudeness. But by the time he got back to Eaton Square, he had gone through the initial fury provoked by his son’s unacceptable behavior and come instead to a kind of sorrow. If only he’d managed everything differently, he thought. If they had never given up Sophia’s boy, wouldn’t any interest in his birth have faded long ago? Could he not have enjoyed a luncheon like today’s without fear of exposure, with all the pleasure of any grandparent seeing their descendants flourish? But would Charles have become the gentlemanly figure he was now if the Trenchards had brought him up? That thought gave him pause and even pain. Might the Popes have made a better job of it than the boy’s own grandparents could have managed?

“You look very serious.” Anne was sitting at her dressing table as he passed her open door.

“Do I?” He stopped in the passage. “I had lunch with Mr. Pope today. He sends you his regards.” If Anne was surprised, she made no comment. James could not see that Ellis was working in the room, behind her mistress. Before Anne could warn him, he continued. “It will not perhaps surprise you that Lady Brockenhurst has provided the last of the investment he needs to proceed with his business.”

Rather than answer him, Anne turned to the maid. “Thank you, Ellis. That will be all, but take the pink with you. See if you can get the mark out.”

James was going back over his own words in his head as the maid emerged from the room with a dress over her arm and walked toward the back stairs. Had he said anything to incriminate them? He didn’t think so. He entered Anne’s room and closed the door. “We should have some password for when the coast isn’t clear,” he said.

Anne nodded. “How sad to think we have so many secrets that we need one.” She stooped to pick up Agnes and began to play with her ears. “Tell me more about your luncheon.”

“He arrived at the office, full of the news. I took him to the Athenaeum.”

“Have you been accepted? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I only heard this morning. Anyway, she’s given him the rest of the money he needs.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” His tone made it quite clear that this was a serious moment for both of them.

“I see it will be hard to explain if it gets out.”

“It won’t need an explanation. Not by her, at any rate. People will guess the truth and she will confirm it.”

Anne frowned. She knew, more even than James, that Lady Brockenhurst was eager for the news to break, so that she and her husband might enjoy their grandson without subterfuge. She’d given her word not to tell the world, but she would not deny it if the world told her.

“I suppose there’s a chance they won’t make the link with Sophia.” James was clutching at straws.

Anne shook her head. “Your own attentions to the young man will provide that link. And there’s bound to be someone who remembers them together in Brussels. No. Once the news is out that he’s the son of Lord Bellasis, it won’t take long before they know who the mother was.” She stood, the dog still held in her arms. “I’ll speak to her. I’ll go now and speak to her myself.”

“What good will that do?”

“I don’t know. But it can’t do any harm. And since all this is my fault, it behooves me to try to avoid disaster.”

James did not comment on her admission of guilt, but his anger had passed. This was where they were. Even he could see there was no point in going over and over it. And he hadn’t considered how his interest in the young man might be used against him before this moment. “Should I send a message to Quirk not to unhitch the horses, if he hasn’t already?”

“I’ll walk. It’s no distance.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“No. And don’t worry. Nobody will challenge the virtue of a matron in her early sixties.” She put on her own bonnet, took up a shawl, and set off before he had time for further comment.

The short walk to Belgrave Square was too short a distance for Anne to change her mind, but now that she was actually on the pavement outside Brockenhurst House, she wondered what exactly she was going to ask. Anne was not a rash person as a rule; normally she thought things through, carefully weighing the positives and negatives. But there was something about Lady Brockenhurst that made her impulsive. The woman’s high-handedness was infuriating.

By the time she knocked on the door, Anne no longer cared how unusual her arrival might seem. She was vexed, and her vexation was well and truly justified. And if Lady Brockenhurst was not at home, she would find some bench to sit on and wait. She glanced across at the gardens in the middle of the square. Given her own passion for gardening, it annoyed her slightly that neither her husband nor Mr. Cubitt had thought to ask for her opinion when they were being laid out, but still, the gardens were well enough. Then the front door was opened by a footman who was plainly puzzled to see her on the step. He had not been told to expect anyone.

“Is her ladyship in the house?” asked Anne, walking straight into the hall.

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Mrs. James Trenchard.”

“Very well, Mrs. Trenchard.” The footman bowed and turned to walk up the stairs. “Please wait here. I’ll see if she’s at home.”

Anne smiled at his choice of words. What he meant was that he would see if Lady Brockenhurst was prepared to receive her. She sat down on one of the gilt sofas for a second, only to stand up again. She realized, to her surprise, that she was quite excited at the prospect of a showdown with the Countess. Her blood was up, especially after the brisk walk. She looked toward the broad staircase, her eyes on the closed double doors of the above. There was clearly a discussion going on behind them. She saw the handle move, and she immediately turned her back, pretending to study a portrait of one of Lord Brockenhurst’s ancestors by Lely. He looked rather smug in his high periwig, and a small King Charles spaniel was lying prone at his feet.

“Mrs. Trenchard?” asked the footman, appearing beside her. Anne turned, a small smile on her lips. “Will you come this way, please?”

Anne handed him her shawl and gloves and followed him up the stairs.

“Mrs. Trenchard.” The Countess’s voice sang out as soon as the door was opened. “I am afraid you have just missed tea. Would you bring some tea for Mrs. Trenchard, Simon?” The footman made a slight bow.

“No, please don’t bother,” said Anne. “I don’t want anything.” Again the man bowed and retreated. She started once more across the pink Savonnerie carpet. “You are very good to receive me, Lady Brockenhurst,” she continued, as breezy and as confident as she could be. “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time. I’m here—”

Caroline Brockenhurst did not need to be told that her unexpected visitor was in a fighting mood, so she cut her off before she could spell it out. “Mrs. Trenchard, do sit down.” She indicated a small damask-covered armchair. “Do you remember Lady Maria Grey from my little supper?”

Anne looked toward the window at the pretty blonde girl, dressed in pale green, who was standing there. She had thought they were alone. She felt a moment of fleeting gratitude toward the Countess for silencing her before she spilled their secrets.

The girl smiled. “I remember you from the party, but I don’t believe we were ever introduced.”

“No,” said Anne. “I don’t think we were.”

“I’m so pleased you felt you could look in,” said Lady Brockenhurst, sounding rather the opposite.

“I was passing the house,” replied Anne, perching opposite her. “And I wanted to talk to you about something, but it can wait.”

“I’ll go and leave you alone,” said Maria.

“No need.” Anne smiled. “It really doesn’t matter.” Actually, she felt uncomfortable. Now that she could not admonish the Countess for her foolish generosity toward Charles, there was no reason for her to be there. She wondered how soon she could leave without its seeming strange.

“Lady Maria was just telling me she had chanced on my young protégé, Charles Pope, the day before yesterday. He was crossing the square. I think he must have been coming away from this house. Do you remember him from my gathering?” She looked directly into Anne’s eyes as she spoke. What on earth was she playing at?

“Charles Pope? I think so. Yes.” Anne watched her hostess draw her closed fan through her hand and open and shut it twice. Was she waiting to see Anne’s reaction? Was she poking her feelings for sport? If so, Anne was determined to disappoint her. “He was very charming.”

“I agree,” enthused Maria, quite unaware of the game being played across her. “Charming and entertaining. We ended up walking together toward the London Library. I don’t think my maid approved. And when Mama heard, she certainly didn’t approve, but it was too late, by then.” She laughed merrily. “Who is he? How did you come across him?”

“I forget now.” Caroline must be a good card player, thought Anne. She gives nothing away. “But Lord Brockenhurst and I have taken an interest in him. We think him a coming man.”

Maria nodded eagerly. “He told me about his plans and the proposed voyage to India. Have you ever been to India, Mrs. Trenchard?” Anne shook her head as Maria burbled on. “I should love to go. All that color. All that chaos. My uncle tells me it is quite beautiful. But then, I’ve never traveled anywhere,” she declared wistfully. “Well, I’ve spent a lot of time in Ireland, we have an estate there, but that’s hardly abroad, is it?” She smiled at the others. Neither of them said anything. In the face of their lack of comment, the girl kept going. “I’d love to visit Italy, too. The truth is, I should so like to do the grand tour that the young men take, to see Michelangelo’s David and wander the corridors of the Uffizi. You must be fond of art, Lady Brockenhurst. Mama says you paint beautifully.”

“Do you?” Anne was surprised, and she spoke the words before considering how they would sound.

“Is it so amazing?” said Lady Brockenhurst.

“But you still haven’t explained why you first took an interest in Mr. Pope,” said Maria. Anne wondered if this young woman knew how much she was giving herself away.

“I cannot remember now who first introduced him to us,” said Caroline carefully, “but Lord Brockenhurst and I like to encourage young talent where we can. We have no living children, as you know, but we like to help the children of others.” Anne looked at her. There was probably some truth in this, she thought. Even if, in this case, her words concealed more than they explained.

“He did suggest I might like to visit his office,” ventured Maria.

“Did he? That was rather forward of him.” Lady Brockenhurst’s face was quite opaque. Something was going through her mind as she looked at this young woman. Was she hatching a plan, Anne wondered? But if so, what was it?

“Well.” Maria blushed slightly. “I may have been the one to make the suggestion, but he said nothing to discourage me.” Her head was cocked to one side as she lowered her gaze. Her long eyelashes fluttered a little and her cheeks glowed pink. She knew she was not behaving wisely. She was spoken for. Her mother had been quite clear that her future lay with John Bellasis. The land in Ireland that she had boasted of earlier was encumbered, and although her brother was doing the best he could with what their father had left, she’d been told in no uncertain terms that it was her job to keep their mother in her old age. She hesitated, on the brink of admitting what she really wanted, but if Lady Brockenhurst had taken an interest in Charles, and if she could be persuaded…

Anne looked at the Countess. Had she noticed the girl’s color and the way she kept fiddling with her fan? She was certainly quite bold. Anne rather liked her.

“Well.” Lady Brockenhurst paused. Maria Grey was engaged to her husband’s nephew, and obviously convention dictated that she should not be encouraging any such meeting. But Anne was right. Caroline Brockenhurst had her own agenda. Or at any rate, she did now. “If you’d like to go, I don’t see why not. I have already been to see him there, but we have more to discuss since my previous visit.”

Maria could hardly believe her ears. “Really?” This was extraordinary. John Bellasis’s aunt was suggesting a trip to see Mr. Pope in the City?

“I don’t think we should make a formal plan,” said Lady Brockenhurst smoothly. “Mr. Pope would only feel he had to make a special effort for you, my dear.” She glanced at Maria. “I think it might be easier if it were just a spur-of-the-moment thing.” They all knew what she meant. A spontaneous visit would be much easier to explain to Lady Templemore if it came to it.

“May I join you?” said Anne, her voice as innocent as a rose.

Caroline looked at her. How odd it was to have this shared secret, shared with a woman with whom she would have said she had nothing else in common. Still, it was a shared secret; at least it was until now. Anne was right that Caroline was tired of the deception. She would much rather have it out in the open. Society would find it amusing, talk of what a rogue Edmund had been as they laughed over their newspapers, and there would be no further price to pay. But as she grew to love Charles, she did have some slight conscience about the posthumous ruin of the slut who had borne him, even a trace of pity for her mother. “Of course,” she said. “If you’d like to.”

Anne sat quite still. She was going to call on her grandson, to have another opportunity to speak to him. When she had met him at the party, she had been bowled over by joy, but James’s rage had meant that she did not dare engage him in anything like a conversation. Now they could get to know him, as James’s involvement in his business would be a perfectly adequate explanation for the acquaintance. Of course, when the truth was out, their connection was bound to come under the heaviest scrutiny, but here was a chance to see him and talk to him once more, at least, before the storm broke. She could not resist. “I’d like to very much,” she heard herself say. “Perhaps we can do some shopping while we’re there, and make the day into a proper outing.” And so the matter was settled. Anne felt herself warmed by the prospect as she walked home in the chill of the early evening. Even if it was another secret she would have to keep from her husband.

That evening, the atmosphere around the dinner table in the Trenchard household was fractious. James was tired and thoughtful, and Oliver was equally low. Today should have been a triumph, father and son lunching together at James’s new club. Instead his father had chosen to take Charles Pope, a fellow from nowhere who was consuming James’s attention as well as his money. Pope seemed to be quite the man of the moment, garnering the support of Lady Brockenhurst, invited to intimate gatherings at Brockenhurst House—it was enough to make anyone jealous. And Oliver was very jealous indeed.

Susan was not so much depressed as anxious. She hadn’t heard a word from John Bellasis since their assignation in Isleworth. She’d expected a letter at least. He had spoken to Speer once in the street, her maid had informed her, under the pretext that he was keen to arrange another rendezvous, yet no invitation or suggestion had been forthcoming. She’d forced Speer to accompany her to Albany, and they had spent the best part of an afternoon strolling up and down Piccadilly like a pair of streetwalkers, all in the hope of bumping into him, but she had not been lucky. Her cheeks grew hot at the memory. She could not taste the food she chewed as she wondered if she’d made a mistake, tumbling into bed so readily with him. Had she given in too easily? She frowned. The problem was that she actually liked John Bellasis. He was handsome and dashing, not to mention the fact that he was due to inherit a great name and a substantial fortune. All in all, he was the perfect man with whom to effect her escape from the dreary family in which she found herself trapped. She looked across at her husband, picking at his food. In comparison to Oliver, John had been a generous, vigorous lover. Susan gave an involuntary sigh.

“Are you all right, my dear?” inquired Anne.

“Yes, Mother,” replied Susan. “Of course.”

“You seem rather distant.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been quite well since my day in Isleworth. I must have picked something up from one of the people I met there.” She shivered to make her words seem more authentic.

“I’m sorry,” replied Anne, scrutinizing her daughter-in-law. There was something different about her, something new in her demeanor, but Anne could not quite pinpoint what it was.

“How did you get on with Lady Brockenhurst?” asked James, flicking his crayfish around the plate. He wasn’t hungry either.

Anne glanced at the glacial faces of Billy and Morris who were standing on either side of the fireplace. “Very well, thank you.”

“And she didn’t mind you arriving unannounced?” he asked.

“You went to see Lady Brockenhurst?” Susan was clearly put out that she had missed such an opportunity. Anne nodded. “Was her nephew there, by any chance?”

“Mr. Bellasis?” Anne frowned. “No.” What an odd question for Susan to ask. “He wasn’t there, but his fiancée was.”

“His fiancée? Really?” Susan’s tone hardened slightly.

“Lady Maria Grey,” said Anne. “She’s a pretty little thing. I liked her.”

“She was at the supper,” said Oliver, as he nodded to Billy for some more soup. “She didn’t seem very remarkable to me.”

“And did you speak to the Countess?” asked James.

“We spoke,” replied Anne, smiling at her husband’s gaucheness. Why was he asking her these questions in front of the servants, or indeed Susan and Oliver?

The truth was that his eagerness had made him forget for the moment the need for discretion. Anne’s look brought him back into line. “Good,” he said. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Anne smiled.

Ellis was crouched on the floor by Anne’s feet with a buttonhook in her right hand, unfastening the leather boots. She had heard from the garrulous Billy that her mistress had been to see Lady Brockenhurst, and she was intrigued.

“Did you have a pleasant afternoon, my lady?”

Ellis wasn’t really sure what information Mr. Bellasis had paid her to gather or what Mrs. Trenchard knew about this man, Charles Pope. However, what she did know was that there was some secret between the master and his wife that they did not want the world to share. Ellis’s banishment earlier that afternoon had told her as much. And as a result of their being alone to discuss it, Mrs. Trenchard had left the house with no warning. Now Ellis knew where she’d gone.

“I did,” replied Anne as she slipped her right foot out of its casing. “Thank you,” she added, wriggling her toes inside the silk stocking. “Do you know, they don’t seem to be easing at all.”

Clearly Anne was not being as free with information as Ellis had hoped. She tried again. “I’m not sure they were made for long walks, my lady.”

“I didn’t go far,” replied Anne, taking off her earrings and looking at herself in the glass. “Only to Belgrave Square.” She noticed Agnes sitting by her chair and scooped her up into her arms.

“Oh?” Ellis paused between buttons, hook in hand.

“Yes,” said Anne. She wasn’t so much talking to Ellis as thinking out loud. In truth, she was excited about the planned visit to Charles’s office. Obviously, she couldn’t talk about it to James, but she wanted to discuss it with someone. “What do you know about Bishopsgate?”

“Bishopsgate, ma’am?” Ellis looked up. “Why ever would you want to go to Bishopsgate?” She slipped off the second boot.

“No reason.” Anne had woken up before she started giving all sorts of information to the curious maid. “I’m just calling on someone who has an office there. But I haven’t been in years. I wondered if there was anywhere in particular that I should visit while I’m in the area.”

“There might be some warehouses where you could buy material cheap,” said Ellis. “Let me ask around. When is this trip?”

“I’m not sure. In a day or two.” Anne didn’t want to answer any more questions. She was conscious she’d said enough as it was. “Tomorrow, can we take out the old bombazine mourning dress? I want to see if it can be rescued or if I should order another. One should always have wearable mourning in the wardrobe.” Ellis nodded. She knew enough to be fully aware that the conversation about Bishopsgate was over.

John Bellasis rewarded Ellis very well for her information. It was not often a maid received a sovereign for something heard while unbuttoning her mistress’s shoes. But as he listened to how her employers had had a discussion in private that led to Mrs. Trenchard visiting Lady Brockenhurst and finally to the plan of a trip to Bishopsgate, John almost laughed. He was getting somewhere. He knew well enough who worked in Bishopsgate; at least, who worked there and held the interest of both Lady Brockenhurst and the Trenchards. His own father’s account of his visit to Brockenhurst House had made John eager to learn everything he could about young Mr. Charles Pope. “But she never mentioned Mr. Pope by name?”

“Not that I recall, sir. Not this time.”

“Even so, there must be something going on between Pope and the Countess,” he said as he stood, drinking the last of a small tot of gin outside the Horse and Groom. “Besides her investment, I mean.”

“Do you think so, sir? I’d find that very hard to believe,” said Ellis from under her shawl, which she had carefully draped to keep her face in shadow. She’d put it on at the last minute in case she was seen talking to Mr. Bellasis. She had her own reputation to think about.

“Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t pretend to know quite what is going on between them, but something is.” He nodded fiercely, as if the point were proven. “And I can guarantee it’ll be something that will surprise us all.”

“If you say so, sir.” Ellis sucked her teeth and folded her arms. She liked a good story, but she wasn’t sure she’d like this one.

“Mark my words,” said John. “He’s an ambitious upstart, and in some way he’s taking advantage of her.”

“How ‘taking advantage,’ sir?”

“That’s what we have to find out,” John stated firmly. “And when we do know, I am pretty sure she will pay a fortune to keep it secret.”

Ellis’s mouth hung open. “A fortune?”

“And you can help me get it.”

The following afternoon, Ellis stood outside the basement entrance of Brockenhurst House. She was nervous and she didn’t mind admitting it. Mr. Bellasis had suggested she contact Lady Brockenhurst’s maid to see what she could learn about her mistress’s activities, and quite why she was entertaining a handsome young man like Charles Pope in her private sitting room, with the doors closed, in the afternoon. Mr. Bellasis had suggested she might open proceedings by asking if Mrs. Trenchard had left her fan behind after the supper. Not that she had, of course. In fact, Ellis had the fan in her pocket in case it proved necessary to “find” it.

She straightened her shawl and adjusted her bonnet, steeling herself to knock on the door. “Yes?” A young hall boy stood there in the dark green Brockenhurst livery.

“My name is Miss Ellis,” she began. “I am lady’s maid to Mrs. James Trenchard.”

“Who?” the boy asked.

Ellis bit the side of her mouth in irritation. Had she been working for a duchess, she would not still be standing on the threshold.

“Mrs. James Trenchard,” she persisted. “She came to her ladyship’s supper the other day and she fears she may have left her fan.”

“You’d better speak to Mr. Jenkins.”

The basement of Brockenhurst House was bristling with activity. The rooms and passages were wider than they were in Eaton Square, so there was more space and natural light. It was impressive, and Ellis felt a mild pang of envy as she sat down on a hard wooden chair outside the downstairs pantry.

No one paid her much attention. They all had their jobs to do. Through the open door opposite her, she could see three footmen polishing the plate. In front of them on a table covered with a cloth of soft gray felt was an impressive collection of silver. Entrée dishes, serving dishes, salvers, sauceboats, soup tureens, teapots, kettles, and at least two dozen dining plates were heaped in piles as the men worked their way through them. It was not a job Ellis envied. You had to dip your fingers in bowls of rouge—a soft red powder mixed with ammonia—and rub the silver until it shone or your fingers blistered, or both. Yet they seemed to be enjoying the task, perhaps because it gave them the chance to talk.

“If you wait here,” confirmed the hall boy, “I’ll fetch Mr. Jenkins.”

Ellis nodded. Through an internal window to her right, she could see the cook hard at work in the kitchen. Bent over a pastry board and beneath a large collection of copper pans hanging from the walls or stacked up on the shelves, she was kneading dough. The cook picked it up and hurled it down, clapping her hands together as she did so in a cloud of flour. The dust hung in the air around her, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight that shone through the window.

“Miss Ellis?”

Ellis jumped. She had been so hypnotized by the cook, she’d failed to hear Mr. Jenkins’s soft approach.

“Mr. Jenkins, sir.” She got to her feet.

“I gather you are looking for something?”

“Yes, sir, my mistress’s fan. She thinks she may have left it here after the Countess’s reception the other night. I was wondering if it might have been muddled with one of her ladyship’s. If I might just talk to her maid—”

“I’m afraid nobody’s found a fan of any description. I’m sorry.” Jenkins turned toward the back door, ready to usher her out.

“Oh…” For a moment, Ellis was flummoxed. She needed to have a word with Lady Brockenhurst’s maid or the visit would have been pointless. “Mrs. Trenchard did also ask if I might talk to her ladyship’s maid about her hair.”

“Her hair?” Both of Jenkins’s wide gray eyebrows rose slowly.

“Yes, sir. She was very impressed with her ladyship’s hair at the party, and she was wondering if I might ask how to achieve such an effect.” She smiled, as she thought, winningly.

Jenkins frowned. It was not the first time he’d heard this kind of request. Maids shared tips and fashions all the time. “Very well, I’ll see if Miss Dawson is busy,” he replied. “Would you kindly wait here? She may be with her ladyship, in which case there’d be nothing I could do.”

Ten minutes later, the maid Dawson appeared. Privately she thought the request a little impertinent, but she was flattered, too, as she prided herself on her hairdressing skills. She’d spend hours combing out the false hair for her mistress, always keeping an eye in case the color had faded to make sure of a perfect match, and secretly she was delighted someone else had noticed. Ellis soon found herself being escorted up the back stairs and along passages until they went through a baize-covered door near the entrance to Lady Brockenhurst’s private apartment.

On the second floor of the building and with large sash windows affording a generous view of the gardens and the square, Lady Brockenhurst’s rooms were airy and comfortable. Not only did she have a huge bedroom, with a four-poster bed, some pretty gilt chairs and a table, she also had a second private sitting room and, of course, her own dressing room.

“Do you like the watercolors?” said Dawson, glancing back at Ellis as she led her through the bedroom. “Most of them were painted by her ladyship. This is their house.” She indicated one picture with a short finger. “Lymington Park. It’s been in the family since 1600.”

“Think of that. Doesn’t look old enough.” Ellis could not have cared less about the house or the paintings.

“It’s been rebuilt twice. The estate is more than ten thousand acres.” Dawson clearly took an illogical pride in her employers’ possessions, as if somehow they reflected glory onto herself. Which, in Dawson’s mind, they did.

“Very impressive, I’m sure,” said Ellis. “It must be wonderful to work for such a noble family.” She paused. “If only I’d been so lucky.”

Almost as soon as she’d walked into the dressing room, Ellis knew that her task would be difficult, if it was achievable at all. Dawson was one of the old-fashioned sort who make their employer’s life their own. Sturdy, with a broad face and a slow gait, she had a friendly manner, but she was obviously not a gossip, at least not beyond her confidants in the servants’ hall, nor would she be disloyal. She’d been in service there for too long, her eyes already on the small salary she would receive in her dotage. She had nothing to gain from being indiscreet with an outsider.

“I used to work for the Dowager,” she said.

“Two generations of Countesses, how fortunate is that?” Ellis gushed, trying to be charming. “And you must have traveled a lot, far more than I, and seen so many interesting things.”

Dawson nodded. “I can’t complain. I’ve had a good life with this family.” Ellis looked at her. Dawson was that rare beast, the happy servant. She didn’t want revenge for a thousand slights. She didn’t think the gods had turned away from her by leaving her in servitude. She was content. It was a hard concept for Ellis to grasp. It wasn’t exactly that she disliked Mrs. Trenchard. She simply didn’t consider her as belonging to the same race as Ellis. Despite their many years together, the injustice implicit in their relative positions meant that Ellis would have little conscience about betraying her employer. Whatever money she might have made from Anne, she’d earned. Earned with years of unremitting toil and lying and groveling and being forced to pretend that she was glad to be in service, when all the time she wished her employers at the bottom of the sea. She could lie to Anne’s face without blanching. She would steal from her if she thought she could do so without getting caught. She had hoped to find something similar in the bosom of Lady Brockenhurst’s maid, that the prospect of doing harm to the Countess would be snapped up by a grateful fellow captive. But faced with Dawson’s loyalty, Ellis was hard put to decide what to do.

“No wonder you know so much about hairdressing,” said Ellis with a bright smile. “You are the sort of person I can really learn from, even at my age.” She laughed as she spoke and Dawson joined in. “My mistress really was so terribly taken by the Countess’s hair.” Ellis knew she was a convincing liar. She had trained in a hard school.

“Was she really?” Dawson touched her chest, tickled in spite of herself.

“Oh yes,” continued Ellis. “Tell me. Do you do those very fine little ringlets in front of the ears?”

“That’s a bit of a secret.” Dawson opened the drawer of the dressing table to reveal a large collection of hair irons and curling papers. “I found this in Paris a long time ago and I’ve used it ever since.” She held up a very narrow, delicate-looking iron. “I heat it on the fire here.”

“How?” Ellis’s voice was all reverent wonder.

“I have this contraption that fixes into the grate.” She brought out a brass heating tray.

“What will they think of next?” said Ellis, wondering how long it would be before she had some tidbit worth taking home.

“It’s wonderful when you think how we used to manage thirty years ago. Although,” Dawson added, “perhaps the most important thing is a good supply of hair. I favor Madame Gabriel just off Bond Street. She has good sources. She says most of her hair comes from nuns rather than poor girls, and I feel that makes for better quality. The hair is thicker and has more of a shine to it.”

As Dawson carried on explaining the technique of heating the hair without destroying it, and that the scented papers were also important to prevent scalding accidents, Ellis allowed her eyes to scan the room. On the dressing table between the tall windows there was a small enamel portrait of an officer, dressed in a uniform dating back twenty years at least.

“Who’s that?” she said.

Dawson followed her eyes. “That’s poor Lord Bellasis, her ladyship’s son. He died at Waterloo. That was a terrible thing in this house. Her ladyship never recovered. Not really. He was her only child, you see.”

“How tragic.” Ellis studied the picture more closely. Dawson’s answer had given her the excuse to go over and look at it properly.

“It’s a good one. It was painted by Henry Bone.” Again, Dawson’s pride in the family possessions was asserting itself.

Ellis narrowed her eyes. The face appeared curiously familiar. There was something about the dark curls and those blue eyes that reminded her of someone who used to visit their house a long time ago. Was it in Brussels? That would make sense if he died at Waterloo… then she remembered. He was a friend of Miss Sophia’s. She could recall how handsome he was. How strange to see his picture sitting on Lady Brockenhurst’s dressing table. But she said nothing. Ellis never released information unless she was obliged to.

“Did her ladyship enjoy her party the other day?” asked Ellis.

“Oh, I think so.” Dawson nodded.

“My mistress did. Very much. She said she met so many nice people.”

“Not everyone gets into Brockenhurst House,” said Dawson happily, forgetting for the moment that she herself would never be a guest there.

“There was one young man who struck her most favorably. What was his name now? Was it Mr. Pope?” Ellis waited.

“Mr. Pope? Oh yes,” confirmed Dawson. “A very nice young gentleman. He’s a great favorite of her ladyship’s. A recent favorite, but he comes here often now.”

“Does he, indeed?” Ellis smiled.

Dawson looked puzzled. What on earth was this woman suggesting? She picked up the curling equipment and started packing it away. “Yes,” she said firmly. “My mistress and Lord Brockenhurst have taken an interest in his business. They like to encourage young people. They are very generous that way.” This last wasn’t really true—or not until this moment—but Dawson was not going to allow this stranger to infer that anything untoward was going on. She can find out her own hairdressing tips if that’s the way she wants to carry on, she thought as she closed the drawer with a bang.

“How admirable.” Ellis knew she had put a foot wrong and was anxious to remedy the situation. “I never heard of that. A great lady taking an interest in a promising young man’s business. Mrs. Trenchard manages things well enough, but I don’t believe she could be called a woman of business, or anything like.”

“It may be unusual but it’s quite true.” Dawson was calmer now. Ellis had succeeded in soothing her indignation. “She’s going into the City in a day or two to pay a call on him. At his office. She won’t go through with the investment without being quite clear about what she is investing in. I know that for definite.”

“She’s actually giving him money? He must be charming.” Ellis could not contain herself, and as a result Dawson’s face began to cloud again.

“I don’t know what that has to do with it. Her ladyship has a lot of interests.” For a moment she had been going to mention that she was taking Lady Maria, to show there was nothing untoward, but then she asked herself why was she plying this stranger with family information. Her face tightened. “And that is all there is to be said on the matter. Now, I think it’s time for you to leave, Miss Ellis. I am very busy and I’m sure you are, too. Good day to you.” She stood. “I assume you can find your own way to the back stairs?”

“Of course.” Ellis tried to take the other woman’s hand. “How very kind and generous you have been. Thank you.”

But this time she was less successful in gaining lost ground. “Never mind all that,” said Dawson, pulling away. “I must get on.”

Out in the passage, Ellis knew it would be hard to regain entry to Brockenhurst House, but she wasn’t too worried. Miss Dawson was never going to give away any secrets if she could help it. That much was clear. Besides, Ellis had some real information to take back to Mr. Bellasis, and he should pay well for it. The question was, what would he do next?