If some doubts assailed her as she lay alone in her four-poster nights, they were reasoned away. She was not young, not rich, not very pretty, and not married. She was and would likely always be a spinster. So be it. She would make do with it. The hopes that had come to London with her of meeting and eventually marrying some eligible gentleman had been slow in dying, but after four years they had died at last, or so she thought. The morning after her birthday, she bound back her dark curls and set, for the first time In her life, a cap upon them. It was a pretty cap with blue ribbons to match her eyes, but it was a cap nevertheless-an announcement to society that she had consigned herself to the anteroom of life forever as a spinster.

“Oh Prue,” her mother wailed when she saw what her daughter had done, “you are too young! Clarence, tell her this is nonsense.”

He was much inclined to, as she had not consulted him on the matter, but his innate selfishness held sway. He liked very much to have an authoress sharing his house. Then, too, with his wife gone, the women made the place more comfortable. For one thing, there was always someone there to paint or to watch him paint, to ask him if anything interesting had happened when he returned from a walk, or to admire his new jackets and move the buttons if they had to be moved, and his sister, Wilma, was an excellent housekeeper, even if she did spend too much money on food. “No such a thing,” he answered jovially. “Prudence knows what she is about. She is not called Prudence for nothing. She is better off single. Why should she marry some stupid fellow to have to wait on hand and foot?” Why indeed, Prudence silently agreed. I have you.

“And he would think to take charge of her earnings, too. No indeed, she is wise to set on her caps. Dashed pretty it looks, too, my dear. Dashed pretty. I have Miss Sedgemire coming in for a sitting today, Prue, at eleven o’clock. Will you bring your work to the studio and stay with us? She is single, you know, and on the catch for a husband, poor soul. She would like to move her luggage in here well enough. Has been dropping hints these two months that she would welcome an offer. I never pretend to understand what she is up to. It is the best way with her sort. But I shall enjoy to paint her. She has nice hands. I’ll have her fold them like Mona Lisa.”

“But she is only twenty-four,” Mrs. Mallow insisted.

“Nonsense. Thirty if she’s a day. She colours her hair. It is grey at the roots.”

“I mean Prudence,”

“Oh Prudence, yes, she is twenty-four. Getting right on. There is nothing so vulgar as an older lady chasing after the men, making laughing stocks of themselves. She is wise to put on her caps and put herself out of it all. Very prudent of her.” He looked about him for some appreciation of his wit. Wilma and Prudence smiled dutifully, and attacked their poached eggs.

Chapter 2

The only difference putting on her cap made to Miss Mallow was that she thought rather more than she used to about marriage. Her noble resolve to forego nabbing a husband did not inhibit her daydreaming about it, but they became wild, improbable dreams now, untethered to reality. She let her vivid imagination soar, and was pursued in her mind by princes and nabobs, by foreign generals and handsome wastrels, by scholars and sportsmen. One particularly dreary day, with rain sliding down the windows of the studio and the smell of Clarence’s paints in her nostrils, she even imagined she was the object of Lord Dammler’s devotion. He combined the attributes of many of her dream lovers in one person. He was a lord-a marquis to be precise-he was an intellectual and a poet, he was a rake, a sportsman, and the handsomest man in England.

He had risen to prominence a year before with the publication of his Cantos from Abroad. Upon coming into his title and dignities two and a half years before that, his first act had not been to take over the reins of Longbourne Abbey, his late uncle’s estate, or take his seat in the house, or even take a wife, but to take the first ship leaving England’s shore and spend the next three years circling the globe. He had travelled those parts of the world known to few westerners-Greece, Turkey, Egypt, across vast Russia into China, from China by schooner to the Pacific Isles. He had returned via the Americas, North and South according to his poems, and finally across the Atlantic home to England. He had left an unknown young nobleman, and returned a legend. His first set of poems preceded him by six months in the hands of a friend, and by the time he landed the ton was on tiptoe to meet him.

His Cantos from Abroad were tales in verse loosely based on his voyage. The hero was named Andrew Marvelman, which was soon discovered to bear a strong resemblance to his own-Allan Merriman. The circumstances too were remarkably similar-a young gentleman with wealth and duties thrust suddenly on to his shoulders. A mystery and point of deep interest was the reason for his precipitous flight at the very point in his career when it was most probable he would remain at home. The reason was widely held-though not explicitly stated-to involve a liaison with a lady. Certainly ladies and females of all sorts and degrees featured prominently throughout the cantos, as did villains, intrigues and dangers of all kinds. There were harem girls who were in turn replaced by czarinas and Indian princesses as he jaunted recklessly from country to country, being shipwrecked, shot at, mauled by tigers, Musselmen, Cossacks and Indian chiefs. But a bigger and more dangerous event yet awaited Dammler when he was presented to panting Society. It was said by one wit that every man in England was jealous of him, and every woman in love with him. Dammler modestly retorted that the case had been overstated; only those ladies and gentlemen who could read had fallen into a passion of one sort or another over him.

His exquisite person, allied to his high rank and wealth, would have been enough to set him up as a marital prize, even without the glamour of his travel and poems, but it was the poetry and the plethora of rumours preceding his landing that lent him that certain extra charm-the magic that surrounded his name. On that first evening when his name was announced and he stepped into Princess Lieven’s ball to shake hands with his hostess, there hadn’t been a sound in the room. Every eye was turned on him; even breath was suspended at the climax of the moment. There was total silence. “I never heard the likes of it since Beau Brummell's famous question to Alvanley about the Prince Regent-’Who’s your fat friend?’,” the Princess Lieven stated later.

Dammler was tall and supple, his body lean from the rigours of travel, his shoulders wide and straight. His amorous and aggressive exploits left a residue of weariness on his face, and this, combined with the tan he had picked up, saved him from being too handsome. One shock the ton had not been prepared for was the black eye patch over his left eye, but this was in no way a distraction from his charms. Quite the contrary, it was the coup de grace. His coats, his interesting drawl, his habit of hunching his shoulders and throwing up his hands could be and were studiously followed by his imitators, but they none of them were ready to go to the laughable length of either sticking a patch on a good eye, or removing one and giving themselves just cause to wear the patch. In this he was unique. Before he was in the room a minute the Princess had asked the reason for the patch.

“I was hit by a Cherokee’s arrow as I fled downstream in my canoe, ma’am,” he answered smiling. “I lost the maiden I was trying to rescue, unfortunately, but I saved the eye. My patch can come off in a few months.”

“Don’t be in a hurry,” she answered promptly. “Let us get used to one such dangerous eye before we are challenged with two.”

“You are too kind, but only think, Princess, if I had the use of both, I could see you twice as well.” He ran an admiring glance over the gaunt lady as he spoke.

“Oh you are naughty, milord,” she tittered, enchanted with him.

“I am you know, but don’t tell anyone, or you will frighten away the ladies,” he laughed, and within seconds he was surrounded by them.

No polite party had seen such an unseemly scramble since the Prince of Wales entertained King Louis of France at Carlton House. A ‘squeeze,' of course, was all the go, but a stampede was what Princess Lieven’s ball was rapidly disintegrating into. She had to hustle the guest of honour into a private parlour and bolt the door to save him from having the hair pulled from his head, and the black jacket ripped from his back.

“I had thought I was returning to civilisation,” he told her, and she later told waiting Society. “It seems I am back among the savages. You ought really to have warned me, Princess, and I’d have brought my pistols.”

“What you need is a bodyguard,” she told him, and before long it was necessary for him to acquire not one but two. When he sauntered down Bond Street or rode in the park, he was accompanied by two men, each six-and-a-half feet tall and as broad as doors, to stave off the mobs. One was a jet black Nubian picked up on his peregrinations, the other a dour Scotsman with red hair and freckles. These persons accompanied him everywhere, but Society soon learned that Dammler did not like being pulled about and disappeared if physically handled. The colourful trio was a windfall for the cartoonists. The escorts were dubbed Dammler's “Guardian Angels,” and were represented by Gilray with wings and halos in the pictures that decorated the store windows.

The question uppermost in the mind of Society was, naturally, which fortunate female would attract Lord Dammler. His behaviour was maddeningly provocative. He would partner some dashing heiress for one or two days-appear with her at the opera and the balls-then two nights later she would be replaced by another. Rumours were rampant as to his having a wild but secret affair with this married lady or that widow, but they were not credited by the knowing. No lady would remain silent if she had indeed made a conquest of such magnitude. She would shout it from the rooftops. Several did lay claim to having entrapped him, and he was too polite to deny their lies outright, but only smiled and said, “Possibly, I don’t seem to recall the name of the lady I was with last night.”