“We can talk outside on the garden terrace,” said Miss Gough, taking Truthful’s arm and leading her away. Truthful went with her, her mind in a turmoil.

No-one else was on the terrace, though the evening was pleasant, and Lady Mournbeck had been thoughtful enough to have several Japanese lanterns hung to create a charming nook to recoup from the hurly-burly of the ballroom. Miss Gough steered Truthful to a bench, and they both sat down. Truthful flicked her fan open and began to fan her face, but shut it again when she realised she was revealing something of her inner agitation.

“This is difficult,” said Miss Gough, indicating that it was not only Truthful who suffered some agitation. “Where to begin?”

She took a very deep breath, held her hands together and looked Truthful squarely in the eye.

“I want to ask you to . . . to discourage Major Harnett,” she said, with a gulp. “And most particularly discourage his mother. I mean discourage any pretension that you might look upon his suit with favour.”

“I don’t understand,” said Truthful. “You say Major Harnett is your fiancé?”

“We have had an informal understanding for some two years,” said Miss Gough. “But my mother does not wish me to marry Major Harnett, who is my cousin, and my Aunt Sylvia, that is his mother — she is most desirous that he should marry an heiress. That is why I am asking you to let him go. You are rich, and a beauty, surely you could choose anyone and . . . and I will die if he marries you!”

Truthful reached out and took Miss Gough’s trembling hands in her own.

“I have no interest in marrying Major Harnett,” she said firmly. “You need not be concerned about me.”

“But you asked Lady Mournbeck to invite him tonight,” said Miss Gough. “Mother and Aunt Sylvia were cock-a-hoop about it.”

Truthful shook her head. “That was none of my doing. It was my great-aunt. I’m not perfectly sure why. She can be a little . . . eccentric at times.”

“I couldn’t believe you wanted him invited so particularly,” said Miss Gough. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes with it. “Or even how he might have come to your notice! But Aunt Sylvie insisted it was so. It is so very difficult when she is against us, and my own mother too, and the book is taking so long . . . we can’t get married until it is published and a great success, which I’m sure it will be. Then Aunt Sylvia said you were setting your cap at him . . . and you are so beautiful, and everyone knows rich enough to buy an Abbey . . .”

“If Major Harnett truly loves you and you love him then you have nothing to fear from anyone,” said Truthful diplomatically, as Miss Gough had a quiet little sob into her handkerchief. “Hadn’t we better go back inside? I think I have missed a dance I promised and am in some danger of being forsworn on the next as well.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Gough, tucking her handkerchief away. Her eyes were a little red, but with some effort she composed her face. “You . . . you won’t dance with him tonight, will you? Only it would so encourage his mother if you do.”

“I won’t,” promised Truthful. “I haven’t seen Major Harnett at all, I must say, though I suppose that it is no surprise in such a crush.”

“Oh, he is always late,” said Miss Gough. “In fact, he might not even remember. Sometimes he gets so intent upon his manuscript that he works all night. Why, just this week he rewrote two whole chapters, when they were already perfectly good in my opinion. But I am sure he will soon finish, and the publishers are waiting. They are so eager they have forgone half their usual fee, which is a wonder!”

“I am glad,” said Truthful, though she found it hard to reconcile her image of Major Harnett with someone who would work away at their desk all night. Yet another indication that she didn’t really know him at all, and would be best off forgetting what she did know. “I am surprised he could find any time to write, what with searching for Lady Plathenden and the Emerald.”

Miss Gough gave her a puzzled look, but before she could say anything more, a young man with flaxen hair and a pleasant but vacant face looked out on to the terrace. Seeing Truthful, he smiled and waved. His smile added charm to his visage, but did not alter his essential likeness to an enthusiastic but not overbright puppy.

“Lady Truthful! Our set is being made up! I have been looking for you everywhere.”

“And here I am, Sir Evelyn,” said Truthful, taking his arm. “I trust we will not be too late?”

“I would be happy to wait for you until the end of time,” said Sir Evelyn. “Beyond the end of time if it comes to that! Beyond the end of the end of . . . er . . . the end of time, no that’s too many ends—”

“Goodbye, Miss Gough,” said Truthful, mercifully cutting Sir Evelyn short before he became more confused.

“Goodbye, Lady Truthful,” said Miss Gough. “And thank you.”

Truthful smiled, a smile that she feared was indeed a grimace. She hardly heard Sir Evelyn prattling on as they went back inside. The music washed over her as she mechanically took up her place for the quadrille, bowing and smiling, her mind a million miles away and her heart a cold void in her chest as the rest of her trod out the dance as if she cared for nothing else in the world.

Truthful danced every dance save the waltzes after that quadrille, turned down three times as many invitations, and accepted several glasses of lemonade and one of champagne. The fortune-hunters she had already met in the Park or at Lady Badgery’s house when she first came to town offered her eloquent encomiums, and other, newly-acquainted gentlemen delivered less-eloquent but possibly more deeply-felt praise. She spoke to several other young ladies, who appeared to fall into two camps: those who admired her beauty and wished to be friends on the strength of it, and those who resented her and considered her a rival in the Marriage Mart.

None of it was of any significance to Truthful. She felt as if she was a play-actor, and not a very good one at that, speaking her lines and treading the boards to her appointed place at the appointed time, but with no feeling. The only real emotion she felt was towards one o’clock in the morning, when Lady Badgery emerged from the library and bore down upon her as she was escorted from the latest country dance by her current swain.

“Ah, Truthful,” said Lady Badgery. She tapped Truthful’s partner painfully on the elbow with the knob of her walking stick and added, “Sir Arthur Tennant, I believe. Ain’t you the one they call ‘Dingle’ on account of being lost in Ireland that time?”

An embarrassed mumble, a fumbled bow and a fast retreat indicated that as per usual, Lady Badgery was correct.

“Enjoying the ball?” asked Lady Badgery. “You are a veritable hit, Truthful. Got all the mamas talking, and the men . . . well, look at them!”

She waved her stick around dangerously, making several young gentleman step back and several who had clearly been hoping to engage Truthful’s attention suddenly sheer away.

“Yes, Great-aunt,” said Truthful dutifully. “But I am tired now and if it would not displease you, would like to go home.”

“What?” asked Lady Badgery shrewdly. She peered at Truthful, then looked fiercely around. “Something’s upset you, puss, that I can see. One of these fellows overstepped the line?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Truthful. “I just have the headache a little. I suppose I am not used to such a crush.”

“That fellow Harnett’s not here,” said Lady Badgery. “Is he?”

“I haven’t seen him,” said Truthful, avoiding her great-aunt’s gaze. “But . . . but I did meet Miss Gough, his . . . his betrothed.”

“Ah, that was . . . unfortunate,” said Lady Badgery, with a curious sideways glance at Truthful. “Well if you have the headache I suppose we must go home. Certainly I have had no luck at cards, and the champagne is not of the best. Mournbeck always does try to scrimp and Cecilie doesn’t touch the stuff, so he gets away with it. Come then. Out of my way, spider-shanks! Fellow with calves like that shouldn’t be seen in knee breeches.”

Truthful followed her great-aunt, pretending she couldn’t hear the imprecations Lady Badgery bestowed on anyone foolish enough to get in her way as she sailed through the crowd. At least until the unstoppable force met an immoveable object, in this case an elderly peer and his wife, who rather than moving aside smiled and spoke in unison, almost as if they had practiced doing so.

“Ermintrude!”

Truthful, half a pace behind her great-aunt, recognised the man immediately. It was Lord Otterbrook, the Marquis of Poole, who had run her post-chaise into a ditch.

“Otterbrook, Lucy,” replied Lady Badgery. “How nice to see you. Allow me to present my great-niece, Venetia’s daughter. Lady Truthful, the Marquis and Marchioness of Poole, Lord and Lady Otterbrook.”

“But we’ve met!” exclaimed the Marquis, raising his quizzing glass to look at Truthful. “I ran your post-chaise into a ditch near Maidstone some weeks ago, didn’t I?”

“Ah, yes, my lord,” said Truthful doubtfully, glancing at the Marchioness, a woman who looked as formidable as her own great-aunt, though she was considerably plumper and not so eccentric in her dress, save for the number of rings she wore, including one set with a very large ruby and on her left hand, and another with an enormous sapphire on her right. She was staring at Truthful’s bracelet, but looked up at Truthful’s face as she spoke.

“You do take after dear Venetia,” said the Marchioness, taking Truthful’s hands and holding them so she might look straight at her face. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, my dear. Athelstan, we must invite Lady Truthful to our masquerade ball!”