“Perhaps Lady Truthful would also like to wear the breeches and dress as a man,” said the signor helpfully.

“No!” exclaimed Truthful and Lady Badgery together, though for different reasons.

“No,” agreed Signor Fraticelli. “Milady is very beautiful . . . perhaps a goddess? Venus? With a dress of scallops, not painted but fashioned of jade I think . . . no, there is not time.”

“Not Venus,” said Truthful, after a moment’s thought. “Diana. The Huntress. With a real bow. One I can shoot people with if necessary.”

“Ah, Diana!” cried the signor, suddenly in raptures. He bent over his paper and began to sketch furiously. “A short underdress of the whitest silk, over it a tunic of white lace, folded at the neck just so, and high strapped sandals of silver. A simple headdress with a crescent moon set upon it, the scabbard also white leather, the buckles silver, but the arrows fletched in deep azure, the only touch of colour . . .”

He held up his sketch. Truthful was taken aback to see not a thing of rough charcoal lines but a brilliant image in full colour that somehow leaped out of the page — and it was recognisably herself, attired just as Signor Fraticelli had described. Clearly the man was a very talented illusion-maker.

Lady Badgery applauded as the sketch slowly faded back to a charcoal drawing.

“How much?” she asked. “Pirate and Diana, ready by Tuesday evening.”

“Four hundred guineas,” said Signor Fraticelli, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Done,” said Lady Badgery. “Thank you, signor. You may go.”

“At once, Lady Badgery,” declared Signor Fraticelli, with a deep bow that almost brought his forehead into violent conflict with the edge of the table. “I must immediately begin my creation!”

He collected his sketches and his box of drawing implements, threw a violently yellow cloak over his shoulders and stalked from the room, narrowly avoiding a collision with Mary, who was bringing in Truthful’s boiled eggs.

“He’s actually Dutch you know,” said Lady Badgery. “Name of Kloppers. Known him for years. Nevertheless, a great artist in his chosen field.”

“But why pretend to be Italian?” asked Truthful.

“People expect it, and pay more,” said Lady Badgery. “There is a lesson there, Truthful. People adopt other personas for many different reasons, and there are more about than you might think.”

“I’m sure,” said Truthful, tapping her egg with a spoon in a desultory fashion that made no impact upon the shell.

“Do you regret your own masquerade as the chevalier?” asked Lady Badgery bluntly. “Though the Emerald has not yet been retrieved, it does seem likely that your efforts have seen to it that it will be, and the vile Plathenden will be brought to justice.”

Truthful put down her spoon.

“I don’t regret it,” she said slowly. “I did what needed to be done. I even enjoyed some of it. But there are . . . aspects I would wish have turned out otherwise. I fear . . . I fear great-aunt, that I allowed myself to become too attached to Major Harnett.”

“A handsome young man of considerable address, an adventure together, you barely out of the schoolroom,” said Lady Badgery. “It is not to be surprised at, no, not at all.”

“He made me an offer,” said Truthful, addressing her egg rather than her great-aunt. “Because he said he had compromised me. But I asked him if he really wanted to marry me and he said no, he didn’t want to marry anyone, and then last night I discover he is already betrothed and has been for some time.”

“I see,” said Lady Badgery, frowning. “I wasn’t aware he had made you an offer and in such unfortunate terms! However, people do not always say what they really mean, and things are not always as they seem. In the case of Major Harnett—”

“Let us not speak of him,” interrupted Truthful forcefully. “I know I have been foolish. I shall not think of him, or of any man! When the Emerald has been regained I will return to Newington Hall and stay there!”

“Hmph,” said Lady Badgery, but even this monosyllabic expression was not without compassion. “Well, as you wish, Truthful. Shall we stay home this afternoon, or venture out?”

“Home,” said Truthful. She took up her spoon again and fairly shattered the top of her egg. “Please let us stay home and be quiet.”

“Very well,” said Lady Badgery. “I will instruct Dworkin to deny us to all callers.”

* * *

This instruction kept Dworkin busy, for there were very many callers, most of them gentlemen wishing to visit Truthful. However, one caller would not be denied, and made such a fuss of insisting upon entry that Lady Badgery herself came down to see what the commotion was about. Discovering it to be Mister Stephen Newington-Lacy, she allowed him to be an exception and sent him on his way upstairs to see Truthful, who was reading The Ladies Monthly Museum in her own small parlour.

She shrieked as Stephen entered without knocking, dropped her magazine, and rushed to embrace him.

“Stephen!”

“Now, now, no need to carry on,” said the young man in disgusted tones, fending her off. “Anyone would think I was come back from the Indies with a leg missing.”

“You were kidnapped,” said Truthful.

“Oh, not for above five minutes,” said Stephen. He laughed, his eyes sparkling. “But they were such slow-tops! Imagine not gagging me, so I could talk to the horses! They were happy enough to mount the gutter and overturn us, and then Charles’s men were there and two watchmen came up, and before you know it, the boot was on the other foot! Though I am loathe to admit that one of them did escape. Not the one I held, I assure you.”

“And then you simply joined in the search for Lady Plathenden, I collect?” asked Truthful, remembering the short and infuriating message from Harnett to that effect.

“Lord yes! I had the notion that a hound given the scent of a shoe the escaped rascal had shed in his flight might lead us to their lair. When I mentioned this, Charles asked me to assist in the matter, him not being as conversant with dogs and of course, having no hounds to hand in the city. But I found a ratter name of Toby, with a nose like anything, and he did lead us to a kind of workman’s shelter by the new canal tunnel under Maida Hill. Charles was most pleased. The occupants had fled but there was considerable evidence of their habitation and we hope clues as to other hideaways where Lady Plathenden might be found.”

“You seem to have made great friends with Major Harnett,” said Truthful easily, far more easily than she actually felt.

“Oh, Charles is a great gun,” said Stephen, evidently having totally forgotten his first meeting with Major Harnett. “He suggested I stop in here before I go back to get the others, to let you know what is happening and to tell you that he has gone out of town. Following up what we discovered you know.”

“What do you mean ‘to get the others’?” asked Truthful.

“Oh, Charles says he has not enough men and needs volunteers,” said Stephen breezily. “I’m sure Edmund and Robert will jump at the chance. We’ll be back tomorrow, I daresay, and we will be sure to call upon you, Newt.”

“I am glad not to be forgotten amidst all your excitement,” said Truthful tartly. “And where has Major Harnett’s search taken him?”

“Brighton,” said Stephen. He paused as Truthful gave a visible shiver. “Are you coming down with something?”

“No, no,” said Truthful. “Go on.”

“The rogues in the canal-house had several barrels from an inn there, the Black Lion, and Charles said he had seen another larger barrel somewhere else that was also connected with the matter.”

“Oh,” said Truthful, suddenly recalling the poker-work symbol on the barrel she had been imprisoned in. That could be a lion, squinted at in the right way. “I go to Brighton myself, on Wednesday. Perhaps I will be able to assist—”

“Best leave it to Charles,” said Stephen. “He knows what he’s about.”

“Does he?” retorted Truthful angrily. “Do you know where he’d be without my help?”

“No, I don’t,” said Stephen. “What do you mean?”

Truthful almost told him, but then that would mean a great many other explanations. Finally she shook her head and sighed. “Nothing, I suppose. But am I to understand from all this hustling about that Lady Plathenden is still not arrested?”

“Not yet,” said Stephen, fixing her with his keen green eyes. “But is that all that disturbs you, Truthful?”

“No,” said Truthful honestly. “But it isn’t something you can help with, Stephen.”

“I do like Charles you know,” said Stephen, unerringly and painfully striking at the point of Truthful’s concerns. “I am sure Edmund and Robert will like him too. I mean he’s not a duke, as we expected, but—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” interrupted Truthful, her face burning up.

“Don’t you?” asked Stephen in a very brotherly and unfeeling fashion. “Well, be like that! I must be off. I shall see you soon I expect. Goodbye!”

With that, he turned on his heel, leaving Truthful feeling very much that she had not carried her side of the conversation at all well, and how difficult it would be if Major Harnett did indeed become friends with all her Newington-Lacy cousins.

“I shall have to go abroad,” she whispered to herself, and her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away and then suddenly laughed at the absurdity of her own words. Here she was, not two weeks in London, and already figuring herself as the lead player in an affecting tragedy! It was not to be borne. She drew herself up and recalled the words of Nelson that her father liked to declaim.