Miss Battery wrote affectionately but not helpfully. More conversant than Phoebe with the difficulties of publishing, she could only recommend her not to tease herself too much over the remote possibility of the Duke’s reading her book. Very likely he would not; and if he did Phoebe must remember that no one need know she was the authoress.

That was consoling, but Phoebe knew she would feel guilty every time she met Sylvester, and almost wished the book unwritten. After his kindness to have portrayed him as a villain was an act of treachery; and it was no use, she told herself sternly, to say that she had done this before she became indebted to him, for that was mere quibbling.

The season had not begun, but the unusually hard weather was driving a number of people back to town. Several small parties were being given; Grandmama prophesied that long before Almack’s opening night the season would be in full swing, and she wished to lose no time in making it known that she now had her granddaughter living with her. In vain did Phoebe assure her that she did not care for balls. ‘Nonsense!’ said her ladyship.

‘But it’s true, ma’am! I am always so stupid at big parties!’

‘Not when you know yourself to be as elegantly dressed as any girl in the room-and very much more elegantly than most of ‘em!’ retorted the Dowager.

‘But, Grandmama!’ said Phoebe reproachfully. ‘I meant to be a comfort to you: not to go out raking every night!’

The Dowager glanced sharply at her, saw that the saintly tone was belied by eyes brimming with mischief, and thought: If Sylvester has seen that look-! But why the deuce hasn’t he paid us a visit yet?

Phoebe wondered why he had not, too. She knew of no reason why he should wish to see her again, but he had asked her to tell Grandmama that he would call on her when he came to town, and surely he must have reached town days ago? Tom, she knew, was at home; so the Duke could not still be at the Blue Boar. She was not in the least affronted, but she found herself wishing several times that he would call in Green Street. She had such a lot to tell him! Nothing of importance, of course: just funny things, such as Alice’s various remarks, which Grandmama had not thought very funny (Grandmama had not taken kindly to Alice), and how Papa had written her a thundering scold, not for having run away from Austerby, but for having done so without first telling him where she kept the key to the chest containing the horse medicines. Grandmama had not thought that funny either; and a joke lost some of its savour when there was no one with whom one could share it. It was a pity the Duke had not come to London after all.

In point of fact he had come, but he had left again almost immediately for Chance, one of the first scraps of news that had greeted him on arrival at Salford House being that Lady Henry was also in town, with her child, staying with Lord and Lady Elvaston. Since she had not mentioned to him that she had formed any such intention this made him very angry. Her comings and goings were no concern of his (though she had no right to remove Edmund without his permission), but he thought it unpardonable that she should have left the Duchess during his absence, and without a word of warning to him. He posted back to Leicestershire; but as he found his mother not only in good spirits but looking forward to a visit from her sister he did not remain for more than a few days at Chance. During his stay he made no mention of his visit to Austerby. The Duchess was left with the impression that he had been all the time at Blandford Park; and since he had straitly charged Swale and Keighley to preserve discreet silence he was reasonably sure that no account of his adventures would filter through the household channels to her ears.

Just why he was reluctant to divulge to her an episode which would certainly amuse her was a question he found difficult to answer; and since a fleeting apprehension of this occurred to him he did not tax his brain with it. After all, it could afford her no pleasure to know that he had passed the daughter of her dearest friend under review and found her to be unworthy to become his wife.

In London he found quite a pile of invitations awaiting him, including a graceful note from Lady Barningham, bidding him (if he did not disdain a small, informal party) to a little dance at her house that very evening. Now, Lady Barningham’s daughter was the vivacious girl who came second on the list of the five candidates for his hand. Having formed no other plan than to look in at one or other of his clubs, he decided to present himself at the Barninghams’ house, where he could be sure of meeting several friends, and sure also that his hostess would accept his excuses for having left her invitation unanswered.

He was right on both counts. His arrival coincided with that of Lord Yarrow, who hailed him on the doorstep, and demanded where the devil he had been hiding himself; he found two more of his intimates in the drawing room; and was received by a hostess who told him that his apologies were unnecessary-indeed, absurd, for he must know that this dance was the merest impromptu. What was one to do, Duke, in March, of all impossible months, and with London still so thin of company?

‘You have hit on the very thing, of course,’ he replied. ‘I have nothing to do but be glad I reached London in time to present myself, and was so fortunate as to escape a deserved scold!’

‘As though we were not well enough acquainted to dispense with ceremony! I warn you, you will find none here tonight! I perform no introductions, but leave you to choose whom you will for your partner, since I fancy all are known to you.’

In high good-humour was her ladyship, but careful not to betray her triumph to jealous eyes. With Salford one never knew, and a hint of complacence now would be remembered by the dear friends who were present, if he let another season go without making Caroline an offer, or offered instead for Sophia Bellerby, or the lovely Lady Mary Torrington. It would not do to indulge optimism too far. She had done that last year, and his grace had not come up to the scratch; and however pleased he seemed to be in Caroline’s company no one could accuse him of making her his sole object. Not one of the twelve young ladies present would go home feeling that he had slighted her; three of them at least had enjoyed charming flirtations with him.

She would have been dismayed had she known that Sylvester had discovered a sad fault in Miss Barningham. She was too compliant. He had only to lift his brows, to say: ‘You cannot be serious!’ and she was ready in an instant to allow herself to be converted. She was not going to argue with him, she knew his intellect to be superior. Well! if people (unspecified) supposed him to like that sort of flattery they were mistaken: it was a dead bore. Not that he had not enjoyed the party: he had spent an agreeable evening among friends; and it had been pleasant, after his experience in Somerset, to be welcomed with such cordiality. He wondered how he would be received in Green Street, and smiled wryly as he recollected what cause he had given his godmother to regard him with a hostile eye.

But there was no trace of hostility in Lady Ingham’s face or manner when he was ushered into her drawing room; indeed, she greeted him with more enthusiasm than her granddaughter. He found both ladies at home, but Phoebe was engaged in writing a note for the Dowager, and although she rose to shake hands, and smiled at Sylvester in a friendly way, she asked him to excuse her while she finished her task.

‘Come and sit down, Sylvester!’ commanded Lady Ingham. ‘I have been wishing to thank you for taking care of Phoebe. You may guess how very much obliged to you I am. According to what she tells me she wouldn’t be with me today if it hadn’t been for your kind offices.’

‘Now, how, without disrespect, does one tell one’s godmother that she is talking nonsense?’ countered Sylvester, kissing her fingers. ‘Does Miss Marlow make a long stay, ma’am?’

‘She is going to make her home with me,’ replied the Dowager, smiling blandly at him.

‘But how delightful!’ he said.

‘What a hoaxing thing to say!’ remarked Phoebe, hunting in the writing table for a wafer. ‘You can’t pretend you thought it delightful to endure my company!’

‘I have no need to pretend. Do you think we didn’t miss you abominably? I promise you we did!’

‘To make a fourth at whist?’ she said, pushing back her chair.

He rose as she came to the fire, retorting: ‘No such thing! Whist was never in question. Mr. Orde remained with us only one night.’

‘What, did he take Tom home immediately?’

‘No, he left him with me while he himself went home to allay the anxieties of Mrs. Orde and your father. He came back three days later, and bore Thomas off most regally, in an enormous carriage, furnished by Mrs. Orde with every imaginable comfort, from pillows to smelling salts.’

‘Smelling salts! Oh, no!’

‘I assure you. Ask Thomas if he didn’t try to throw them out of the window! Tell me how you fared! I know from Keighley that you did reach town that night: were you very tired?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t care for that. And as for Alice, I think she would have driven on for hours, and still enjoyed it! Oh, I must tell you that you have been eclipsed in her eyes, Duke!’

‘Ah, have I?’ he said, eyeing her suspiciously. ‘By a freak?’

She laughed. ‘No, no, by Horwich!’

‘Come, that’s most encouraging! What did he do to earn her admiration?’

‘He behaved to her in the most odious way imaginable! As though she had been a cockroach, she told me! I was afraid she must be wretchedly unhappy, but I don’t think anything she saw in London impressed her half as much! She confided to me that he was much more her notion of a duke than you are!’