‘Carriages?’ Luke said stupidly. ‘What carriages?’

‘What carridges!’ The old man laughed, but kindly. ‘What carridges, he arsts, as if he’s been in Timbuktoo the great while. Why, there’s a ball tonight. The Knyvets allus throw a great ball the last night of the house party, and then they returns to London for the rest of the season. It’s the finest thing for miles around, and the great lords and ladies come from all over the county, aye, and from London too.’

‘They’re saying summat else too, tonight,’ came a voice from over their shoulders, and turning Luke saw a tall cheerful lad that he half recognized from the servants’ hall. He searched his memory for a name; it didn’t come, but he remembered who the lad was: Knyvet’s groom.

‘Wassat then, young Wilkes?’ said the old man.

‘They’re saying in the servants’ hall as there’ll be an engagement announced.’

‘An engagement?’ Luke said sharply. He didn’t know why the suggestion hurt like a hot coal.

‘Aye. Seemingly Mr Sebastian sent down to the safe for his grandmother’s engagement ring. An’ I don’t suppose he wants it for his own finger.’

They laughed together, Wilkes and the old man, companionable and low.

‘Who’s it for?’ Luke’s grip was hard on the shaft of the broom, until he felt it might snap between his fingers.

‘Who’s the lucky girl, you mean?’ Wilkes said. The laughter was still in his eyes as he answered. ‘Well, that’d be telling. But there’s nothing like a scrape with the hereafter to make a chap realize how much he values a lady.’

‘And who says she’ll say yes?’ Luke demanded. He knew that his voice was full of an anger they’d never understand, that his face was stiff with a fury he had no right and no reason to feel.

‘Who says she’ll accept?’ Wilkes’ round pleasant face was astonished. ‘Well, man, I dare say your young miss is very pretty an’ all, but you don’t have to be the sharpest tool in the box to see that her family’s on its uppers. Why d’you think she’s been sent here like a bait on a string, if not to catch a fish?’

Something welled up inside Luke, hot as molten iron, scalding inside his chest and his gullet and his skull, until he felt he’d run mad with it.

He tried to speak, but no words came. Instead he let the broom fall to the floor and ran from the stable.

‘How tight did you say you laced, miss?’ the maid asked again.

‘Eighteen inches,’ Rosa said. Mary shook her head.

‘Well, I’m sorry, miss, but the dress won’t fasten. It must have been made for seventeen.’

Damn it. Damn Clemency and her fashionable notions. She must squeeze into the dress. She had no other.

‘Very well. Seventeen.’

She shrugged her way out of the dress and Mary undid the corset laces and began to pull again. Rosa shut her eyes.

‘Hold on to the bedpost, miss.’

Rosa gripped the polished mahogany, feeling the intricate carvings dig into her fingers as she clutched the post for support. She held her breath, feeling the bones dig, and dig . . . Her rib where the corset bone had gone in gave a sharp twinge and she almost cried out.

Then Mary gave an exclamation and let go.

‘It’s done.’ She put a tape around Rosa’s waist and said with satisfaction, ‘Seventeen and one eighth. Will you try the dress again, miss?’

Rosa stepped into it and stood before the glass, feeling Mary’s fingers at her spine as she fastened the dozens and dozens of tiny buttons, one after another.

‘Perfect,’ Mary breathed at last, and Rosa looked down at herself and then into the mirror.

She hardly recognized herself. The dress fell away in stiff folds that made her look taller, and above the full flowing mass of ivory and green her waist looked impossibly small, even smaller than she would have believed herself, in spite of the pain in her hips and ribs. The neckline was demure – but it dipped ever so slightly in the centre and her breasts, compressed by the tight corset, swelled above, looking whiter than white against the ivory silk and dark-green embroidery.

Mary had put her hair up and dressed it with real leaves – ivy and yew, the same deep winter green as the embroidered vines on her dress.

‘And what about your jewels, miss? That locket’s pretty enough but . . .’

‘I have none,’ she said honestly. Mary smiled over her shoulder at Rosa’s reflection in the mirror.

‘For another young lady I should say, what a shame, but for you, miss, tonight, you have no need of them.’

‘Thank you,’ Rosa whispered. She swallowed.

‘And anyway,’ Mary lowered her voice, and her eyes were suddenly alight with mischief, ‘if the gossip in the servants’ hall is right, after tonight, you may have one jewel at least.’

‘What do you mean?’ Rosa turned to frown at her. ‘What kind of jewel?’

‘A ring,’ Mary said. Her cheeks dimpled in a smile and then she bobbed a curtsey. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, miss, I’ve still to see Miss Cassandra and Miss Restorick up the corridor. Will there be anything else?’

For a moment Rosa could not find her voice; she only stood, with her hand gripped on the locket, her thoughts whirling and tumbling like a flock of crows in the sky. Then she remembered the maid’s question.

‘No, thank you, Mary,’ she said. Her voice was low.

After Mary left, Rosa sank to the bed. Her face in the tall glass was white as chalk, her eyes dark and huge against the pale skin. For a moment she could hardly breathe – she thought she might faint, and she almost pulled the bell to call Mary back to loosen her corset and give her some air.

Then her hammering heart began to slow and the colour crept back into her cheeks.

Was it true? Could it be true?

Tonight. Everything Mama and Alexis had fought for – everything could be achieved, tonight, if Sebastian asked just one simple question and she said one single word in reply: yes.

Suddenly she knew she was about to be sick. She ran to the washstand and stood, her hands splayed on the wood either side of the basin, her forehead prickling and wet with sweat. Her stomach heaved against the tight constriction of the corset and she choked, but nothing came up. It was hours since she had eaten. There was nothing to vomit.

The mirror above the washstand reflected back a stranger with dark, frightened eyes.

She knew what Mama would say: This is normal. It’s normal to feel nervous. This is the biggest decision of a woman’s life.

Perhaps it was normal to feel nervous. But was it normal to feel afraid?

17

‘Miss Rosa Greenwood!’ The announcement rang out across the crowded ballroom, but no heads turned. Rosa swallowed and looked out across the throng.

She had never seen so many fashionable men and women in one room. They made a sea of bodies – the men dark as crows in their evening dress, the women kingfisher-bright in silk and satin. Jewels flashed in the light from the chandeliers: diamonds, rubies, emeralds; the thousand candles making white shoulders and throats seem whiter still.

Then she heard the doors open behind her – another couple was about to be announced. She could not stand here on the steps all day, waiting for a miracle, waiting for the courage to go down alone and unchaperoned into the melee.

The band struck up again. Rosa drew a deep breath, touched her fingers to her locket, and began to descend the marble steps.

At the bottom she stood for a moment, hesitating, listening to the ebb and sway of the music, and the butler calling out ‘Lord and Lady Hellingdon!’

There was the sound of shoes on the steps behind her.

What should she do? There were girls crowding around the tables to her left, champagne glasses in gloved hands, laughing and chatting. They all seemed to know each other. To the right were a group of bachelors coming in from the terrace, still smelling of cigar smoke. In the middle of the room couples swayed and turned with faultless elegance and Rosa realized with a sinking feeling that she did not know the dances. Papa had waltzed her around the drawing room as a little girl, but that was different – nursery dancing, just the two of them as he hummed the music through his moustache and she stood on his feet and clutched at his waistcoat and watch-chain. This rigidly correct synchronicity was something quite different – dozens of couples moving as one in time to a tune she did not recognize.

Her stays felt suddenly painfully tight. She could not breathe. She closed her eyes, counting to ten. One. Two. When I open them it will be all right. Three. Four. Five. It will be quite all right. Six. Seven. Eight. Pull yourself together. Nine—

‘Miss Greenwood!’

She opened her eyes. For a moment the blaze of light from the chandeliers dazzled and she blinked. Then her eyes adjusted and she recognized the young man standing before her: it was the rider who had complimented her on the morning of the hunt, who had compared her to a centaur and said she had the best seat he had ever seen.

He looked different out of his hunting clothes – younger, his face pale against the dark tailcoat, his eyes so dark the pupils and iris merged into one.

‘Miss Greenwood, you look pale. Are you quite well? Do you need me to escort you to a seat?’

‘No, no.’ Rosa took a deep breath. ‘I was just – it was a moment’s foolishness. But forgive me, I don’t believe I know your name.’

‘Rokewood. Abelard Rokewood.’

‘Mr Rokewood. I’m so pleased to meet you again.’

‘If you are sure that you are quite well—’

‘I’m sure,’ she cut in hastily.