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‘Don’t ridicule my concerns, Ivor!’ she said sharply. ‘The capricious boy is serious. He’s taken the Latimer jewels out of the bank! His inheritance from his grandmother, you know; she’d be turning in her grave.’ She wrung her hands. Her brother had never seen her in such distress, not even when the Duke was brought back from the battlefield insensible and close to death.

‘I presume you’re here because you want me to interfere, Edwina? But the young greenhead is almost come of age; I can hardly justify throwing a rub in his way.’ He crossed his legs and smiled at his sister. ‘At least he’s not rolled up in debt.’

Her Grace had got to her feet and to relieve her feelings paced to the window and back. ‘I’d rather it was debt. That at least has a solution, even though it’s costly.’ She paused and stood in front of him, a challenging light in her eyes. ‘I want you to offer the young woman money to return any family jewels and rebuff my son’s pretensions. To tell him she will never marry him.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’ His relaxed way of speaking of such matters of moment irritated her greatly. He continued, his voice still calm, ‘If you feel so strongly, why not get a contract made out and signed by the Duke?’

His sister could have stamped her foot with frustration, as she used to when a girl faced by her younger brother’s obstinacy. She restrained herself, instead hissing through clenched teeth, ‘George may not be able to look after himself or the estate but he still has opinions, unfortunately. He’s all in favour of his son and heir marrying a beauty as he calls her! He’s lost all sense of proportion and propriety.’

Ivor Asprey was surprised. ‘You mean he’s seen her?’

‘Yes! My perfidious son took the young hussy to meet his father. George, of course, was completely bowled over. The designing harlot brought him a present of a Scottish mull, made from a ram’s horn, filled with his favourite snuff. She said it had been given to her by an admirer and she’d prefer him to have it. The poor gull was beside himself with delight.’

‘Tell me, what’s this young woman’s name?’

‘I thought you already knew. She’s quite the thing. Her Ophelia titillates men’s fancies and touches women’s foolish hearts.’

‘I don’t have the time for such entertainments, Edwina.’

‘Well, the title-hunting Mistress Minx is called Angelica Leigh. She’s nightly at the Garden Theatre.’

Ivor Asprey rose to his feet, hoping to usher his sister to her carriage, when the door opened and a bright-faced girl, no more than eleven years old, peeped into the room. Her eyes alighted on him and she dashed forward with delight. ‘Oh, Papa! You’re home already.’

She was stilled by his frown as he indicated the presence of the Duchess. ‘Elinor, where are your manners? Aunt Edwina has come to call.’

The young girl skidded to a halt and the delight on her face faded as she went across to take her aunt’s hand and offer the appropriate curtsey. ‘How do you do, Ma’am?’ she said in her most demure manner.

‘Very well, my dear. And where have you been this afternoon?’

The girl’s blue eyes looked from her father to her aunt, aware that conversations with the Duchess were fraught with unforeseen peril, and answered with care, ‘It was such a nice afternoon, Miss Stafford thought we could practise my Latin declensions while walking round the Canal in the Park.’ Elinor Asprey was slight and pretty, a fairy wisp of a girl, with fine light brown hair and an expressive pale face, alive with imagination.

The Duchess huffed, ‘Sounds very lax and negligent to me. Where is your governess?’

‘She’s gone to see Mr Digby, I think,’ the young girl said quietly, casting a despairing glance at her father.

‘Edwina, I have absolute confidence in Miss Stafford’s teaching methods,’ he said then turned to his daughter with a smile of encouragement. ‘Elinor, can you ask my secretary to come through to me in five minutes. I have some letters to sign after I’ve seen your aunt to her carriage.’

As the door closed behind his daughter, his sister put up a hand. ‘Not so fast, Ivor. We haven’t finished our business.’

He cocked an eyebrow and murmured, a hint of fatigue in his voice, ‘Have we not, dear sister? What more can I do for you?’

‘You haven’t agreed to do anything for me!’ she responded in an exasperated voice. ‘I would be grateful if you’d at least meet Miss Leigh and see if you can ascertain her purpose in this pursuit of my son.’

Ivor Asprey inclined his head in reluctant acceptance of his mission and was about to open the door when the Duchess put a hand on his arm and added, ‘I think for Elinor’s sake you should marry again. For your political future too.’ Her brother’s face turned dark but she was undeterred and continued, ‘What’s become of your courtship of Lady Linus? I thought Portia Linus a good serious young woman. And an heiress too. Property and good family never go amiss in a marriage, you know.’

Ivor Asprey’s equanimity was beginning to fray. It was hard not to show his irritation as he ushered his sister towards the door. ‘Edwina, you have the most managing disposition. It’s a national tragedy that you were not born a man. You could have taken command of one of Lord Wellington’s armies and no doubt the war against Boney would have been shortened by years.’

She took this in good heart, in fact, chose to see it as a compliment and gave her brother a friendly thump on the arm as he bade her goodbye. Elinor joined him on the doorstep to watch her stately figure being helped into her carriage by the Arlington coachman, in full gold-braided livery. Father and daughter waved her off, and turning back to the house, both sighed.

‘Oh, Papa,’ was all the young girl said, and her shoulders drooped.

‘I know. Your aunt can be a bit of a trial.’

Her face lit up as she clutched his arm and said, ‘I’m so glad you agree with me.’ Ivor Asprey had found it difficult to know how best to bring up his daughter, motherless these last six years and himself immured in grief. He strove to combine discipline with affection, as befitted a young woman’s education, to ready her for adulthood and marriage, but feared he sometimes erred on the side of discipline and perhaps was too repressive. Certainly his secretary, Nicholas Digby, implied he thought so. But his sister, who had iron opinions on everything, including bringing up daughters despite not having any herself, considered the household far too lenient and lacking in a firm woman’s touch.

Elinor tiptoed to brush a kiss on her father’s cheek before running up the stairs to her room. Mr Asprey returned to the library, his spirits worn thin. There, a sweet-faced young man was waiting for him with a sheaf of papers in his hand. Nicholas Digby had been one of the best scholars at Westminster School when his father died and he was forced to seek a living rather than proceed to university. He was recommended to the Member of Parliament for Abingdon who had been gratified by his intelligence and how hard and cheerfully he worked. He found, however, some of his secretary’s Godwinian ideas on social reform rather jarring to his own overriding desire for peace and prosperity and the comfort of the status quo.

Beside Mr Digby stood a tall young woman dressed simply in a grey cambric dress, its plainness relieved by a ruffle of cream lace round the neck and wrists. She turned at her employer’s entry, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. Her face was symmetrical and serene; her intelligent brown eyes and chestnut hair twisted into a low bun added distinction to her agreeable looks. She inclined her head. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Asprey. May I borrow your edition of Mr Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield?’ She held out a red leather volume in her hands.