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All eyes were drawn to his braided red jacket and military swagger, and she was glad he had come to add extra distinction to the evening. In the country, entertainments were home-made and a musical soirée like hers was bound to strike sophisticated Town bloods as amateurish and tame. Lord Dearlove seemed free of such reservations and bounded into the room full of eager friendliness. He immediately engaged Charlotte and Jane Chetwode in light conversation and both shy young women began to feel charming themselves in the warmth of his flirtatious attention.

His sister declined any refreshment and chose the best chair by the fire to await the musical performance. She surveyed the room with a faintly disdainful air, then her eyes alighted on George Lockwood for a few seconds before returning to her haughty regard of the company.

The last to arrive were Sir Roderick and Richard Fopling, the father red in the face from too much wassail and his son so pale and refined in comparison, it seemed impossible to think they were of the same genealogical tree. In an idle moment, Leonora had hoped that the long-deceased Lady Fopling had found solace and some respite from her husband in the arms of a sensitive lover. Seeing father and son together emphasised this polar difference of looks and character.

The chairs were arranged in a semi-circle facing the piano-forte. Once everyone had a glass in their hands, they took their seats and Charlotte sat down to play and sing the first piece, ‘The Ballad of Barbara Allen’. Everyone knew this song well and they swayed to the melody before most of the guests joined in with the final verse.

Charlotte’s performance was clapped with enthusiasm. Her lovely face registered delight and surprise; speaking in a quiet voice, she introduced next the slow movement of Pleyel’s Sonata in the key of B major. As she began to play, people relaxed, accepting more champagne or burgundy from Jack Clegg and Mrs Priddy. Leonora was standing by the door, watchful and waiting. She wondered at her agitation then realised she was hoping Lord Rokeby would come, if just for a while. After all, it would be an opportunity to support his newly acquired niece and see her shine. She was shocked how deflated she felt at his absence even as the evening appeared to be such a success.

Aware of a tingling sense of danger, Leonora turned her head to find herself staring into the narrowed eyes of Captain Ormonde. He was standing behind her, slightly too close. ‘Captain! You startled me,’ she said under her breath, not wishing to distract from the music.

‘My apologies, Miss Appleby. It is a most enjoyable evening. Lord Dearlove tells me your betrothed was a hero who died at Fuengirola.’ His smile did not reach his eyes as he continued in an insinuating voice, ‘More of a hero than your neighbour, the rakehell Rokeby, methinks.’

Leonora turned again to meet his eyes, hers wide with astonishment. ‘Sir, I think it dishonourable to besmirch the reputation of another officer, not here to defend himself.’

His face was cold with not a hint of his earlier flashing charm. ‘Why is the Earl not here, pray? Could it be he knew I would be?’ Leonora was hesitant for a moment. It was true, she had told Lord Rokeby that a friend of his would be attending and he had pointed out, rather coldly himself, that he did not consider Ormonde a friend.

‘Excuse me, I have to accompany Mr Lockwood.’ She bowed her head and walked to the piano-forte where Charlotte was just finishing the last rallentando. The clapping again was appreciative, and Charlotte stood up and bowed as Mrs Mildmay flew to her side to kiss her cheek.

Leonora addressed her guests. ‘Before we pause for food and refreshments, Mr George Lockwood, new heir of the Manor estate, will sing ‘Scarborough Fair’ to my accompaniment.’ She sat down and started to play the lovely melody everyone had learnt as a child. George Lockwood was unselfconscious, and his warm baritone flowed out of him as naturally as breathing. His height and broad chest gave his voice a richness of sound that caught the heart.

Leonora knew the music so well she could glance round the faces of her guests.

Most striking was the way Lady Livia watched George Lockwood as he sang, her dark eyes wide and unblinking, with an almost-smile on her lips. Charlotte too was attentive, the colour high on her cheeks. This was the first time she had heard the beauty of his voice, and it obviously touched her too. With a slight incline of her head, Leonora invited Charlotte to join in with the refrain. They had sung ‘Scarborough Fair’ together many times. Charlotte approached Mr Lockwood tentatively and stood by his side. When he looked down from his great height with an encouraging smile, she joined him with the sinuous refrain.

‘O, where are you going?’ he sang and she sang in response, ‘To Scarborough Fair.’

Then together their voices entwined in harmony:

‘Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,

Remember me to a lass who lives there,

For once she was a true love of mine.’

This was such a favourite that there were calls for them to repeat it, which Mr Lockwood, Leonora and Charlotte duly did, with more gusto, and some of their guests joined in, Rufus Dearlove’s tenor being the most noticeable addition.

When it was time to pause for food, George Lockwood was about to escort Charlotte through to the dining room when Livia Dearlove slipped her arm through his and said in her lisping voice, ‘It’s a pleasure to be escorted into dinner by such a tall man.’ Her soft sibilance meant men leaned closer and inclined their heads to catch her words. The childlike voice made them protective and unwary. Leonora watched this performance with interest and realised that a simple honest man such as Mr Lockwood was as malleable as mastic in Livia Dearlove’s hands. She saw him cast Charlotte an apologetic glance as he was borne away.

Mrs Priddy came up to Leonora with a beaming smile. ‘This is splendid, my dear Nora. Everything better than could be hoped.’ They walked through to the dining room. Leonora surveyed the table, laden with the best that Cook and Mrs Priddy could manage. At the centre of the feast were a glistening baked ham studded with cloves and a haunch of venison, both being carved with some finesse by Jack Clegg. The potato pie was steaming and the sweet pastries Cook had laboured over for days were quickly disappearing. At one end, a pyramid of candied fruits made up for the lack of any fresh ones beyond their own stored apples and pears.

Richard Fopling glided up to her. ‘What a sublime evening, Miss Appleby. Good music expresses the perfect harmony of things, as our blackbirds and robins know full well already.’ He smiled.

Leonora took his arm and laughed. ‘Mr Fopling, I thought the robin and blackbird sang with such ferocious beauty to mark their territory and warn off other birds?’

‘Ah, ’tis true, but their deeper message is joy in the world and their attraction to others. This is why it transmits so clearly to us.’

Leonora looked across at his father, cheeks red and waistcoat straining. ‘I hope Sir Roderick appreciates what a superior being you are.’ His pale eyes met hers with wry amusement; no words were necessary. He was a changeling child in a crassly sporting family, yet somehow had survived.

‘And you, my dear Miss Appleby, are a woman of the water. You have the vitality of the tumbling stream.’

Leonora was taken aback. He had reminded her of her love of swimming, and how much she missed it. But also, he made her realise the elemental force of these two men who had stormed into Hasterleigh’s measured way of life. George Lockwood was obviously of the earth, and Lord Rokeby most certainly was fire.

‘And you, Mr Fopling, are of the air.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘But even aerial creatures need to eat. Come.’

When everyone was back in the drawing room, seated with glasses topped up, the chatter became noisier and more ebullient. Leonora and Charlotte made their way to the piano-forte. ‘Miss Blythe and I are going to play for you as the finale tonight Mr Field’s duet, Nocturne No. 5 in B flat major.’ Just as they were about to begin, the hundreds of candles in the candelabras and central chandelier guttered as one. The front door had opened and a gust of wind blew through the house. Leonora looked towards the drawing room door which was pushed ajar by the snout of a huge shaggy hound who padded towards her. She leapt to her feet, her heart suddenly beating with the thrill of a prayer answered.

In the doorway stood the tall figure of the Earl of Rokeby. He looked more commanding and dishevelled than Leonora had ever seen him, as if he had ridden the storm. His scar was livid against his face, made all the paler by his black riding coat that he had not yet removed. His eye patch seemed to add to the air of menace and mystery. In the room, there was a communal intake of breath. Everyone seemed suddenly to have sobered up. All eyes were upon him and his hound when Sir Roderick’s stentorian voice boomed out, ‘The dog, sir! To the stables with ’im! Have respect for a lady’s drawing room!’