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Livia Dearlove had not sheathed her rapier which now went straight to the weakest point. In her silky lisp she asked, ‘Pray tell me, Miss Appleby, who is Charlotte Blythe’s mother?’

George Lockwood’s good nature had been tried long enough. He stepped forward and with some exasperation answered, ‘I agree with Miss Appleby, the best of men will seek out the most affectionate and amenable of women. Should she also have wit and beauty then that is a bonus. Fortune and breeding are merely the bloom on the apple, the icing on the cake. Charlotte Blythe will make a fond husband very happy indeed.’

This seemed to break up the breakfast party, and everyone went to their rooms to prepare for their return to London. Leonora heard the jingling of harnesses as the Lockwood and Dearlove coachmen and grooms drove two coaches and their teams of horses up to the door.

Lord Dearlove grasped Leonora’s hand. ‘Miss Appleby, thank you for the exquisite entertainment last night and your impeccable hospitality. My sister and I look forward to reciprocating once you are in Town.’ His sunniness had returned and his face shone with the good looks and charm for which he was lauded.

His sister smiled and inclined her head as she took Leonora’s hand. She had put on a bonnet of the finest Leghorn straw, and the flaring brim and Italian silk trim in a fetching shade of periwinkle blue so flattered her she had become almost attractive, animated with a sly humour. ‘Miss Appleby, I shall look forward to introducing you and Miss Blythe to a suitable set of acquaintances. Do not hesitate to call on me for any entrées into the intimate circles of the more select hostesses.’

George Lockwood was the last to leave and he took Leonora aside. ‘I will be honoured to be a cavalier servant to you or Miss Blythe should you ever need me. The Season is full of venom, and I would be sorry if either of you lost your unmannered charm.’ He glanced across at the Dearloves about to climb into their coach, then continued with feeling, ‘Your spontaneous goodness of heart is rare in Society, and you will discover why I cannot wait to dust the dirt of London from my heels and become a true country gentleman at last.’

He was so tall that Leonora had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. ‘I think I too will be impatient to return to my measured life in Hasterleigh.’ She smiled and he brought her hand to his lips.

‘Farewell then, Miss Appleby. I’ll see you once you’re settled. Now I must just drop by the Vicarage as I need to take my leave of Miss Blythe and the Mildmays. It’s a most congenial community we have here. I shall miss it.’

The next two days were a hive of activity at both the Manor and the Vicarage. The gowns and accessories had arrived from Mrs Marmery. These gorgeous creations were carefully unpacked from their nests of interleaved tissue paper to cries of delight. Charlotte had the full wardrobe, and she held the gowns up against her and twirled in front of the looking glass. ‘How amazing the power of clothes!’ she exclaimed in wonder. ‘I have not changed and yet with these clothes on my back I feel beautiful! I now feel undaunted by what lies ahead.’

Leonora unpacked the few new gowns that were for her, one for each time of day and activity. She held an evening dress in oyster-pink gauze under her chin and gazed at her reflection, smiling. It was true: such creative needlework made her feel beautiful too. Having tried on and discussed every garment with excitement, the clothes then had to be repacked into travelling trunks to transport to London. The rustle of tissue paper and the scent of dried lavender dominated both houses as Milly and Mrs Priddy helped their young mistresses to make sure nothing was left behind.

It had been two days since the musical soirée and Leonora was surprised at how unsettled she felt. This uneasiness increased as the day approached to visit Rokeby Abbey one last time to tune the Broadwood piano-forte and to say goodbye to Alistair Rokeby. Once again, at the designated time of two in the afternoon, Leonora, with Mrs Priddy beside her, pulled up outside the ancient oak door to be greeted by Stowe. As they entered, Achille padded towards Leonora, still with a slight limp.

They divested themselves of bonnets and pelisses and Leonora followed the old retainer, her tuning tools and protective apron in a bag. She was wearing one of her favourite afternoon gowns made of lavender sprigged muslin with pale primrose cording and ribbons round the hem and neck, newly trimmed by her. They entered the drawing room where the Earl sat by the fire, a book open in his lap. He looked up, his expression softer and more reflective than Leonora had seen before. As he rose to his feet to greet them, his face resumed its usual cast of controlled politeness. He led both women to the fire and Stowe went in search of tea.

Alistair Rokeby inclined his head and murmured, ‘I haven’t seen you since your evening of entertainment. Thank you, Miss Appleby, for encouraging me to be more sociable.’

‘It was our pleasure but I’m not so sure it was yours?’ Leonora smiled.

‘You are a perceptive woman. As you know I have little patience with flashy coxcombs like Ormonde, but then he has little time for prosy stiffrumps like me.’ His demeanour darkened. ‘Since returning from France I feel increasingly out of step with life. War has separated me from the world of the living.’ His face was so full of pain Leonora had to stop herself from reaching across to touch his arm.

Nanny P was not constrained in the same way by propriety between the sexes. She moved to sit beside him on the sofa and placed her small hand on his knee. ‘Master Alistair, you have survived against the odds. Your brother Charles would not wish you to let your life slip away on a river of grief and regret.’

‘I accept that with my mind, but my unruly heart does not obey. But do not fear, Mrs Priddy, my music, my dog and my horses secure me to life. And thanks to you and Miss Appleby, my dog and my music are restored to me in health.’ He smiled as he looked across at Leonora. ‘I’ve been playing the Broadwood every day. Music expresses the inexpressible, don’t you think?’

Leonora felt a leap in her spirit. Here was someone who felt as she did. ‘Indeed, I’ve come to think that music is love in search of a word,’ she said, then coloured. She had not meant to say so frankly what was in her heart.

Lord Rokeby’s gaze held hers for a moment then he continued in his unruffled way, ‘I would be grateful if you could wave your tuning fork once more before you go.’

Leonora finished her tea, slipped on her apron, and walked with him across to the instrument where the lid was already open. She sat down to play through the scales as Lord Rokeby leant over to watch. ‘I should learn from you how to tune it myself,’ he said as he sat down beside her on the stool.

Leonora continued to play, listening for any dissonance between the notes, but acutely aware of the energy pulsing through the body beside her. The stool was narrow and his thigh was pressed closely to hers. Mrs Priddy was sitting by the fire in the old-fashioned wing chair which blocked draughts and the possibility of overhearing most conversations. Alistair Rokeby glanced across at her, intent on her complex knitting pattern, and put a hand on Leonora’s. It was the lightest of touches but she felt as if she had been branded. The back of her hand was so sensitised she stopped playing and looked at him, her cheeks flushing.

‘Forgive my raising this, Miss Appleby, but I need to thank you for accompanying Miss Blythe to London. My mind is at rest knowing you and Mrs Priddy will be with her.’ He sighed. ‘Sadly, the fortune I have settled upon her might attract the wrong kind of attention. I just wanted to alert you to the world you are about to enter, full of blackguards and wastrels out for their own ends, and Devil take the consequences!’ His voice softened as he said, ‘I’m just concerned I may be making Miss Blythe vulnerable to these fortune-hunting mountebanks.’

Leonora looked at him with some alarm. ‘I’m sure your grandmother will protect her too?’

‘The Countess is more cynical than most. She traded her beauty for an unhappy marriage to a brute with a title and great fortune. I don’t know I can trust her to protect Miss Blythe from similar predatory intent.’

‘My lord, you paint such a forbidding picture. I wonder your brother should have wished for his daughter to be exposed to such danger.’

‘Ah, Miss Appleby, you are as generous-hearted as she. But who would she marry if she stayed in the country? The pallid curate? His oaf of a father? God forbid! That misplaced dandy who’s your father’s heir? No! Miss Blythe is a Rokeby, if an irregular one, and as part of this noble family she is to marry someone of equal rank.’

Indignation rose in Leonora’s breast. ‘Lord Rokeby! I object to your own cynical view of the curate, Mr Fopling, and indeed of Mr Lockwood. Richard Fopling is as rare a spirit as anyone I know, and my father’s heir as good a man as I could wish to inherit the Manor estate.’ Mrs Priddy could not but hear Leonora’s voice raised in protestation and she looked up from counting stitches, smiled, then returned to her intricate pattern of scallop shells.

The Earl had been watching Leonora’s face and appeared to be struggling not to smile in a patronising way. ‘I like your spirit, Miss Appleby. Indeed, you’re right; I have been harsh. I’m just a sour, disappointed misanthrope in need of your flame to lighten my darkness.’ He cast her a rueful look. ‘All I meant to say is the Season is the gauntlet that every young woman of breeding has to run in order to gain the life for which she was born.’

‘Well, Miss Charlotte was born into ignorance and ignominy.’ She sounded more reproachful than she meant.

He was unconcerned as he laughed. ‘Ah, but her blood is half-thoroughbred.’