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‘Just beautiful,’ Flora said, almost to herself, and then blushed when she realised she had uttered it out loud.

‘You’ve worked your magic, Flora. Thank you. Shall we meet in the hall at half past the hour of one?’

Leonora and Mrs Priddy had already left for Hookham’s Library when Charlotte dressed carefully in her new walking dress of primrose yellow French cambric, with a pleated collar and a girdle with a clasp of glittering cut steel. She picked up her purple pelisse and new Leghorn bonnet and ran down the stairs to meet Flora. The maid was wearing a pretty dark blue pelisse which looked surprisingly well on her. The garment used to be one of Charlotte’s that she had refurbished in the winter with velvet ribbon: when Flora had shown such evident appreciation for her work, she had given it to her.

The afternoon threatened rain, so Lady Bucklebury’s butler pressed a large furled umbrella into Flora’s hand as they set out to walk to Piccadilly. Charlotte’s heart was quickening with anxiety at what may lie ahead. The walk was always interesting and settled her emotions a little; down through Berkeley Square where the children with their nurses bowled hoops and played hopscotch on the paving stones, on through Albermarle and, as they approached the area of St James’s, gentlemen in their curricles and on horseback became more numerous. Charlotte felt her beautiful clothes were a form of armour but they also drew attention to her, making her fear she was but an imposter. They turned into the busy throughfare of Piccadilly and there was the unmistakeable Egyptian Hall which never failed to astonish. Charlotte stared with wonder at its incongruity amongst the plain brick façades on either side. The exotic grandeur of the great semi-naked statues above the portico and the ziggurat detail round the windows were so suggestive of an excitingly different culture and an earlier age.

Charlotte paid a shilling each for their tickets and they slipped into the dim interior. It was the perfect place for an assignation, seething as it was with visitors intent on the glass cabinets of curiosities lining the walls, or peering at the exotic stuffed animals in an artificial jungle in a central compound.

Out of the shadows emerged the handsome figure of Captain Ormonde, dressed in his civilian clothes and looking dapper. He bowed over Charlotte’s hand and nodded at Flora before drawing her mistress away towards the cabinet on a nearby wall filled with large shells and the skeletons of sea creatures. Flora remained at a discreet distance, but her eyes were intent upon them and her ears strained to hear.

He was formal. ‘Miss Blythe, I am pleased to see you. I think what I have to say will be of importance to us both.’ Charlotte nodded, her eyes serious as he continued. ‘As you know, I’ve led a soldier’s life and did not think it right to ask a wife to make the same sacrifices of absence that I had willingly made.’

Charlotte felt her heart lurch. Was he about to ask her to marry him? she wondered, but he seemed in no hurry to progress that conversation as he began to stroll round the central exhibition, her hand laid on the crook of his arm. Flora walked on the other side of her. He pointed at a giant turtle shell and then stopped by a stuffed mermaid that looked suspiciously like a seal in a wig. ‘Captain Cook brought much of this back from his voyages.’ Captain Ormonde turned to look at her with his charming smile. ‘My travels in Wellington’s army introduced me to the world too. I have sought adventure. But now I am back home, you have made me want to live in a different way.’

Ignoring Flora’s presence, the Captain grasped Charlotte’s hands and said in a low, intense voice, ‘Miss Blythe, my sleep has been troubled since I met you. My nights are haunted by dreams of you.’ That distinctive smile was lurking even as he spoke, and Charlotte wondered if it was a spontaneous outpouring of feeling or instead had been rehearsed. But despite all her reservations and suspicion of his motives, she could not but be struck by how attractive he was, and how unexpectedly exciting it was to have such unsought power over someone as much a man of the world as the Captain.

She was aware of Flora hovering with a sense of anxiety. Her maid fell back slightly, sensing perhaps what was to come. In a conversational tone, Guy Ormonde said, ‘Do you think, Miss Blythe, you could make me the happiest man in the world by consenting to marry me?’

For a moment, Charlotte’s breathing stopped. She had been half-expecting this but to actually hear the words was startling to her. ‘But sir, we barely know each other.’

‘War has taught me that happiness must be grasped where it can.’

‘You do know, as I’m underage, Lord Rokeby’s permission would be necessary?’

He turned away, his face set hard, a muscle in his jaw pulsing. ‘We would never attain it,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Then you would have to wait until I was of age.’

‘Miss Blythe, I cannot wait.’ His voice was low and harsh with urgency. ‘There is another way. You can accompany me to the border with Scotland where they have no barriers against love.’

Charlotte was alarmed at the idea. ‘I cannot repay my family’s generosity with such shameful behaviour!’

His eyes were suddenly narrowed and hard. ‘I think you could if it meant saving their honour.’

Charlotte pulled away and looked defiantly up at him. ‘How so, sir?’

With a glitter in his eyes and a smile more chilling than charming, he withdrew a piece of paper from his inside pocket. ‘Here I have the proof of the Rokeby brothers’ treasonous dealing.’ He walked over to the waxwork of a pygmy warrior that was particularly well illuminated so that Charlotte could better read. Her heart was pounding as she perused as best she could the paper in his hand. At the head was an official-looking insignia and an engraving of the Napoleonic Imperial Eagle. Below, in black handwriting, were the words: Les services rendus: 100 Napoléons. At the bottom of the page was a signature Charlotte could not decipher, and the word Corunna.

She looked up at Captain Ormonde, dread tightening her chest. ‘What does this mean?’

‘This is the receipt for the payment made to the Earl of Rokeby, for services as a spy for Napoleon’s army at Corunna.’

In an involuntary protective gesture, Charlotte’s hand flew to her throat. ‘But he and his brother were exploring officers for Wellington’s army,’ she weakly protested.

‘Exactly! They were dealing with both sides, loyal to neither. As agents for Lord Wellington they were particularly trusted, and so this behaviour was especially treacherous.’

Charlotte could barely comprehend what he was saying. Such crimes even in times of peace were treasonous and demanded the most swingeing of punishments. In a small voice she asked, ‘What do you intend to do with it?’

‘I will give it to you as a wedding present, to do with as you will.’ He gave a sly smile.

‘And if I don’t agree to accompany you to the Scottish border to marry?’

‘Then I will take this to the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies before your father is awarded his posthumous Army Gold Medal for gallantry. I doubt they would wish their highest honour besmirched by a traitor, or indeed the brother of a traitor.’

Flora had been watching from afar this impassioned conversation. Although she could not hear the words above the hubbub of the visitors’ voices, it was quite clear that Charlotte was shocked and distressed. The Captain’s demeanour too had altered from flattering suitor to something more menacing.

Charlotte realised she had to think fast and remain calm even though her hands were shaking with emotion. Above all, she desired to protect her father’s reputation. She wondered if this was a chance for her to prove her bravery, to live up to her Rokeby name. In a voice stronger than she felt she said, ‘May I ask, Captain Ormonde, if your determination to marry me is to do with my fortune?’