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Out of the bleakest situations can come absolute clarity and as the twilight deepened, Charlotte was struck with a sudden revelation that altered everything: it was George Lockwood with his warmth and decency who was the heroic one. It was the height of virtue to be so truly himself, generous to others, protective, industrious and fond.

George Lockwood had the gift of constancy and his love would not change, regardless of what Captain Ormonde may demand of her, regardless of what she had to do. In that moment of recognition, Charlotte’s heart turned over. How she longed to be enfolded in his arms, pressed against that broad chest, his deep voice laughing. Charlotte knew it was George Lockwood she wished to marry, whether she still had her fortune or not.

She turned back to face Captain Ormonde who was leaning forward, looking alert as the coach drew into the courtyard of The King’s Head. This coaching inn was one of the largest and most comfortable of all the ones they had used on their journey north. It looked busy and prosperous, and Charlotte was so hungry and tired she really hoped they had beds for the night. This would be her chance. She was ushered in by Captain Ormonde, and played the part of his meek younger sister. They were shown into a small private parlour at the back of the building overlooking the stables. A welcome fire burned low in the grate. The Captain slung another log on the embers and kicked it into life with his boot, making the flames leap again.

A young countrywoman with cheeks chapped by the cold bustled in to take their orders. ‘Mutton stew ’n tatties, all that’s left,’ she told them in a warm brogue, and soon they were eating a bowl of grey stew with a few crumbling mounds of boiled potatoes like atolls in a greasy sea. Charlotte thought it delicious and was grateful for the accompanying bread to mop up the last of the gravy.

‘I like a woman with a healthy appetite,’ Captain Ormonde drawled, his voice with an edge of his old seductive humour. Charlotte was counting how many tumblers of ale he drank; he showed no signs of intoxication, but she hoped he would sleep more heavily that night. As the evening wore on, she encouraged him to drink more as she engaged him in desultory conversation, discussing the sights they had seen on the journey and even sharing a laugh. The young blades in their racing curricles, so arrogant and reckless; the farmer whose bristly pig sat up beside him on the seat as he drove his cart home; the mail coach lurched into a ditch, its axle broken and passengers in disarray, their luggage strewn over the road.

Charlotte and Captain Ormonde eventually collected their candles and the young serving woman showed them to two rooms on either side of the landing in the main building. ‘Goodnight, Miss Blythe. I hope you sleep well. We have another long day ahead of us.’ The Captain bowed and closed his door. Charlotte was desperate for sleep but knew she had to keep awake in order to follow through with her plan. She took the one seat in the room, a hard wooden chair, uncomfortable and cold, and waited. It was past midnight when she removed her shoes and opened the door with utmost care. There were still drinkers in the public bar downstairs, but their voices were muted as she tiptoed across the landing and listened at the Captain’s door. She thought she could hear regular heavy breathing.

Her heart in her mouth, Charlotte turned the knob and eased the door open an inch or two. Moonlight flooded the room. On the bed was the prone figure of a sleeping man still in his shirt and breeches but minus his redingote and coat which had been discarded over a chair. She walked with careful step towards them, pausing to check on the sleeping Captain. Slipping her hand into the first pocket in the redingote, then the second and finding nothing, she moved to the fine-tailored superfine coat he wore by day. Charlotte was just about to investigate the first inner pocket when she felt an iron hand grip her wrist. She was so shocked she did not even cry out. Ormonde had sprung from the bed and reached her in one leap. He hissed in her ear, ‘Miss Blythe, you really don’t think I’m foolish enough to leave such valuable material lying around for just anyone to purloin?’ His grip tightened. ‘I warned you, if you’re intent on double-crossing me, I’ll have no compunction in treating you in the most ungentlemanly manner.’

Once again, Charlotte was shocked by his strength and speed, for in one movement he had picked her up and tossed her on the bed. He gripped both her hands as the moonlight gleamed off his face and fell on hers.

She found her voice at last. ‘Captain, you’re hurting my wrists.’ Her heart was pounding as she realised the full extent of her foolishness in thinking she could outwit him when he held every trump, including physical strength.

His body crushed hers as his eyes glittered dangerously. ‘You know, Miss Blythe, you have forfeited all respect due to a lady and I no longer have any reason for restraint in my behaviour.’ He looked at her, a wolfish smile on his face. ‘I quite like the idea of kissing my bride-to-be. What think you?’

Charlotte had been trying to wriggle from under him, but the pressure of his body and the soft lumpy bed trapped her. His breath was on her face, stinking of stew and ale. As he moved his lips towards hers, she twisted suddenly and his kiss landed hard on her cheek. He smelt of sweat and she recoiled, fearful of how powerless she was in a situation to which she had so thoughtlessly agreed. Her resistance and fear seemed to excite him. He muttered, ‘Now, Miss Blythe, I’ll show you the bargain I’m offering in return for your fortune.’ He laughed as his fingers began to ruffle up her skirts.

‘No, Captain! Remember your reputation as an officer!’ Her voice was hard-edged with panic.

He purred in her ear, ‘Ah, but I am no longer a gentleman, my dear.’ His fingers had strayed beyond her stocking and had reached her thigh.

Charlotte heard a creak of the floorboard outside the door. She tensed, listening. Captain Ormonde arose from the bed with stealth, suddenly sobered up and as alert as a fox.

For Lord Rokeby and George Lockwood, the flight north had not been straightforward. Such was George’s distress at Charlotte’s ordeal, he kept on seeing her in every pretty fair-haired woman along the way. He had just met up with Rokeby at The Queen’s Head at Hatfield, where they were due to change horses, when both of them caught sight of a young woman bundled into a carriage and driven away at speed. George was certain it was his beloved in need of immediate rescue. He remounted his tired horse to make chase. After about a mile, the road had cleared enough for him to draw his horse alongside and demand the coachman pull up his horses. He was met by a furious gentleman in a cocked hat and his companion’s shocked and angry pair of eyes, brown and sparkling but not Charlotte’s.

Apologising profusely, he bowed and wheeled his horse to return to Hatfield, both weary to the bone. The fine hunter he rode was one of Rokeby’s best, but fatigue had made them both inattentive and as they approached The Queen’s Head for the second time, the horse stumbled and fell to one knee, immediately going lame. George Lockwood walked the last half a mile, leading his limping horse. From then on, the two men travelled together in the Rokeby chaise. As twilight set in, their spirits flagged.

By the time it was fully night, George Lockwood and Lord Rokeby were five miles from Alconbury where they had surmised Ormonde and Charlotte would have to stop for the night. Rather than have to find a roadside tavern to shelter them until dawn, the full moon became the traveller’s friend, lighting their way farther along the high road to their goal. Anticipation that the end of their mission was in reach revived George Lockwood’s spirits. From a relaxed, easy-going man he had become a knight of legend in his chivalric determination to protect the woman he loved.

This crisis had focussed and crystallised everyone’s feelings in the most dramatic fashion. Charlotte discovered her love for George Lockwood; Lord Rokeby, his paternal affections at last and George Lockwood, beguiled for a while by Lady Livia Dearlove’s siren-like attraction, had never lost his susceptibility to Charlotte’s beauty and down-to-earth allure. Unlike Lady Livia, Charlotte was quite capable of helping birth a lamb, saddle a horse or bake an apple and blackberry pie. Now there was this chance that a blackguardly officer could snatch her from him, his blood surged in his veins. He had been brought up to think he was a failure in his aspirations to be a dandy about Town, as suave as his stepfather, but now for the first time he realised that given a cause, he was born to be a hero and would fulfil this to the hilt.

The coming of night made Charlotte’s plight more distressing to him. Sitting opposite Lord Rokeby, he slammed his hand into the window prop of the chaise and said through gritted teeth, ‘By Jove, it’s outrageous that cur is making Miss Blythe suffer! I’m not a violent man, Rokeby, but I swear I’ll plant a facer on his handsome phiz!’

‘I’ve brought my pistol in case he needs a bit more persuasion. I haven’t told anyone, but I think it’s possibly relevant to the situation; my brother and I were certain he was operating as a spy for Boney’s commanders in the Peninsula.’ His face was grim. ‘As you know, there is no greater treachery. I don’t know what, if anything, he has as a hold over Charlotte, but we will find out.’ Lord Rokeby’s face darkened further. ‘If he has compromised her virtue, I swear I’ll kill him.’

The thought was unimaginable, but George Lockwood needed to clarify the matter and asked, ‘We do know she has gone under duress?’

‘Her maid who accompanied her to her meeting with him at the museum was certain that a piece of paper he showed her caused her much distress. This is all we know. Then the next morning, she was gone.’

‘For me, nothing can compromise her virtue, it is unimpeachable; she will never be spoiled in my eyes.’ George Lockwood seemed so choked with emotion, his lordship looked at him with concern.

‘Are you in love with the girl?’

‘Of course I am. Who wouldn’t be? I loved her from the moment I first saw her at the Manor. But we know such instant affections are impossible, so I denied it and found distractions elsewhere. But it was always her, and only now has it become so damnably clear, and I such a damned fool!’

Alistair Rokeby watched with a strange smile on his lips as his companion’s face registered every emotion from outrage to astonishment and then a fiery passion. He said as if speaking to himself, ‘We men are fools when it comes to love.’

As the chaise approached their destination, George Lockwood was impatient. He had never been surer of anything in his life. He met Lord Rokeby’s questioning gaze. ‘Rokeby, as her uncle and guardian, may I have your permission to ask Miss Blythe to marry me?’

In a quiet voice, the Earl replied, ‘She’s not my niece but my daughter.’

George could not hide his astonishment. ‘No! Does she know?’ His first thought had been how the shock of such news would affect Charlotte.

‘Not yet. It was a politic switch of identities with my brother that happened at her birth, but I should have told her the moment I returned from France. I deserve every kind of censure for not doing so.’ Alistair Rokeby looked pensive and then addressed George’s request. ‘Have you the means to support a wife and children?’