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Her mother was a striking foil, a beauty still, dark and shapely, with a looser-laced character than her daughter’s. Here was a hot-blooded woman pulsating with an erotic energy; Ferdy understood perfectly why Mrs Payton might have become romantically entangled with the twenty-year-old Lord Flambard while her husband was away at war. He felt sure that Miss Payton was of a cooler and more restrained temperament and unlikely ever to embarrass him and herself in such a sensational way.

‘This is very civil of you, Mr Shilton.’ Amelia Payton leaned forwards to take his hand, her creamy bosom on ebullient display.

Her daughter gave him a radiant smile. ‘I am glad you managed to get us a supper box. I think tonight’s fireworks will draw in one of the largest crowds of the Season.’

And, indeed, as the chaise neared the river, the hordes of excited people in the streets seemed to all be heading in the same direction. It was still light enough to make out the expressions on their faces and catch sight of the passengers in the other coaches, colourful in various degrees of fancy dress.

As the luxurious Shilton chaise swayed to a stop, joining the queue of vehicles wishing to cross the new bridge at Vauxhall, Mr Shilton remembered his last trip to the pleasure gardens in the company of Alick Wolfe and Raven Purfoy, with Corinna sitting among them, so excited to see Vauxhall Gardens for the first time. He missed the light-heartedness and humour of that time. Alick and Corinna had just married and were giddy with happiness. He wondered why he had not chosen to discuss his plans to marry Miss Payton with these, his oldest and truest of friends. Did he fear they could not approve such a rational decision, when they had followed their desires?

The coach rolled up the approach to the bridge and he looked out on the expanse of river, usually so grey and greasy but now shimmering almost golden in the dying light. The rowing skiffs and barges had already lit their lanterns and appeared like fireflies flitting over the gleaming water as they navigated the fast-running currents between the mighty piers of the bridge. No longer would most guests arrive by boat in the time-honoured way, to access Vauxhall Gardens via the long flight of steps at the river entrance.

Approaching the south bank, Ferdinand Shilton’s enthusiasm for the scene bubbled up and he pointed out to his passengers the distillery and pottery works on the shore where Messrs Doulton and Watts had set up their business. ‘I’ve visited them, hoping to buy some more dinner plates for Nonsuch House. I don’t have as many as I need when I have a big party or a ball.’

Miss Payton gave him a speculative glance. ‘Are you planning on such a celebration in the near future, Mr Shilton?’ Then peered out the window and exclaimed, ‘Look at that enormous windmill on the riverbank.’

Ignoring her question, he pointed to the horizon ahead, where an arc of light curved into the darkening sky. ‘Behold! The lights of Vauxhall Gardens. We’re nearly there.’

* * *

The afternoon was so warm, all the kitchen doors in the Lockhart mansion in Grosvenor Street were open to the mews to encourage a breeze. Madeleine found Dot at the sink in the scullery and watched her for a moment, her small frame and thin limbs as quick and economical as a bird’s.

The kitchen maid turned and smiled. ‘Didn’t see you there, Miss Madeleine. Wanting some help with your hair?’

Indeed she did. The deft, skilled fingers that dressed poultry and plaited pastry for the family’s pies were wondrously clever with hair too. Earlier in the day, Dot had tied Madeleine’s hair up in rags to encourage more curl and now that an evening meal would not be required, she had more free time. Madeleine did not have her own lady’s maid, but Dot had embraced the role and both young women liked and respected each other. Madeleine enjoyed writing Dot into her novel, giving her a surprising quirk of fate that would bestow her a happy-ever-after. The power of the imagination to change reality thrilled her.

‘It might be better, Miss, if you dressed first, then you won’t disturb your hair once it’s finished.’

Madeleine stood up so Dot could help unlace her and she stepped out of her plain day dress to stand in her chemise and stays, her slenderness complemented by long shapely limbs.

Dot collected the new dress from the closet and slipped it over Madeleine’s head, its rose gauze sparkling in the light. She stood back and surveyed the effect. ‘Well, Miss Madeleine, what a picture you make.’

Madeleine walked over to the old looking glass and found it hard to believe the reflection she saw gazing back at her. Her hair was still wrapped in white rags, but her face was glowing, the unusual colour of her grey-flecked eyes intensified by the shimmer of pale pink and soft green, the small bodice and puffed sleeves fitting to perfection.

‘Oh, Dot. Susie is so clever. It’s the loveliest dress I’ve ever seen.’

‘And you look very handsome, Miss Madeleine. It shows off your pretty arms. Now, let me make your hair equal to the gown.’

As Dot untied the rags, Madeleine’s hair fell in soft ringlets round her face and Dot swept them into a loose topknot on the crown of her head, threading some pink ribbon through the curls. ‘Thank you, Dot. I like the looseness. I hope it stays in place.’ She gave a small delighted twirl. ‘It’s going to be such a warm night, I don’t think I’ll wear a pelisse, but will borrow a shawl from Miss Henrietta.’ She knocked on Miss Lockhart’s door. ‘Hen, can I come in?’

Henrietta Lockhart was sitting at her dressing table and turned to greet her. ‘Maddie, come in.’ Her eyes widened when she saw the dress. ‘You look very well in that. Who made it for you? A mantua maker in Bond Street?’

‘No. A friend of Dot’s.’

‘You mean the kitchen maid? Then she was living at Covent Garden on the streets too?’

‘Yes, but she’s now a very skilled seamstress with her own business. I’m sure she would be very happy to make you a dress.’

Henrietta Lockhart wrinkled her nose and said in a disdainful voice, ‘I don’t think she’s quite right for me, thank you, Maddie.’ Then she checked herself. ‘But she’s made a very nice dress for you, I must commend you and her.’

Madeleine sat on her cousin’s bed. ‘I hoped I could borrow one of your shawls. The night is too warm for a pelisse.’

‘Yes. But not my Braganza or the blue one.’ Henrietta waved a hand towards her dressing room, then seemed to have a change of mind. ‘Tarry a while, I wish to talk to you.’ Madeleine stayed sitting on the bed, wondering what her aloof cousin could possibly have to say to her.

Miss Lockhart turned to face her. ‘Edwin’s Oxford friend, Mr Paget, is joining us tonight. He’s the son of a city man. Mama thinks him quite beyond the pale of respectability, but I like Mr Paget. He looks very well, is kind, and best of all will be very well set up indeed when he inherits his father’s import business, reported to provide ten thousand pounds a year.’ She gave a genuine smile, an expression Madeleine had never seen before on her cousin’s petulant mouth. ‘In fact, he will be twice as rich as even Edwin when he inherits Grandmama’s fortune!’ It seemed to Madeleine that, in the Lockhart family, wealth was measured against the extent of old Lady Lockhart’s potential legacy.

‘I’m glad you like him, Hen,’ Madeleine said, surveying the pretty face opposite with the extravagance of blonde curls and large blue eyes that belied the steely will within.

This steeliness suddenly showed itself when Miss Lockhart remarked, ‘I’d prefer you called me Henrietta in public. And I would be grateful, given my admission of having a liking for him, if you did not flirt with Mr Paget or in any way attract his attention.’