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‘He was in a damned – apologies, Lucie! – dashed good mood this morning. Perhaps he picked up a roll of rhino last night at White’s. He’s so devilish lucky with the cards.’

‘He’d say that’s not luck but skill, you know.’

‘He’d never tell me either way. He rides such a high horse. Come to think of it, the only time I’ve seen him bettered is by that young tot of your sister’s.’ He nodded at Lucie and continued, ‘That boy doesn’t hold him in awe or respect. Though he does his horses!’ He let out a sharp laugh.

‘James gets round everyone. It helps that he looks as angelic as Val, but like him, those golden curls disguise pure naughtiness and mischief.’ Lucie leaned against Lord Ravenell with a smile.

‘I’ve already told you, Loo, I want to borrow him, he’d be the perfect grandson for my dear old papa, who’s desperate to secure the patrimony and doesn’t see much hope with me.’

‘Well, if you and I are brother and sister, then that makes James a kind of grandson, doesn’t it?’

‘Or I could marry your sister?’ he said with his roguish twinkle.

‘She wouldn’t have you. And I wouldn’t let you.’ Lucie had been inexpertly shuffling a pack of cards and playfully threw them at him. As they bent to pick up the cards, she caught Lord Lynwood watching her with an intent expression on his face. She straightened up and enquired, ‘If Mr Brabazon went to White’s last night, did all the men go on to clubs after the party?’ The life of these young bloods was a continual surprise to her country sensibilities. How could they spend so much time gambling at dice and cards, betting on anything that moved, sometimes with fortunes changing hands? And drinking, always drinking?

‘Well, Freddie went to High Holborn to the Daffy and hung around with the Fancy sharing boxing cant, and no doubt hazarding his inheritance on upcoming fisticuffs.’

‘And you, Val, went on to an even more raffish club that has no name. That alone would be enough to keep the Duke awake at night!’

Lord Ravenell cast a warning look at his friend and continued to shuffle the cards he and Lucie had collected from the floor. ‘I was thinking now the weather’s improving it would be good to have a curricle race to Epsom Downs. You up for it, Freddie?’

‘Rather!’ Lord Lynwood’s jaded expression was suddenly lively with enthusiasm. ‘Why don’t we see if Lady Cleome’s court-card brother would like to race too? He’s quite a hand with the horses, you know.’

‘I do know, somewhat better than us even, but he’s a fop and dresses like a fool. Not very diverting, Freddie. He’s so prim and prosy, I don’t envy you having him as a brother-in-law.’

It was Lord Lynwood’s turn to be unamused by his friend’s indiscretion and he dashed an impatient hand through already unruly locks. ‘Dammit, Val, you speak out of place!’

For different reasons, perhaps, Lucie was as put out by this comment as Lord Lynwood and sought to steer the conversation back to the proposed race. ‘To Epsom Downs, how exciting. Can I come too and be your Tiger?’ she excitedly asked Lord Ravenell.

‘No, you cannot! You have to know what you’re doing, Loo. I’m not taking any dead weight along. Slow me down. And don’t think you can cozen Freddie. I wouldn’t let you near his curricle. He’s far too reckless. They wouldn’t even let him try for the Four-in-Hand Club, despite Ant Brabazon proposing him. He’s dangerous. Turn you over in a trice!’

Sybella had just returned to the room and heard the tag end of this conversation. ‘There’s no way you’re going racing with these two madcaps, Lucie! You know that an idiotic caper like this killed Lord Pomeroy. Turned his curricle turtle.’

‘Right cracked his nob,’ Lord Lynwood said with finality.

‘My lord, don’t bring your boxing cant into the drawing room.’ Sybella’s eyes danced, belying the reproof in her voice. ‘I have better things to do than listen to your banter.’

‘That’s what comes, dear Freddie, when impressionable young bloods hang around the Daffy Club, discussing mills with the Fancy.’ His noble friend wagged an admonishing finger. ‘They lose their sense of propriety.’

Lady Godley arrived in her drawing room on a ripple of merry chatter. She was carrying her book and the young men stood up to greet her, exchanging warning glances. She bustled to the table. ‘Don’t stop your sport on my account, my lords. I’m prepared to chaperone Lucie while she plays cards with you.’

‘But, Godmama, we need you to make up a fourth for whist. Please join us. Sybella’s cried off, she has some letters to write about the estate. So we can’t play without you.’ Lady Godley twinkled. She liked these young men. She had a partiality for rakish bucks, particularly when they were as good-looking as these two, and thought they added to the gaiety of life.

‘Just a few rounds, then. I don’t want to be kept up all hours.’ Freddie Lynwood brought an extra chair to the table for her and Valentine Ravenell dealt four hands of cards. Sybella collected her writing materials to repair to the morning room. ‘Oh, wait a minute, Bella, before you leave us. I forgot to say to you and Lucie,’ she raised a hand, ‘Lady Sefton has honoured us as promised, and very kindly sent round the vouchers for Almack’s Assembly Rooms. I am in transports of delight! This is such a triumph, mes chéries.’ Her lively face said it all.

Lady Godley’s pleasure was increased by malicious gossip she had heard of the humiliation of other aspirants. ‘Lady Harvard, of the bluest blood and greatest fortune, has been unable to achieve such patronage from les grandes dames who control the membership. Just because she cut Princess Esterhazy without realising her eminence and influence, she cannot now present her daughter. She is désolée.’ She smiled at the assembled party of young with triumph. ‘We’ll go on Wednesday. It’ll be the first Almack’s ball of the Season and everyone will be there. Even the Beau and possibly the Duke of Clarence.’

‘I don’t know why there’s such a fuss about so dashed dull a place. It’s devilishly flat, you know. On the night of the ball, there’s no real gambling, no toping, sour lemonade on offer, and the most paltry table.’ Lord Lynwood was warming to his plaint. ‘And the greatest impudence, the men have to wear knee breeches! It’s a tyrannical oligarchy run by aristocratic busybodies, crazed with power.’ He was theatrically dismissive, as were most young men, who enjoyed a faster, more dashing type of entertainment but attended all the same.

Lady Godley bristled at such disrespect to an august institution and sat up indignantly in her chair. ‘Tush, young man! It’s all a trifle arbitrary, I concede, but the truth is there’s an equity about it. One patroness might take offence and then another smooth the ruffled waters and they relent. I’m sure Lady Harvard and her pretty chit of a daughter will be given their vouchers before the Season’s out.’

‘The harm will have been done,’ Lord Ravenell murmured. ‘I’m with Freddie, it’s a threadbare business. Though there is a bang-up orchestra, all Caledonians, I think. And those léopards femelles have just approved the waltz, so it can’t be all bad.’

Consternation clouded Lucie’s face. ‘But you will come, Freddie, and you too, Val? I won’t know anyone there otherwise!’ Her fingers closed round Lord Ravenell’s arm.

‘Yes, we’ll go, won’t we, Freddie?’

‘Oh, I suppose so. In the end, everyone who’s invited goes, especially at the beginning of the Season when all the green ’uns come to Town, ripe for the plucking.’