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Eliza did not wish to interrupt Corinna’s conversation; she needed time to think about whether this was a revelation of Lord Purfoy’s feelings or merely a misinterpretation by her own spirit, hungry for love.

So unexpected was his outburst, so uncharacteristic of the noble sardonic lord, she wondered if indeed he was feverish, or in his cups.

How tired she was of the ache of loss and longing, how she dreamed of putting the burden down at last.

Eliza slipped into the orangery where a few people sat in small groups while the rain continued to hammer on the glass roof.

Distracted by her own thoughts, Eliza skidded on a squashed orange that had fallen to the floor.

She put out a hand to steady herself and grasped the arm of a woman standing gazing at the sodden garden beyond the doors. ‘My apologies, madam.’

The woman turned her head and Eliza knew immediately this was Lady Dauntsey, Marina Fairley’s fearsome aunt.

But as their eyes met she was unprepared for the thunderbolt of recognition she felt.

For the first time in her life Eliza saw another with something of her distinctive looks.

There, staring back at her, were eyes exactly like her own, one amber-green, the other violet-grey.

So great was the shock of surprise, hope, fear, and a burning curiosity and need to know that Eliza gasped, ‘Are we familiar to one another?’

The lady looked discomfited. ‘What is your name?’

‘Eliza Gray.’

Lady Dauntsey visibly paled. ‘But she’s long dead.’ Her hand had gone to her throat.

Eliza’s heart began to contract with fear. ‘What do you mean, madam?’

The older woman had regained her composure and with great coolness said, ‘She looked like you; perhaps you’re related. I once knew an Eliza Gray who sickened and died soon after a family tragedy.’

This was the most painful truth that Eliza could hardly bear to hear but had been dreading all her life.

It was so shattering of her hopes, but she had to have Lady Dauntsey confirm it.

Meeting the eyes that seemed so like her own but painfully veiled with hostility and suspicion, she asked in a tremulous voice, ‘Was the family tragedy the loss of her daughter?’

‘I seem to remember it was,’ Lady Dauntsey said with feigned nonchalance as she turned aside, offering only her forbidding profile.

The blow fell, crushing her spirit. Eliza had spent her life believing her mother was looking for her, desperate to reunite with her daughter, but in this casual remark her worst fear was made true.

There was no mother to find. She was alone.

With a sob, Eliza knew she had to escape.

Her mother was dead. This terrible fact vibrated in every cell of her body.

She had only endured the loneliness and harshness of her life because she had been certain her mother was waiting for her and that one day they would be restored to each other.

Her longing for that primal love had ended brutally like this.

Eliza wrenched open the door to the garden and dashed out, oblivious to the rain.

She did not know what she intended to do – escape through to the mews and lie down with the horses?

The cold drilling of the raindrops seemed to give her an external distraction from the inner turmoil of her heart as it fell in pieces at her feet.

She lifted her face to the skies. Was her mother somewhere in that turbulent dark?

Was she that distant star in the lowering clouds, almost lost to view but looking down on her daughter in her hour of need?

Suddenly she felt a hand grip her upper arm.

‘Come out of the storm, Miss Gray.’ She turned to meet the concerned eyes of Lord Purfoy.

Forced back into the present, Eliza was aware of the rain mixing with her tears.

The torches that lit up the terraces had largely been extinguished by the downpour but in the ghostly light that still emanated from the candle-filled mansion behind them she saw his face, wet and gleaming, his eyes dark and inscrutable.

He led her back to the orangery where they were alone and stripped off his jacket.

‘Wear this,’ he said in a peremptory way as he extracted a linen handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to dry her face and dab at her hair.

‘Tell me, what ruinous event has compelled you to attempt a drowning, or at least to invite a fever?’

Eliza’s eyes, intent on his face, were filled with the feeling she could barely articulate.

‘My mother is dead.’ Her words were so bleak, her voice so forlorn, that Lord Purfoy cast decorum aside, opened his arms and gathered her to his chest. Her wet mass of hair seeped moisture through his shirt as she breathed in the smell of him, warm and male, overlaid with a whiff of some green spice like bay.

Her halting words continued, muffled by the folded linen of his cravat.

‘I’ve spent my life longing for her, hoping she never stopped looking for me.

But tonight, I’m told these hopes are as ashes.

She died long ago, soon after we were torn apart.

There was no one thinking of me, searching for me, for she had gone. ’

‘Who told you this?’

Eliza felt his voice vibrating through his chest. She wanted this extraordinary moment of intimacy to continue for ever but stirred, aware of other dancers approaching the orangery. ‘My lord, I fear you and I should not be out here together without a chaperone.’

He released her. ‘Well, my reputation in such matters was lost long ago, but to protect yours we’ll go in search of Corinna. But tell me how you came to know this about your mother?’

‘Lady Dauntsey.’

His face darkened as he muttered, ‘Mother to that graceless blackguard, Lord Davenport!’

‘I fear we may be related in some way. She has my eyes.’

‘No! No one can have eyes quite as affecting as yours.’ And he smiled a rare, sweet smile. ‘Surely you wish to find out more about your family? Have you siblings, a father perhaps?’

About to enter the ballroom again, Eliza turned to him, her face anxious. ‘Do I look a fright?’

‘Yes, but I’ve always had a soft spot for the occasional fright.

Let me pin that lock of hair back in position, make you a trifle more respectable.

’ He picked up a damp wing of her fair hair, twisted it and expertly reattached it to the bedraggled Greek goddess style Polly had so carefully constructed.

‘You seem to be a skilled lady’s maid, Lord Purfoy,’ she said with a spark of her old spirit.

‘I have all kinds of hidden talents, Miss Gray,’ he said, retrieving his coat from her shoulders and holding it for a fleeting second to his face. Then, as if waking from a dream, he grimaced as he slipped his arms back into the damp sleeves. ‘This seems not to have survived as well as your gown.’

He turned a serious face to her. ‘I have an apology to make for my ungentlemanly conduct earlier. I do not wish to take advantage of you in that way.’ His smile was wintry.

‘I seem to be making a habit of apologising for unconscionable behaviour, Miss Gray. I hope you will forgive me for this further breach of my code.’

Eliza’s heart and mind were once more in disarray.

Did he regret everything he had said, or merely the manner in which he had said it?

As they stepped through the glass doors and re-entered the ballroom awash in light, Marina Fairley accosted her, her face etched with concern.

‘Thank goodness you’re still here. My termagant aunt has upset you, I know.

’ She took her arm. ‘You’re drenched! Come and warm up. ’

Eliza looked back over her shoulder at Lord Purfoy, a question in her eyes. He nodded. ‘I hope you find out more,’ he said, before turning on his heel to rejoin his friends.

Miss Fairley was animated and drew Eliza quickly to the fireside.

‘My aunt returned from the orangery with a face as thunderous as the sky. I overheard her telling her son she knows who you are and I think she has information on your family. Are you happy to come with me and ask her what she knows?’

‘Lady Dauntsey has already told me my mother is dead.’

As Eliza said these bleak words, Marina put her arm around her in sympathy. ‘I am so sorry, Eliza. I know what heartbreak this must be, but let’s find out what we can.’

Lady Dauntsey was sitting on a chair by one of the grand windows.

As the two young women approached, she looked up.

‘Miss Gray, Marina, good evening.’ The noble lady was magisterial in her manner.

‘I realise I owe you further explanation, Miss Gray. I believe I know who your father is, but it is not a straightforward matter.’

Eliza was astounded at the news so casually imparted that her father was still alive. Her hands flew to her face, unable to quite know how to cope with two such momentous pieces of news about her longed-for parents. ‘But who? Who is he?’

‘He’s my cousin and he lives in Bathwick Court in Bath, permanently now as he is seriously afflicted with the gout and the waters bring him some relief. His name is the Marquess of Bathwick and he is an old, ill man with not many months left to live.’

Eliza curtseyed. ‘Thank you, Lady Dauntsey. I cannot tell you how important it is to me to be told the truth. I am grateful for that.’ She looked up once more into the haughty face with eyes so like her own, saddened that the first person she had met to whom she was related did not extend to her any warmth of family feeling.

Just as Eliza and Marina turned to go, Eliza saw the unmistakeable figure of Zadoc Flynn enter the ballroom with her friend, Rose Bowman, on his arm.

How good to see her old friend when she was in such need of familiar support. All her fears about Rose coming to the ball fell away as she ran towards her. ‘Rose! I’m so glad you’re here.’ They hugged, laughing with pleasure at being reunited.