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Lord Charles Wyverne was a slight, dark young man of decidedly dandiacal leanings, and it was fortunate that his sister had appeared directly before him, because his shirt-points were so high as to render his peripheral vision almost non-existent, as if he were a horse with blinkers.

Nor could he easily look down, so that it was as well the path was level and unobstructed.

It seemed unfair that he should choose to inflict upon the world a startlingly garish purple and gold waistcoat that he alone was unable to see.

But he was plainly an amiable young man, and seemed genuinely pleased to encounter his sibling, and delighted to be presented to Lord Thornfalcon, his sister Helena, and Mr Gastrell.

When quizzed mischievously as to what he was doing alone and on the strut, so finely arrayed, he admitted na?vely that he was showing off a new coat, and had set out with a friend, but had lost sight of him.

His new companions could scarcely wonder at it.

‘Do you need us to take you home, Charlie?’ his sister asked with false solicitousness.

‘You may take my arm and I shall guide you, and not let you stumble. I’m not sure you’re safe out on your own. ’

He didn’t seem to take offence at being teased; presumably, he was well used to it. ‘You don’t understand fashion, Melia, that’s the thing. These shirt-points of mine are all the crack – can’t expect a mere female to appreciate the finer points of what’s the rage among the more discerning fellows.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t understand it at all, it’s perfectly true.

’ But she nobly refrained from asking either of her other male companions, who could both see their own feet without any trouble, if they did either, and so Lord Charles joined the party, taking his sister’s other arm without further protest.

On the one hand, Marcus thought, since the whole of the haut ton appeared to have decided to take the air this fine afternoon, one couldn’t be enormously surprised to encounter any members of it in particular; on the other, there did seem to be some sort of malign fate in operation once again, since it was not five minutes later that they bumped, in his case literally, into his widowed sister-in-law and her small family party.

Lord Thornfalcon was fully recovered from his bayonet wound and the debilitating fever that had followed it, and restored to excellent physical condition, or he might have been knocked from his feet when he was violently accosted by a diminutive whirlwind in the shape of his niece.

She must have run at him from some considerable distance, for she had picked up speed and momentum, so that when she crashed into him and seized him about the legs, he staggered at the impact, but providentially did not fall.

She clung to him like a monkey and looked up, saying winsomely, ‘Uncle Marcus! I am so happy to see you! You do not come to visit us, though I wish you would, and it has been an age since we stayed with you. I hope you are quite well?’ He could hear, faintly, passing ladies who had happened to observe the scene cooing over the young Miss Thornfalcon’s adorableness, and her obvious and deeply touching affection for her uncle.

As a child about Priscilla’s age, Marcus had had an expensive mechanical toy bought for him by his fond godmother: a soldier in a red-painted metal coat, who had marched across the room and crashed satisfyingly into furniture and walls, but only, of course, if its owner had activated the mechanism and pointed it in the chosen direction.

Priscilla had long since reminded him of this toy, since she seemed to have as little will of her own as the automaton, but went where her mother told her, and said exactly what her mother had primed her to say.

She was an apt pupil, there could be no doubt, but she was still just a child for all her calculated tricks.

Though it took a strong effort of will for him not to recoil from her whenever he met her, he tried hard to conceal it.

‘Good afternoon, Priscilla,’ he said now, unable to insert any enthusiasm into his voice, wishing she would let go of him.

He would welcome her childish affection for him gladly, however difficult the circumstances, could he only credit it as genuine.

‘Priscilla!’ said Lavinia in tones of gentle indulgence, approaching in an altogether more ordered fashion and smiling up at him, a vision of silver-gilt loveliness that could still make him blink, despite everything.

‘I know you are excessively glad to see your dear uncle after so long, and I cannot blame you for it, but it is not at all ladylike to run, you know, nor to seize him in such an unmannerly fashion. I pray you, remember that your noble uncle sustained a grievous injury in his nation’s service, not long since!

I am sorry, Marcus – I hope you will pardon my poor child’s natural enthusiasm.

She is so very fond of you, and of course, we cannot forget that she has no papa now to love her. ’

There weren’t enough passersby who could overhear to make an actual audible sensation – though it was truly surprising how Lavinia’s silvery voice carried – but Marcus felt rather than heard a stir run through those who could.

There was another low sound too, which he thought was his sister, making rude gagging noises behind him.

And at his side, Lady Amelia was stifling something, possibly giggles.

‘I’m here too,’ Helena said. ‘Possibly you did not notice me, Priscilla, in all your excitement. Good afternoon, Lavinia. Am I not to receive a hug from my niece? I assure you, I am quite braced for it. Luckily, I have not undergone any battle injuries in recent months, so you need not hold back on my account.’

The child, who did not appear to be chastened by her mother’s arch reproof, no doubt because she had been warned in advance to expect it, shot a questioning look at Lavinia, and at some unspoken sign, embraced Helena with markedly less vigour than she had employed upon Marcus.

‘Helena,’ said Lavinia, with corresponding coolness. ‘I am glad to see you looking so well. Will you not introduce us to your friends?’

‘Gladly,’ said Miss Thornfalcon crisply. ‘Lady Amelia Wyverne, Lord Charles, may I present my widowed sister-in-law, Lady Thornfalcon? Mr Gastrell you know, I think, Lavinia. And here are Lavinia’s parents too, Sir Lionel and Lady Hall.’

Shaking the hand of the man who had, along with his father, contrived to separate him forever from the woman he had loved, Marcus could only admire Lady Amelia’s sangfroid as she and Lavinia curtsied to each other, and as she accepted with every appearance of well-bred ease the Halls’ notably tepid greeting.

When he had been free to marry, and Lavinia had, Sir Lionel had disapproved of the idea, because of his lowly standing as a second son.

But now that sense and reason and above all his own personal distaste forbade the match, though the law was infuriatingly equivocal, the baronet appeared to have changed his mind.

Or had had it changed for him by his daughter.

But then, Marcus was no longer just a soldier, but a viscount now.

The houses that Lavinia had occupied as a married woman – the title, the land, all of it – were now his, and could be hers again.

What a marked difference it appeared to make, to Hall and his wife both.

No more than their daughter did they appear to relish the sight of him conversing and walking, however casually, with an eligible young woman.

Lady Amelia might not be as lovely as Lavinia – after all, who was?

– but she did not share her disadvantages, and they must be painfully aware of it.

After a little interval of rather stilted conversation, Priscilla began demanding to accompany Marcus and Helena home, so that she might see her dear grandmama, and spend some time with her.

One might have imagined from her impassioned pleading that they shared a deep bond, which was not the case, or else that the Dowager’s health was in so poor a state that she could expire at any moment, which thankfully also was untrue.

But when the Halls’ insistence was added to hers, and Lavinia prettily begged that they be allowed to come, unless it should be a great inconvenience, it was impossible to refuse.

And so the party separated, Jeremy assuring Marcus that he need not trouble – he would escort Lady Amelia home with the greatest of pleasure.

Marcus might have responded that this was scarcely necessary, since she had the perfectly adequate company of her brother, but with an effort, he restrained himself.

Whatever his friend was about – perhaps it was just idle mischief – this was no time to get to the bottom of it.

Helena’s silent but satirical presence made any sort of private conversation between Lord Thornfalcon and his sister-in-law impossible; there was also the child.

Priscilla had insisted on walking between them and swinging on both their hands, while shooting melting glances up at each of them in turn, as if to say, Are we not a pretty little family?

Imagine if we could always be together so!

Despite his discomfort, he could not help but feel a stab of pity for her; it was true that she had lost her father, and he could not doubt that Ambrose had been a loving parent.

But Marcus knew that most of the people who saw them together were probably thinking as she was, and wondering too if there was any deeper significance in the grouping that they made.

Had His Lordship made the decision to risk all for love at last?