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That stung, as it must since it was confirmation that he cared nothing for her, and so it did not matter in the least what he said to her, but she would not let him see how badly it wounded her.

‘And if you had been deeply concerned with all she said to you about me, as a real fiancée would have been, it must have hurt you badly, and cast a shadow between us. I am glad you were spared that.’

It was impossible to answer that without revealing more of her deepest feelings than she could bear to, when it was obvious he didn’t share them. But she had to make some response. ‘I did not believe most of what she said, even before you explained. It was so clear that she had an axe to grind.’

‘If only others could see her so clearly.’

And then he took his leave of her, without kissing her hand, and left her staring at the flowers he had brought her, as they wilted on the side table, wondering what in heaven’s name she could do.

Because she did love him, she had been forced to acknowledge today, but very plainly, he did not return her love.

It was no wonder, perhaps, that he had no eyes for her, or for any woman.

He might no longer love Lavinia – he had said so, and she could see that he believed it – but he was still inextricably bound up with her.

Even if he hated her, he was in some sense still obsessed with her, and her place in his life.

There was no space in his heart or in his thoughts for anyone else.

The idea of making his engagement to Amelia genuine had obviously never so much as crossed his mind, and if it had crossed hers, she must banish it.

He had grown a little fond of her, perhaps, and was grateful, and liked to talk to her.

She amused him, even, and his life at present held small enough amusement.

He was attracted to her, as a frustrated man might easily be to an available woman, or at least he had been when they had kissed.

But that was all, and soon enough, when all this chaos had subsided, she would have to break off this ridiculous sham engagement and set him free, though it was the last thing she wanted.

They couldn’t pretend to be engaged forever, or even for many more weeks; as well as being obviously impossible, it would be unbearable for her. Soon, it would have to stop.

Sophie was so careful not to interrupt whatever she thought might be happening in the yellow saloon that eventually, Amelia was obliged to go and find her, which she did at the nuncheon table.

Rafe and Charlie were there too, full of concern for her health.

Once she had persuaded them that she was fit to be out of bed and was not likely to go into a decline because she sat on a hard chair for half an hour and ate some ham, they passed a peaceful enough meal.

It was not until later that Sophie was able to speak with her alone, in her cosy sitting room.

‘I perceive that you remain unravished,’ she observed sadly, shaking her red-blonde head, ‘and so, I suppose, does he. It is a great pity.’

Refusing to engage in a discussion of how Sophie could possibly know this, Amelia said glumly, ‘I felt I had to tell him that Lavinia had been to see me. And after that, there was no question of ravishment. He told me everything.’

‘And is she his mistress, as she claims?’

‘No. He said she wasn’t, and I believed him.

He admits that the child could be his, but could just as easily not be.

It was just once, he said, before she was married, when they were both overwrought at being separated.

But he said that he does not love her now, and has no intention of marrying her – as we supposed, in fact. ’

‘Come,’ Sophie said encouragingly, ‘that is not too bad, you know. He is free to care for you; that is what matters. One cannot be so strict as to overlook a mistake made eight years ago and never repeated since. He is a man, not a saint. It would be most uncomfortable to be married to a saint, I should imagine. Especially for a Wyverne.’

‘He is free to love me, but he does not. There is no point trying to deceive myself. Sophie, it may well be true that he no longer has feelings for her. But he is bound up with her in a way that does not allow him to look seriously at any other woman. It has clearly not occurred to him to view me in such a light. He as good as told me that he was only able to confide in me because he didn’t care a button for me!

I don’t see how you can describe that as a hopeful sign. ’

‘I am not sure that is right. All my observations about his concern for you last night still stand. Melia, I am sure there are men who could share such painful details – and you must agree that it was right for him to share them – then turn around instantly and begin making passionate love to you. But I do not think he is one of them. And he would not be someone to be trusted if he were such a person. “My sister-in-law is trying to ruin my life and drive me distracted with her lies, but hey ho, sweetheart, since you’re here, come sit on my lap!” I expect he was distressed at what he was obliged to say to you, and that drove all thoughts or romance from his mind.

He is not some smooth Lothario, I think, but someone who feels things deeply, which is to be desired in a man, and certainly in a husband. ’

Amelia sniffed and said that no, he wasn’t a smooth Lothario, and obviously she didn’t want him to be, because that sounded most disagreeable.

‘And I said – because you know above all things, I didn’t wish him to believe that I was trapping him – that the engagement wasn’t real, so that he wasn’t forced to remind me of it first. And then he kept repeating it.

“I know the engagement isn’t real”, he kept on saying.

More times than were strictly necessary, I thought. ’

‘Perhaps he wanted to remind himself, more than you,’ said the ever-optimistic Marchioness.

‘I can’t just interpret every single thing he says and does as evidence that he might care for me,’ Amelia replied with a deep sigh. ‘If I do that, I’ll be as bad as she is.’

‘That could never be!’

Matters were, even Sophie had to agree, at an impasse.

Lavinia refused to be discouraged, some unknown person had tried to gravely injure Amelia and, so far, got away with it, Amelia was suffering all the torments of unrequited love, and Lord Thornfalcon’s feelings towards her remained unclear, possibly even to himself (this was Sophie’s contribution).

But events were moving apace elsewhere. The host of the fateful ball, Sir Humphrey Aubertin, was a man both proud and hospitable, and, as he had intimated to Lord Wyverne last night, took very strong exception to the idea that one of his guests – and a young lady, too – should be harmed by a person of malicious intent under his very roof.

He had not himself seen the hand shoot out and push Lady Amelia down the Carrara marble steps his grandfather had imported at vast expense from some crumbling Italian palazzo, but his trusted major-domo had been close by and had witnessed it, as had several of his intimate circle.

He felt as a matter of honour that he was responsible for what could easily have been a most grave injury, and a poor night’s sleep – in which the dreadful incident replayed against his twitching eyelids with increasingly more Gothic outcomes – had crystallised his resolve to do something about it.

On rising with a very bad head, he wrote and despatched several notes.

One of them was to Lord Wyverne, enquiring anxiously about his dear sister’s health; one was to Lord Thornfalcon with almost identical contents; and one was to the chief magistrate at Bow Street, with whom he happened to be acquainted.

An Aubertin would never shirk his duty, no matter how unpleasant.

Lady Aubertin called on the Wyvernes that afternoon, and was able to report back that the interesting young victim had risen from her bed, but was still pale and shaken, and – if she was any judge – in very low spirits.

Even the gift of a basket containing several exotic fruits from Sir Humphrey’s famous forcing houses did not appear to cheer her, though she had said all that was civil on receiving them.

And if a girl could not be made to smile by a pineapple all of her own, not to mention four or five of the celebrated Aubertin apricots, and a fine bunch of grapes, why, something was seriously amiss.

‘I do not think she blames us, though, dear,’ she told her husband soothingly.

‘Wyverne too was good enough to assure me that he does not,’ her spouse responded dolefully. ‘Pleasant young fellow, I thought, quite serious, and much unlike his rascally father. But it is a very bad thing, Felicity, a very bad thing.’

The result of all this, upon the next day, was a most unusual visitor at Brook Street: Mr Ezekiel Pennyfeather, one of Bow Street’s most celebrated Runners.