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Amelia was unaccountably nervous as she prepared for the dinner at the Aubertin mansion.

She had seen Lord Thornfalcon more than once in the last few days, but never alone.

He’d called on her assiduously to see how she did, but always accompanied by his sister and sometimes by his mother too.

Sophie had naturally been present on these occasions, and once – memorably – also Lady Keswick and Amelia’s grandmother.

Lady Keswick, as Amelia had feared, was strongly of the opinion that the speedy marriage she had advocated from the first would have prevented the shocking events which had recently occurred.

While the Dowager Lady Wyverne wasn’t necessarily in disagreement with her, she was on rare combative form that day and chose to take issue with the younger lady, it seemed to Amelia, merely for the fun of it.

It had been a clash of titans, Lady Keswick handicapped by her natural reluctance to appear rude to someone past her century, and Delphine held back by nothing at all save her opponent’s inadequate understanding of the French language and its riper curses.

Once or twice, Marcus’s eyes had met hers in unholy shared amusement. But this was all they’d shared.

It seemed to Amelia that he was adhering so closely to the proprieties chiefly as a means of protecting himself.

What she couldn’t say was whether this was because he regretted the kiss – the kiss , the Kiss – or because he regretted his outpouring of deep feeling and of secrets that had so closely followed it.

Perhaps it was both. It was, after all, a false engagement, and such personal matters should be shared with a real betrothed, not the stranger who had so rashly entangled herself in his life.

For all she knew, he was desperate to be rid of her, and yet was obliged to stay tied to her, at least for a while.

Certainly, he had pulled back from any intimacy, taking good care never to be private with her, and even the Marchioness could not claim that that was a good sign.

She did not need Sophie to tell her to wear her best gown.

Of course she would, even if only to armour herself with a little courage in her current state of sad uncertainty.

But which was her best gown? Every remotely suitable item in her wardrobe had been tried on and discarded, some several times, before with a harassed glance at the busily ticking clock on the mantel, she settled on her first choice.

It was deep-pink silk – not the most conventional colour evening gown for young, unmarried ladies, perhaps, but her sister-in-law and her abigail both assured her that it became her greatly and set off her dark hair to perfection.

One of its chief attributes was the fact that it was surely a colour that chilly Lavinia Thornfalcon had never chosen in her life; it would be a good long while before Amelia felt like wearing pale blue or silver again.

The gown could not be described as particularly low-cut, since she was not a married woman, but its straight column clung agreeably to her body – not that anybody would be able to see a great deal of this while she was sitting down eating – and its puffed sleeves were tiny, so that her arms and shoulders were laid bare above her long, snowy-white gloves.

And now she had to think about jewels… Sophie had offered to lend her the Stella Rosa – the vast, pink diamond that was almost her sole inheritance from her ancient French family, the now-extinct De Montfaucons.

But Amelia had looked at its intimidating size and brightness and thought that it would be wearing her rather than she wearing it.

And also it was popularly supposed to be cursed, which was really the last thing she needed just now.

So she had put on instead her grandmother’s suggestion: something Delphine had inherited from her own long-dead mother and kept close ever since.

It was an ancient French Renaissance jewel on an ornate chain of pearl and gold, consisting of two fat, pink enamelled cupids who dangled between them a large, natural barocco pearl.

It too was unique and carried a distinguished history, but it wasn’t screaming, Stare at my cleavage!

in quite the same way as the Stella. Nor was it linked to any disagreeable legends, as far as she knew.

And Sophie, heroically, refrained from wearing the great pink diamond herself.

She had little chance to converse with Lord Thornfalcon before they went in to dinner.

Sir Humphrey was most anxious to show his guest of honour – herself – every flattering attention, and hovered anxiously by her side as they stood in his grand salon.

As he was tall, lean and stooped, dressed in old-fashioned grey velvet, he rather resembled a heron with one chick.

Lady Aubertin, who was stouter and more obviously formidable, stood guard on her other side, with her shy debutante daughter Philomena at her elbow.

Though perhaps they were not aware of it, they were behaving as though they believed that someone might at any moment make a murderous lunge at her from behind one of the Louis XV sofas and they were all three primed to fight them off.

Amelia felt a strong desire to apologise to them all for so seriously disrupting the ball that they had gone to so much trouble and expense to arrange, but then reflected that after all, she hadn’t asked to be pushed down a set of steps, less still their antique marble steps in particular.

Marcus, conversing with his sister and Sophie at some little distance away across an expanse of Aubusson carpet, was looking handsome and rather forbidding in his severe black evening coat and breeches, but then he always did.

And she supposed rather glumly that, as she’d undoubtedly be seated at Sir Humphrey’s right hand, her betrothed would be equally honoured by their hostess, and would therefore be at the other end of the table from herself.

What was the use in being engaged, even fake-engaged, to someone, if you hardly ever spent so much as five minutes in his company?

She took her host’s arm and they moved in stately fashion into a moderately sized dining room, since there were only ten persons present for this intimate meal.

They sat down among glowering, murky Old Master paintings, including a huge and graphic depiction of Jael Destroying Sisera (with hammer and peg to the ear) which seemed hardly conducive to good digestion, particularly for gentlemen.

Brown-haired, pert-nosed Jael, frowning in concentration in a pale-yellow gown that was sadly impractical for her gory task, bore more than a passing resemblance to Helena Thornfalcon, and Amelia, glancing at her, saw that she was transfixed, and perhaps taking mental notes.

But for her own part, she found she had wronged Lady Aubertin, who had, despite appearances, been young once.

Amelia was indeed at Sir Humphrey’s side, but Marcus was placed considerately next to Amelia herself.

Sophie, taking in the situation with her sparkling, dark eyes from directly opposite, smiled brilliantly at her host and began exerting herself to be particularly charming in the French manner.

He was soon looking slightly stunned, but pleasantly so, and certainly had no attention to spare for Amelia, or his food. Sometimes, his spoon missed his mouth.

‘Are you well?’ Lord Thornfalcon asked her without marked originality as she eyed her white soup with disfavour, even with dislike.

She imagined that perfect Lavinia had perfected a seductive way of eating soup, but she carelessly had not.

Most likely she would spill it on herself. Must she starve, too?

‘Yes, thank you, sir. I am quite recovered, and I hope your bruises have faded.’ Damn it all, now she had put the picture of him naked in front of his looking-glass back into her mind. Again.

‘On the contrary, they are now all the colours of the rainbow, or so I am assured.’ He seemed to realise that he had said something that was open to an unfortunate interpretation, and added hastily, ‘I braved Jackson’s for a bout of sparring this morning, and was ridiculed in quite a shameful way by my acquaintances there.

We are accustomed, of course, sometimes to take the exercise shirtless, I should explain.

Especially when it is hot – the weather, I mean. ’

Shirtless . Amelia closed her eyes for a moment and prayed for strength.

For whatever reason, conversation was not flowing easily between them this evening.

An almost palpable constraint had grown up and threatened to paralyse them both into silence, or stumbling commonplaces at best. They both began to speak at once, and entangled themselves in apologies.

This is unendurable , she thought suddenly.

‘Sir…’ she began resolutely.

But there had occurred – though indeed they had not perceived it, being entirely wrapped up in their own mutual and intense awkwardness – a natural lull in conversation around the rest of the table, and Sir Humphrey took advantage of it to say to the general company, ‘I would like to thank you all for coming this evening. I was not sure if Lady Amelia would care to set foot in this house again after what so shamefully occurred here.’

She murmured a confused denial, and he continued, ‘I have been impressed and – I must confess – moved, by Jove, moved, to witness this young lady’s courage and her gracious forgiveness.

This also applies to her family, who have been the very soul of good breeding in these most trying circumstances. ’

It was the other Wyvernes’ turn to utter inarticulate noises expressive of modest but civil disagreement, and yet also simultaneously their celebrated good breeding.

Amelia, who was feeling slightly feverish, saw Sophie sigh in a soulful manner, as she raised her hand to her not inconsiderable bosom and positively fluttered her long eyelashes at the old gentleman.

Rafe, who had been peacefully drinking wine, seemed to choke slightly, and put up his hand to cover his mouth.

‘And Thornfalcon too, who nearly lost his bride before the wedding – an absolutely shocking thing to happen in Grosvenor Square, and we really can’t apologise enough.’

Marcus, who had clearly been prepared for his turn to come, entered into the spirit of the thing and inclined his head in stately acknowledgement.

‘And so, I’ve been racking my brains, and racking my wife’s brains too, to think how I can possibly make recompense to you all.’

‘You have called in Mr Pennyfeather,’ said Lady Thornfalcon soothingly, possibly in a vain attempt to divert the flow, ‘and I am sure we all have a great deal of confidence in him. Not that recompense is needed, of course.’

‘Very good of you to say so, ma’am, and he seems a capable sort of fellow, if a little odd. I have hopes he will get to the bottom of the dreadful business, yes. But it’s not enough.’

Lady Aubertin, perhaps growing impatient as any woman might after five and twenty years of marriage, said, ‘I have been speaking with my old friend Millicent Keswick – I am so sorry that she was not able to be here this evening, but after all, it would have thrown the numbers at table out in a sad way and obliged me to scrape up another gentleman – and she tells me that you are pardonably anxious to marry soon. Quite right! She and I are entirely in agreement as to the inadvisability of long engagements, especially in this particular case. And so we thought we would offer the private chapel here, for the ceremony – so much better than an ordinary sort of church where any vulgar person might wander in off the street to watch, most disagreeable – and Aubertin Priory for the honeymoon. If you obtain a special licence, Lord Thornfalcon, you can be married in a day or so, and put all this nonsense behind you.’

‘Really,’ chipped in her spouse in a resigned fashion, presumably quite accustomed to being interrupted, ‘it’s the least we could do. We both agree that Thursday would be perfect. What do you think, eh?’