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Amelia’s downcast state did not improve over the next few days, which were a dizzying whirl of social engagements – balls, breakfasts, dinners and picnics.

When they were at home, a great number of calls were made on her and Sophie, and cards were left for their attention by ladies who had never previously paid them such honour.

The doorknocker was never still, and the mantel was thick with invitations for yet more events in the coming weeks.

The attack on her seemed to have brought about a noticeable change in the way she was viewed by the greater part of society.

Perhaps even some of the more sensible Friends of Lavinia could see that things had gone too far, and welcomed this opportunity to pull back and to moderate their behaviour before any more harm was done.

Mr Pennyfeather had not been seen or heard of in a while, and Sophie had agreed that this must mean that his enquiries had petered out into nothing, as they had always suspected that they might.

Probably, it was for the best – she had had enough of scandal.

And so there was no more hissing and whispering when she danced with Lord Thornfalcon, and though she still attracted glares, there were far fewer of them, and they could be ignored.

Though Miss Muswell and Miss Archer still scowled at her, Miss Lancaster actually went so far as to smile feebly at her, and pass a remark about the fine weather.

If there were still any whispers at all about her reputation, she did not hear them, and the men who had previously made her life miserable by their unwelcome attentions no longer bothered her in the least. It was ironic, she thought, that her plan had essentially worked exactly as she had hoped, and yet she was thoroughly miserable in a manner she could not have anticipated.

She saw Marcus, of course, but always in company, and when they danced together or drove together in his phaeton, they were always surrounded by people, and had no sort of private conversation.

She could not doubt that he was avoiding her on purpose; his expression was as closed to her as it had been when they had first met.

The conviction grew upon her that he was waiting for her to tell him that she must break off their engagement, as she had always planned to do.

He might be impatient for such an event, impatient to move on with his life – but naturally, he would never betray as much to her.

She ought to do it. The intimacy between them – the dances, the drives, the fact that she was acknowledged by all the world as his prospective bride – would end then, but it was illusory in any case.

It must be, if they never spoke in private nor shared any part of their private thoughts, as once, briefly, it had seemed that they might.

A kiss and a… whatever their second moment of physical connection had been, they counted for very little, and she must not dwell on them.

She needed to find strength enough to end this once and for all.

But still she hesitated. She might tell herself that it would be better to wait till the Season came to an end – that there’d be less gossip that way, which would be better for both of them and for their families.

She might even think that she simply could not bear being the subject of rumour and conjecture so soon, and that she could surely be permitted a little respite from it.

But neither of these reasons for staying silent were genuine.

The sad fact was, once she told him it was over, and once all the world knew it too, she would no longer see him.

Not really. He might be glimpsed in the distance, like any stranger, or acknowledged with a slight, awkward smile at some social event.

But they would not speak, or dance, or ever be together again even in the unsatisfactory ways they were now.

And sometimes, it seemed to her that she couldn’t bear it.

All the colour would go out of her world, she thought, if he was no longer a part of it.

She realised how foolish that was – she barely knew him, and their betrothal had never been real.

But it was what she felt, even as she despised herself for the weakness of it.

It was in this mood of despondency that Amelia received a note early one afternoon.

It was a mysterious missive, left by some errand boy who had, she was told, impressed upon the maid who received it that it must be passed to its recipient only when she was alone.

Presumably, money had changed hands to ensure that this would be so, but once she opened it, all such rational thoughts were driven from her head.

My lady, you must attend the Opera House Masquerade tonight! Come alone, tell no one, burn this.

Lord Thornfalcon is in the greatest peril – his life as well as his reputation – and only you can save him. Wear a dark-red domino and arrive at ten o’clock. I will be watching out for you. Do not fail.

A well-wisher

Amelia stared at the extraordinary words until they swam in front of her eyes.

At first glance, they appeared preposterous – what peril could he possibly be in that she could save him from by attending a dubious masquerade in a place respectable young ladies certainly never went alone?

It might as well have had THIS IS A TRAP inscribed upon it in red ink capitals.

But she thought she knew who had sent the letter – she thought it must be Lavinia Thornfalcon.

And that changed everything. It might easily still be a trap, meant to damage her, but perhaps that didn’t matter.

There were not many people who knew the disreputable secret – supposing it was true – that Lavinia and Marcus shared.

The secret of the child’s birth. It wasn’t important whether it was true or not, after all.

If Lavinia was truly desperate, she might reveal it, and that would be terrible.

It was like a loaded gun pointed at his head, and none of the gossip any of them had ever suffered would be as much as a drop in the ocean compared to that.

If it were ever revealed that he had lain with his brother’s wife – she had not been his wife at the time, but nobody would care for that – his reputation would be utterly ruined.

He was not a rake, and did not deserve to be seen as one by the world.

Lavinia’s good name would be destroyed too, and so would her daughter’s, but perhaps she did not care for that if she was desperate.

But if Amelia made it plain that she had no intention of marrying him, if she swore to break off the engagement directly and kept her promise, perhaps Lavinia would grow calmer.

Amelia did not know if Marcus would ever marry Lavinia, assuming he were free to do so; she thought not, since he appeared rather to dislike and distrust her than to love her.

But that was not within her control; all she could do was end this farce and set him free.

Which meant that she would go to the Opera House, no matter the risk to herself, and tell Lavinia so to her face.