“One might observe the Solent from nearly every window in Mrs. Challoner’s house,” I objected drily.

“But if one intends to signal a confederate on the opposite shore — or perhaps a ship — Are there ramparts among the ruins?”

“The walls are achieved by a turret stair. Orlando and I espied the Windlass from that height.”

“Excellent Jane! You have done better than I might have dreamt. Come, fetch your cloak.”

“Why, sir? Am I going out?”

“We have much to do, and little time in which to effect it. Pray do not stumble over your mother in the passage,” he added as I made for the door. “She has been listening at the keyhole this quarter-hour at least.”

28 October 1808, cont.

My mother stood before the mirror in the hall, arranging withered leaves and raspberry canes in a Staffordshire vase. Although she had not elected to make a cake of herself in crouching before the parlour latch, I recognised the diffident look of guilt on her reflected countenance.

“Jane!” she hissed. “That man is closeted within! I learned the whole from Martha. What is he about? How can he conceive of showing his face in Southampton, after the shabby treatment he served you in Derbyshire?”

As the shabby treatment had consisted of several intimate visits to the ducal house of Chatsworth, I could not share her indignation.

“If you would mean Lord Harold, Mamma, he has very kindly paid a call of condolence, having learned of our dear Elizabeth’s passing. His lordship is likewise in mourning. He recently lost Her Grace the Dowager Duchess.”

“Naturally — I saw the notice a few days ago. Poor woman; she was but three years older than myself, though hardly as respectable. An actress, you know, and French. That must account for the strangeness of the son — for I cannot find out that his brother Wilborough is so very odd. He must take after the paternal line.” She gave up her efforts with the vase and surveyed me critically. “Lord Harold might as easily have written you a note regarding Elizabeth, as any trifling acquaintance should do. What does he mean by descending on Castle Square in all the state of a blazoned carriage?”

I shrugged indifferently. “No doubt he has business in Southampton, Mamma, and merely offered us the civility of a morning call. As for the chaise — I have an idea it is on loan from Wilborough House. His lordship is but this moment arrived from London.”

“Is he, indeed?” She looked much struck, and began to fidget with the pair of garden shears she held in her hands. “And what does he prefer by way of a cold collation, Jane? For I have not a mite of meat in the house — not so much as a partridge! We might send to the tavern for brandy, I suppose—”

“Pray do not disturb yourself,” I begged her.

“Lord Harold has kindly invited me to take an airing in his equipage. He declares that I am looking peaked.”

“And so you are!” my mother cried. Two spots of colour flamed suddenly in her cheeks. “An airing in his equipage! And he is only this moment arrived in town! But, Jane — my dear, dear girl! Now his mother is gone, I suppose there can be no objection to his marrying where he likes! Not that she was so very high in the instep — and foreign besides — yet she may have had her scruples as to connexion. There can be no question of prohibition now, for I am sure His Grace the Duke doesn’t trouble himself about his lordship’s affairs. Only think of it, Jane! How grand you shall be!”

“Mamma,” I interposed desperately lest Lord Harold should overhear, “I believe Martha is in want of you in the kitchen.”

“Fiddlesticks!”

“Indeed, madam, Martha is calling. You should not like your dinner spoilt.”

Nothing but food is so near my mother’s heart as marriage. She turned hastily for the passage. “Enjoy yourself, my dear! And when you have accepted his lordship, pray apologise for my having disliked him so excessively in the past. I am certain we shall deal famously together, once he has given up his opera dancers. Take care to wrap up warmly! You never appear to advantage with a reddened nose!”

In the event, the carriage was a closed one, with the Wilborough arms emblazoned on the door — as I had suspected, an equipage of his brother’s, pressed into service. The squabs were of pale gold silk; a brazier glowed at our feet. The coachman had been walking the horses this quarterhour in expectation of his master’s summons. Orlando was mounted behind. He was magnificent today in a round hat with a broad brim, and a dark blue livery; the woodland sprite was fled. I smiled into his dark eyes and received an answering twinkle; but he was on his dignity, and offered no word.

“The Itchen Dockyard’s fate is uncertain, with the shipwright murdered; but it is possible we may find Mr. Dixon’s workers there, labouring to reverse disaster’s effects,” Lord Harold said.

“They cannot cause the ship to spring, phoenixlike, from the ashes.”

“Absent the shipwright, to whom should I speak, Jane? Is there a yard foreman?”

“I do not know whether he bears that title — but there is a Lascar, one Jeremiah by name, in whom Mr. Dixon appeared to repose his trust.”

“We may achieve the place, I think, from the road above Porter’s Mead?”

His lordship informed his coachman of the direction, and settled himself on the seat opposite. The door was closed, and all the bustle of town abruptly shut out; and for an instant, consigned to that sheltered orb of quiet, I was struck dumb with shyness. When I had last driven out in Lord Harold’s company, it had been August in Derbyshire, and the equipage an open curricle. Then he had taken the reins himself, the better part of his attention claimed by the road. Now we surveyed each other across an expanse of satin-lined cushions. The interior of the chaise was finer by far than the condition of my dress; I felt that I ought to be arrayed in a ball gown, with shoe-roses on my slippers.

“I have treated my mother to a falsehood,” I said in an effort to break the silence, “for I assured her you desired to give me an airing. That must be impossible in a closed carriage.”

“We shall not be confined for long.” The keenness of his glance was disconcerting; was it possible the Rogue felt as awkward as I? “I am so accustomed to your company, my dear, that I forget what is due to propriety. Your excellent parent is even now surveying our departure from behind her parlour curtain, and considering whether I have compromised your reputation. Have I ruined you, Jane, a thousand times in our long acquaintance?”

The question was so direct — and so unexpected — that I failed to contrive a suitable answer.

“Naturally. Having been seen even once in your company, I have not a shred of respectability left.”

“Shall I offer for you, then?” he demanded abruptly.

The rampant colour rose in my cheeks. Oh, that I could believe he had heard nothing of my mother’s speculations!

“Pray do not say such things even in jest, my lord. You must know that I aspire to a career as an authoress, and such ladies never marry. Domestic cares will eat up one’s time, and leave no room for the employment of a pen.”

“If you insist upon trifling with a gentleman’s heart — then tell me of this novel of yours. This Susan.”

I remembered how Orlando had enquired about my book’s publication, as he stood in the Abbey ruins; naturally his intelligence derived from his master’s. “I never speak of my writing to anyone.”

“But your brother Henry does. He possesses not the slightest instinct for discretion, you know. It shall be his undoing one day.”

Henry and his fashionable wife, Eliza, Comtesse de Feuillide, had long formed a part of the London ton, though their circle was less lofty than Lord Harold’s own. The Rogue enjoyed my brother’s company whenever they met — and how often that might occur, in the mêlée of London routs, I could not say. It had been some time since Eliza had mentioned Lord Harold in her correspondence.