“What do you make of that?”

I opened the page slowly, afraid of I knew not what — that it was penned in Lord Harold’s hand?

That it contained a declaration of ardent love? But I could not recognise the fist. The note was dated Monday — the thirty-first of October.

There was no signature.

“How very odd,” I said softly.

“That is a note that smacks of blackmail, Jane. It appeared on my doorstep Monday morning.”

“But what does it mean?” I enquired with a puzzled frown. “And from whence did it come?”

“If I were forced to offer a guess — I should say that my late serving-maid, Flora, had penned it; though I confess I cannot speak to her hand.”

The writing was fluid and without hesitation, though from the appearance of several blots, it appeared to have been written on an unstable surface — the back of a jolting cart, perhaps? Flora had certainly suggested, in our conversation amidst the ruins, that she might pursue such a course; but I would not disclose so much to Sophia Challoner. She did not need to know that I had met with the girl on Sunday, while overlooking the Lodge.

“But why should your maid attempt extortion? What can this girl profess to know of your affairs?”

She shrugged. “Nothing I should not publish to all the world. She is gravely mistaken if she believes me likely to pay for her silence. I must assume she suffers a grievance, for having been turned off without a character — but in truth, Jane, she was a wretched servant.”

“I am sure of it — your opinion could not err in such matters,” I returned with complaisance. “But how shall you answer such a letter, Sophia?”

“I shall meet the scheming wench tomorrow at dusk. Should you like to bear me company?”

“Take Mr. Ord,” I advised. “You do not know, after all, whom you may encounter — and a gentleman of parts should be of infinite use, in so lonely a place, and at such an hour.”

A clatter in the hallway below — and my companion turned hastily from her mirror. “That will be Lord Harold, or I miss my mark. Come, Jane — let me make you better acquainted with the most despicable man in the Kingdom!”

2 November 1808, cont.

They played at faro on Mrs. Challoner’s enamelled table, with the faces of the thirteen cards painted on its surface: Sophia as dealer, Lord Harold the bettor. As she drew each card from her box, he wagered a sum as to its face; and as she displayed it, he must react with neither pleasure nor pain — but rather as a man in acceptance of his Fate. The game was well-suited to their varying tempers — Lord Harold should keep a mental register of every card that fell, and might, with time, wager successfully as to the nature of those that remained — while Mrs. Challoner stood in the guise of Fortune’s handmaiden: powerless to affect the hand she dealt, but determinant of success or failure all the same. He had appeared this evening at Netley Lodge with his usual careless grace; claimed acquaintance with Maria Fitzherbert in a cool but affectionate tone that was returned with polite indifference; bowed correctly to the Conte da Silva-Moreira, who would have drawn him apart immediately if he could — but that Lord Harold was determined, I saw, to take notice of me.

“Ah, and it is — Miss Austen, I think? Of Mrs. Lacey’s pastry shop? You are in excellent looks this evening, ma’am. I confess that it has been a long while since I have seen such a daring hat.”

He pressed my hand to his lips, raised a satiric brow, and allowed his attention to be claimed by others — but the rallying tone, and the attempt at intimacy, had not been lost upon Sophia Challoner. She came to me not five minutes later and said, in an undertone, “Do you not believe me, now, Jane, when I say that the fellow is lost to all claims of respectability? He shall be offering you carte blanche next, if you are not on your guard.”[23]

All conversation was soon at an end, however, for Sophia Challoner opened her instrument, and commenced to play a dashing air while Mr. Ord sang. The American possessed a rich, full voice that paired admirably with the pianoforte — and I thought how well Sophia and her swain appeared together: the dark head and the bright, the cultivated beauty and the fresh-faced youth. Were they, despite the disparity in their ages, equal in attachment? I witnessed no peculiar mark of regard — no look of adoration or lingering touch. It was a puzzlement. I almost wished them to be lovers, so that they might not be joined by conspiracy alone.

“Her performance is admirable,” said Lord Harold in my ear, “but I cannot approve her taste. What do you think, Jane?”

He had moved between my chair and the wall.

Beyond me stood the Conte da Silva, his gaze trained on the fair proficient, while Mrs. Fitzherbert had retired to her fringe in the window seat, and must be well beyond the range of hearing.

“I think that you run the risk, my lord, of alerting Mrs. Challoner’s senses. She mistrusts your notice of me, and is determined to thwart it.”

“Sophia — jealous? All the better!” he murmured provocatively. “I enjoy considering you the object of that woman’s envy, Jane. You deserve a little envy. Your dress becomes you as nothing has these four years, at least.”

“My lord—”

I felt too exposed in the room, under the gaze of those assembled; but I apprehended that it was exactly this degree of risk his lordship enjoyed.

“Are you not desirous of learning my progress in London?”

“I cannot believe there is wisdom in such a subject.”

“Jane, Jane — you were never faint of heart! But I make you uncomfortable. And Sophia detects a disturbance in her ranks; she shall end her song presently. I have time enough for this: Beyond the power of imagining — to the shock and dismay of her intimate friends — Mrs. Fitzherbert has lost the Prince’s favour. He now pursues another: the Lady Hertford, whose husband rules the Seymour clan. It would seem that in pleading Lord Hertford’s indulgence, in the matter of Minney Seymour, His Royal Highness fell in love with Hertford’s wife. Poor Maria has won a daughter — but lost her Prince.”

His speech was done, as well as his provocation; but he had left me much to consider. If Mrs. Fitzherbert had been spurned once again — if, in the autumn of her life, she were abandoned a second time by the man to whom she had sacrificed every notion of honour and reputation — might she not have cause for vengeance? Our assumptions of her fidelity to the Prince must be routed. And that meant—

— That she might lend her entire support to a Catholic plot, without the slightest qualm.

I studied the pink and guileless countenance of the middle-aged woman bent over her fringe, and felt both doubt and immense pity. What must it be, to be born with the burden of beauty, and pursued to the ends of the earth by the Great — only so long as one remained young?

It was after Sophia’s song had ended that I fell prey to her rapacity for whist-players, a table being made up of Mr. Ord, Mrs. Fitzherbert, the Conte da Silva, and myself. I am no lover of cards, and detest the waste of an evening spent in such a pursuit, when the hours might better pass in conversation or music — but I understood that Sophia Challoner pursued a double purpose, in arranging her drawing-room thus: she might satisfy Mrs. Fitzherbert’s desire for placid amusement, and engross Lord Harold entirely to herself, the better to further the Conte da Silva’s interest with that gentleman.