“Do you play at faro, sir?” she had enquired with mocking sweetness.

“You know that I do. Would you consent to deal me a hand?”

They had then established themselves at the cunning table near the fire; and I found that my eyes strayed too often from my own cards, to observe the battle of wits they waged, to offer my partner Mr. Ord much success. This was entirely as it should be, for Mrs. Fitzherbert and the Conte were allowed to carry all before them — a result they appeared to enjoy.

“Have you lived all your life in Southampton, Miss Austen?” Maria Fitzherbert enquired as she set down her trump.

“But a year and a half, ma’am — though Hampshire has always been my county. I was born in the town of Steventon, some miles to the north.”

“Then I have spent several years in your part of the world!” she cried, with the first evidence of animation I had seen. “I stayed on numerous occasions at Kempshott Park.”

“And how did you find the neighbourhood of Basingstoke?”

“Decidedly agreeable. It is a good market town, and as a staging post for London, must offer every convenience to one of itinerant habits. It is nearly twenty years since I was staying there — but I recall that the local hunt was rather fine, and the society in general not unpleasing.”

The Prince of Wales had leased Kempshott Park for some years in the late 1780s, or the early 1790s; I had been too young a girl to recollect much of the household, but my elder brother, James, had been wont to ride to hounds with the Prince’s party. I doubted, however, that Mrs. Fitzherbert had seen anything of James. That she could refer with equanimity, to a place she had occupied under the most dubious of circumstances, confirmed my belief that she was impervious to the weight of scandal.

“I knew the house in Lord Dorchester’s time,” I returned, “and attended many a ball there, in my youth. It is a lovely place.”

“I was very happy at Kempshott.” Her eyes lifted thoughtfully — not to meet my own, but to regard Mr. Ord, who was bent over his cards. Her gaze rested on his golden head, and an involuntary sigh escaped her.

“Youth, and its memories, are precious — are they not, Miss Austen?”

Did she think of the Prince, and the beauty of his youth? Prince Florizel, he had been called — one of the most engaging young gentlemen of the last age. Half the ladies of the ton had harboured a tendre for him — but at six-and-forty years of age, he was very much dissipated, now.

Mr. Ord chanced to look up — chanced to meet the benevolent countenance trained upon him — and smiled at Mrs. Fitzherbert. “You are forever young in the eyes of those who admire you, madam.”

Something tugged at my heart — some look or word whose meaning I could not decipher — and then the moment passed. A cry broke from the faro table beside us, and Lord Harold thrust back his chair in triumph.

He stood over Sophia Challoner, his narrowed eyes gleaming. An expression of fury and challenge darkened the lady’s face, and for an instant I almost believed she might tip the table and its contents — cards, bills, a dish of sugared almonds — onto the floor at his feet. Her parted lips trembled as though to hurl abuse at his head; but Lord Harold straightened, and stepped away from the table.

“My God, Sophia, how you hate to lose!”

“You saw the cards. Admit it! You cheated in my house! As you once cheated Raoul of life!”

The colour drained from Lord Harold’s countenance. “Madam,” he said stiffly, “in deference to your sex I may not answer that charge; but were you a man, I should toss my glove in your face!”

Mr. Ord rose from his seat. “Then toss it in mine, sir! I stand behind Mrs. Challoner’s words!”

“Do you, pup?” He bared his teeth in a painful grin; and I saw the mastery pride held over him. He would not hesitate to challenge the American — to meet him with pistols at dawn — and the outcome must be desperate. Lord Harold’s reputation as a marksman was fearful; but I had seen Mr. Ord spur his black mount, and guessed at the passions his gentle exterior must hide. I found that I had risen as well, and stood swaying by the whist table; the Conte da Silva was very still, his black eyes glittering as they moved from one man to the other.

Mr. Ord pulled off his glove.

“James — no! ” cried Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I beg of you—”

He stepped forward, and slapped Lord Harold across the face.

2 November 1808, cont.

“Name your seconds, sir.”

Mr. Ord stared at Lord Harold, his fair skin flushed. “I have none. I am a stranger in this country.”

“I shall stand as his second,” said Sophia Challoner, and rose from her seat. “You do me the gravest injustice, Lord Harold, in supposing that I am incapable of defending a matter of honour.”

“I shall not raise a pistol against a woman,” he returned, tight-lipped. “Find a substitute, Ord.”

“May I offer myself as second?” enquired the Conte da Silva politely. “I had hoped to meet you on more amicable terms, my lord — but circumstances...”

“Nothing you might undertake on behalf of a friend, Conte, shall influence my opinion of your worth; nay, it shall only increase it.” Lord Harold bowed. “My second shall wait upon you here tomorrow afternoon. Good evening.”

Without another word or look, he deserted the room; and as swiftly quitted the house. I thought, in that instant, that I should faint dead away with anguish; but the sight of Sophia Challoner’s blazing looks forced me to adopt an attitude of insouciance. It should never do to betray a dangerous sensibility.

“James! James! ” Maria Fitzherbert cried, and stumbled towards Mr. Ord. “You must not meet Lord Harold! He has the very worst reputation as a marksman! You must fly from this place tonight, do you hear?”

“Forgive me, madam — but you speak of what you do not understand,” he responded gently.

Mrs. Fitzherbert sank down upon the hassock little Minney had once employed, and put her face in her hands. I apprehended only then, that her acquaintance with Mr. Ord must be of far longer standing than I had previously thought. Sophia Challoner went to her, the fire fading from her countenance. “Oh, my dear — I should have considered. I should have thought! It is all my fault! — Reckless, foolish Sophia, to spur the flanks of such a man! And now I have involved my friends in my disgrace!”

“Go to him, Sophia,” Maria Fitzherbert said faintly. “Go to him, and offer an apology. It is the only possible course—”

“You will not consider such a thing!” Mr. Ord said severely. “The Conte da Silva and I know what we have to do. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Fitzherbert — Mrs. Challoner — but I think it’s time we all retired. There’s a deal of work to be faced in the morning.”

Sophia raised her head and gazed at me miserably. “My poor Miss Austen! What a tragedy we have played for you tonight — and all on account of my ungovernable temper! Lord Harold is right: I do hate to lose at cards. But I hate even more to yield to his lordship — and I have done nothing else, to my shame, since making his acquaintance. Shall I summon your carriage?”

“Pray do.” I crossed the room to her, and offered my hand. “And do not hesitate to inform me, Sophia, should you require the least assistance in coming days. I should be honoured to aid you in any way I can, to thwart the policies of such a man.”

The autumn moon was just past the full, making travel at an advanced hour far less hazardous than it might have been in utter darkness. I had merely three miles to cover in my hack chaise — but the interior was more spartan than Lord Harold’s conveyance, and I was jolted against the stiff side-panels more than once on my way through West Woods to the Itchen ferry. The Abbey ruins rose up silent and ghostly in the silver light, a stark outline as I passed; no spectral fires lit the shattered ramparts this evening. I considered the singularity of human experience. I had contemplated the romantic possibilities of touring a ruin under moonlight, at the dead hour of night; and never dreamt the chance should fall in my way. Now, confronted by the chilly prospect, I shuddered.