'A comparative newcomer,' the Earl said lightly. 'His father was of some service to the present King's father.'

'Political service,' Ramage added. 'Rather a clever politician.'

‘The Duchess,' Gianna said darkly. 'I hear strange stories about her.'

'Quite so,' the Earl said hurriedly, 'but one mustn't believe all one hears.'

'Makes for jealousy, too,' Ramage said, winking at his father.

Gianna tossed her head scornfully and picked up her cup. 'Even if one does believe, that woman hasn't achieved in a lifetime what some Roman women I know accomplish in a week. Why, the Duchess of Ravello had -'

'Gianna!' the Earl said sternly, 'no more of your detailed stories of light women - not at breakfast, anyway!'

'Later, then, when you feel stronger,' Gianna said nonchalantly. 'I don't know what has happened to Hanson.’ She rang the bell and pointed to the big silver urn. 'More tea? It will be cold in a few minutes.'

The Earl moved his cup towards her, and when a distant clatter in the kitchen startled both men, she noted how physically alike they were. The sudden noise made them both turn, reminding her of hawks poised to attack. They resembled so many of those forebears whose portraits hung from the walls of the St Kew house. Both had the Ramage face in full measure: high cheekbones and a thin nose (how did they say it in English? Aquiline?) and eyes like brown chestnuts and deep-set under almost fierce eyebrows. Full mouth, hands with long fingers . . . In one or two of the portraits the artists had managed to catch that elusive look of amused detachment with which the Ramages had apparently surveyed the world through successive generations and which, in Nicholas, alternately infuriated her and made her want to hug him.

The look was a pose, a mask which hid their true feelings, because she knew Nicholas was far from detached. Nicholas could (and did, for she had seen him a dozen times) stand on the quarterdeck of his ship, apparently concerned only with the trim of the sails and the course being steered, and surveying the men as though they were sheep. Later he would speak to Mr Southwick, who was usually the Master, and ask if a particular man had hurt his arm, or another seaman's leg was troubling him, and suggest they should be given lighter duties. Often Southwick, as kindly an old man as she had ever seen, would be startled by his captain's sharp eyes, since he had seen nothing and the man had not reported to the surgeon. Lord Ramage - or Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage, as he preferred to be called in the Navy - was far from detached, and she loved him and was terrified when he went to sea. The Admiralty deliberately chose him for absolutely impossible and dangerous tasks - and she was going to tell Lord St Vincent so when she saw him that night - because he usually managed to do the impossible, although sometimes at a terrible cost of life and limb.

As he watched her pecking at her food, Ramage tried to guess her thoughts: she had become strangely, almost ominously quiet. Perhaps she was upset that he would be wearing uniform that evening instead of being rigged out in whatever sartorial idiocy passed for male fashion at this particular moment,

There must be some vast philosophical conclusion to be drawn from the fact that today both newspapers devoted more space to news of the military influence on feminine fashion than Bonaparte's invasion plans and Britain's defences, though he was damned if he could think what it was. A display of confidence in the nation's safety, perhaps, and therefore better than printing shrill alarms? A crude gesture of defiance? Or was it a genuine disdain of Bonaparte's plans, which was dangerous because it went hand in hand with apathy?

Merely being on leave was a change of fashion for Lieutenant Ramage! After months at sea it was a comfortable change to be sitting at a table in a room with ten feet of headroom instead of the few inches over five feet usual in the captain's cabin of one of the King's smaller ships. Instead of his uniform he was dressed in pearl grey breeches, pale blue waistcoat - although he disliked the fancy silver thread embroidery, it was one of Gianna's favourites - and a relatively comfortable dark blue coat which Gianna scorned as more suitable for an unfrocked priest.

Women were traditionally the slaves of fashion, but men were just as bad, with politics thrown in for good measure. Some of Mr Pitt's supporters were wearing scarlet waistcoats and Mr Fox's buff without their womenfolk laughing them out of court, and he had heard that the Tory ladies were now sporting patches on the right side of their foreheads while the Whig ladies stuck them on the left. The doxies of the revolutionaries from the London Corresponding Society presumably wore them on the tips of their noses ...

Still, he was thankful that wigs were becoming less popular, because they were still devilishly expensive. It was hard to find scratches or bob wigs for less than twenty shillings, and good grizzle majors and grizzle ties cost a couple of guineas and often more.

With his head thudding inside a tight band, his mouth dry and his feet swelling so much it seemed they must burst out of his new shoes, Ramage took Gianna's arm the moment the orchestra finished playing and began to steer her off the ballroom floor. 'Let's sit and watch the next one,' he said.

The ballroom in Manston House was said to be the largest in London, and he could well believe it: dancing round it once must equal a circumnavigation of Hyde Park. The Duchess had recently had it redecorated in pale blue and cream, with the complicated ceiling patterns picked out in gilt. There were so many chandeliers it was a wonder the weight did not pull the ceiling down on their heads, and the light was brilliant, emphasizing all the colour and gaiety of the women's dresses and bringing a sparkle to tiaras and bracelets. But all the scores of candles made the great room as hot as the Tropics, and Ramage longed for a cool breeze.

Gianna finished her survey of the hundred or so other women waiting with their partners for the orchestra to strike up again. 'Oh, Nicholas,' she pouted, 'four dances and you're exhausted! Yet you dance exquisitely.'

'Out of practice,' he said, holding her arm firmly and leading her towards a settee. As he walked he watched a young naval lieutenant in uniform come into the room, pause a moment to whisper something urgent to the major domo, and then hurry off in the direction the man pointed to, weaving through the waiting dancers to reach a group of ministers talking at the far end of the room.

‘The orchestra is wonderful' Gianna protested as the music started.

‘The orchestra is wonderful, you look wonderful, and it's a wonderful ball, but I feel as though I've been in action for three hours!'

'Well, I don't,' Gianna said crossly, reluctantly sitting on the settee. 'Let's watch the Duchess dancing,' she said, arranging her flowing skirt. 'She must be at least thirty, but what energy!'

'At least thirty,' Ramage said gravely. 'She’ll be a grandmother soon.'

'But she has no children!'

‘Then she'd better hurry,' Ramage said vaguely, turning to watch the lieutenant reach Lord St Vincent, open the small leather pouch he was carrying, and hand over a letter. ‘The Duke will want a son and heir,' he added lamely, realizing that Gianna was staring at him. 'It's only natural . . .'

'Is she pretty?' Gianna demanded.

'What - the Duchess?'

'Don't be exasperating! The woman you keep staring at'

'I was watching that officer delivering a dispatch to the First Lord,' Ramage protested, turning to face her. 'Anyway, if there was a woman here more beautiful than you, I'd look at her out of curiosity, but since there isn't you can relax and stop stabbing me with those hatpin looks.'