“I should judge Mrs. Wolff to risk far more in that quarter,” Cassandra observed. “Her reputation is not likely to survive her visit to Bath.”

“Mr. Lawrence does have a habit of throwing ladies into disaffection with their husbands, Jane,” Eliza conceded. “You must have seen the recent letter in the Morning Gazette.”

“It has been ages since I read a London paper,” I replied, my curiosity roused. “To what letter would you refer?”

“Mr. Siddons’s.”

“The husband of the celebrated Sarah?”

“The same. He resides here in Bath, you know, for his gouty legs — and has quite broken off with his wife.”

“I did not know it. But what of this letter?”

Eliza’s eyes shone with delicious malice. “Mr. Siddons offered a reward, no less, to those who would expose the author of the slanders directed at his irreproachable lady — of having been detected in adultery with Mr. Lawrence!”

“But she has always been reputed virtuous — and is of an age to be Mr. Lawrence’s mother!”

“I quite agree, my dear. Isabella Wolff, at least, we may consider his contemporary. But Mr. Lawrence has painted Mrs. Siddons a score of times, to the greatest public acclaim — and in years past, seemed quite taken with the entire family. Excepting, perhaps, Mr. Siddons.”

“I think you had better convey this tale to your friend Mrs. Wolff,” Cassandra observed, in a tone of gentle reproof.

“She is already aware of it, I am sure,” Eliza said with a shrug. Then, leaning towards my sister, she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Is not that Mr. Kemble, Cassandra? Your old friend from the Chilham ball?”

A portly officer in his thirties, not above the middle height and with receding brown hair, was advancing determinedly upon us; and I trembled for my sister. She is of so mild and unprotesting a disposition in general, as to be severely imposed upon by bores of every description — who find in her quiet beauty and paltry fortune a double advantage; for she is a lady who can neither fail to bring them credit as a partner, nor tempt them to abandon the single state. At the Chilham ball to which Eliza referred, my sister had consented to dance no less than four dances with Mr. Kemble — and had found both his conversation and skill to be sorely wanting. He can claim no relation to the famous Kemble family of actors — tho’ such a distinction might render even his tedium easier to bear — but is rather a member of the Kent militia, and an intimate of my brother Edward’s home at Godmersham. Mr. Kemble is a great enthusiast for shooting and riding to hounds. He finds ample scope for discourse in the merits of his dogs and hunters.

“Now there is a respectable gentleman, Jane,” my mother declared, reappearing with Henry in tow. “There is credit and propriety.”

My sister audibly sighed.

“Shall we seek the cloak-room?” I enquired, but it was too late. Mr. Kemble had achieved his object.

“Miss Austen,” he cried heartily to Cassandra, with a bow that brought him nearly so low as her knees. “Delighted! Capital! I am only just arrived in Bath — and here I find my old partner! You haven’t changed a bit — and it has been all of three years since we met, I declare! I might never have left Chilham! I trust you are at liberty for the first?”

“I am, sir,” my amiable sister replied with a curtsey.

“Excellent! Excellent! I shall look to partner you the entire evening, then — would consider it a favour to your excellent brother Edward! — for I cannot suppose a lady of your mature years to be very much in request. We shall deal famously together!”

Mr. Kemble offered his arm, and with a despairing look, Cassandra accepted it; and I heard him exclaim, as they moved towards the floor: “My setter Daisy’s had two litters since you went away! Capital little bitch! No turning her from the scent!”

“How well they look together,” my mother mused, in following her elder daughter amidst the couples. “Though she is perhaps too near him in height for convention’s sake.”

“That is very bad in Cassandra, indeed,” Eliza said mischievously. “A lady should always attempt to be shorter than her partner, can she contrive it, and had much better sit down if not. But you shall not suffer a similar indignity, Jane, for Lord Harold is quite tall, indeed. Shall we dance, Henry?”

The first dance was struck up; I found Cassandra quite martyred among the couples; and felt a gentleman to loom at my elbow. I turned — and saw Hugh Conyngham.

He had left off his court dress, and was arrayed this evening in a plum-coloured coat of superfine cloth, a pair of dove-grey pantaloons, and a waistcoat of embroidered silk. The folds of his neckcloth were so intricate as to leave the eye entirely bewildered, and his collar points so stiff as to demand a permanent elevation of the chin. I smothered an unruly impulse to laugh aloud — the tragic Hugh Conyngham, a Dandy! — and curtseyed deep in acknowledgement. For all that he might affect the popinjay, Mr. Conyngham is nonetheless a handsome fellow, with his tousled dark head and his bright blue eyes — and I must appear sensible of the honour of his attentions.

“Miss Austen,” the actor said with a bow. “Your ankle is quite recovered, I trust?”

“Entirely, sir, I assure you. I may thank your excessive goodness — and excellent brandy — for the preservation of my health.”

“Then may I solicit this dance?”

“With pleasure.” My surprise was considerable; but I followed him to the floor without a murmur, my thoughts revolving wildly. Had he discovered the plundered desk in the manager’s office, and recollected the curious nature of my stumbling in the wings?

“I am all astonishment, Mr. Conyngham, at finding you present in the Lower Rooms,” I said, as we entered the line of couples arranged for a minuet. “I had thought the company engaged tonight in Bristol.”

“And so they are — but the play they would mount has no part for me.” He moved well, with unconscious grace, and his aspect was hardly grim; perhaps I had misread his eagerness in seeking me for a partner. “I had thought to find Her Grace’s party at the Assembly — but must suppose their present misfortune to have counselled a quiet evening at home.”

“Perhaps. Though I believe they intended the Rooms.”

“Lord Harold is a prepossessing gentleman. I had not made his acquaintance before his appearance in Orchard Street last evening.”

“Very prepossessing, indeed,” I carefully replied. “And blessed with considerable penetradon. He is highly placed in Government circles, I understand.”

A swift, assessing look, as swiftly averted. “You are quite intimate with the family?”

“No more so than yourself, Mr. Conyngham.”

“I?” He permitted himself a smile. “As though it were possible! No, no, Miss Austen — not for me the pretensions of a Mr. Portal. I do not aim so high as a ducal family.”

“And did the manager truly entertain a hope in that quarter?”

“I must assume so. Portal was excessively attentive to Lady Desdemona.”

“But — forgive me — I had understood him to be devoted to your sister.”

“Admiration, perhaps — esteem and affection — but devotion? I should not call it such.” He shook his head.

“No,” I mused, “for the devoted do not look elsewhere.”

“As my sister has long been aware. Maria has never been so incautious as to place her faith in the affections of a gentleman; and I cannot find it in me to counsel her otherwise. We are a reprehensible lot, where ladies are concerned.”

“You are severe upon your sex!”

He smiled bitterly. “I have seen perhaps too much of our fickle nature, Miss Austen.”

“But you can know nothing of light attachments yourself, Mr. Conyngham.” I hesitated, then plunged on. “I have it on the very best authority that your heart is given over to one already in her grave.”