Madness. Madness born of grief and despair, madness born of unrequited love. Which had stirred in the Marquess’s breast with those final, fatal words?

A madman is loose in the hills. And Lord Harold, it seemed, was afraid that the madman was the Duke of Devonshire’s heir. It was for this he had begged me to observe the household; not for Lord Harold the unhappy duty of naming Georgiana’s son a murderer. He would leave that to strangers.

I sighed in exasperation. Impossible, to consider any part of the whole with clarity. I was too much unsettled in my mind — too little familiar with the habits of Whigs — too greatly troubled by the secret Lord Harold’s countenance had lately betrayed. The Gentleman Rogue was in love with his oldest friend’s daughter. Did he find Georgiana’s bewitching charms revived once more in Lady Harriot?

And what did she think of him?

Or say rather — what did Lady Harriot think of any man?

Charles Danforth was marked in his reserve; yet there had been meaning in all his words to Hary-O. He had told her, in effect, that his will was hers to command. But so much dignity and suffering — such a weight of years and loves already outworn — might well terrify a girl of one-and-twenty. Andrew Danforth — the maid’s seducer — had no such reserve; his back was unbowed by sorrow, he had charm and looks enough. He was ambitious in the field of politics, which Hary-O’s entire world had taught her to admire. Andrew sought the Duke’s patronage, and he desired the Duke’s daughter. It would be a brilliant match for the younger son of an un titled family, however respectable. He would gain everything — a formidable Whig hostess, practised in Parliament and Society; a considerable fortune; and the sponsorship of one of the greatest Powers in the land. She would escape from the misery of living under Lady Elizabeth’s reign, and acquire a gentleman with pleasing manners, an air of affection, and the best humour in the world.

But Tess Arnold had stood, quite possibly, in the way of it all—

By the time the carriage achieved The Rutland Arms, I was in the grip of a severe head-ache.

“AND SO YOU HAVE RENEWED YOUR ACQUAINTANCE with the Countess of Swithin, Jane,” my mother observed as I entered the parlour. “And how did you find her? Wasting away from a life of dissipation and vice?”

“Indeed not, ma’am. Lady Swithin is presently increasing,” I remarked, as I removed my hat and spencer. “She was in excellent looks, I assure you, and begged to be remembered most fondly to yourself and my sister.”

“Increasing! And so she gets on, does she, with her scoundrel of a husband?”

“As to that, I cannot say. The Earl did not put in his appearance.”

“He leads her a merry dance, I’ve no doubt,” observed my mother in satisfaction. “It is some comfort to reflect, Jane, that however sad your situation in being as yet unmarried, you have not chosen a man solely to disoblige your family. It is a great thing, now I am in my failing years, to find you are not the mother of ten children, and all ill-provided for.”

“And Lord Harold?” enquired Cassandra, as though the word scoundrel had given rise to an idea of that gentleman. “He is well, I trust?”

“Not so well as I could wish.” I settled myself in a chair and observed the linen Cassandra was embroidering. “He is presently in mourning for the Duchess of Devonshire. She was a great friend of his youth, it seems.”

“Great is but the first of the superlatives to describe her,” intoned my cousin Mr. Cooper from his chair in the corner. “One cannot escape hearing her spoken of in this town. Her death has been most deeply felt; and yet, I rather wonder at such a figure being held in high esteem by the common folk! My noble patron, Sir George Mumps, was a little acquainted with Her Grace — such people of Fashion are always aware of one another, you know — and Sir George assures me that the Duchess owed no less than an hundred thousand pounds at her death — and all, debts accrued at the gaming tables!”

“A gamester!” cried Cassandra, horrified. “How is half such a sum to be repaid?”

“Very readily,” I murmured, “if the riches of Chatsworth are a token of the Duke’s wealth. I suspect he should no more regard the debt than you should moan over your laundry bill, Cassandra.”

“I am sure that the Duchess was everything that is pleasing,” my mother observed, “but she was a Whig, my dear, and you know they cannot be respectable.”

“It is dreadful, indeed,” my cousin reflected, “to consider the course of her life. Such great gifts, and so little principle; such riches, and yet such a squander of what might have gone to the greater Glory of God! I hope you were sensible, Cousin, that in entering that house you visited a place of lamentation — a place where Death has taught the most awful lesson it may bestow: that of waste, and misery, and a life struck down in its very prime!”

“I am afraid, sir, that I observed only the natural grief for a beloved parent gone too early to the grave,” I rejoined. “And as I have endured a similar loss myself in recent months, it could not seem extraordinary.”

“Was the estate very grand, Jane?” enquired Cassandra eagerly.

“What little I saw of the house was almost oppressive in its grandeur,” I said thoughtfully, “and not what I should consider a home. But for a family of Whigs I am sure it would do very well. And the grounds are magnificent. I could wish for a week together to ramble over the estate; a phaeton and a pair of ponies would be the very thing.”

“And may you hope for a second invitation?”

“I have already received one. Lady Harriot Cavendish has asked me to dine at Chatsworth on Saturday, in respect of her twenty-first birthday; and I have agreed to go.”

“Saturday!” Mr. Cooper cried in horror. “But I had intended to quit this dreadful place as early as tomorrow, or Saturday morning at the very latest!” He waved an unsealed letter in the air. “My dear Caroline writes that the whooping cough has taken hold of the entire family; several of the little ones are in a most parlous state. Her mother urges draughts of black cherry water, but the apothecary, Mr. Greene, will have none of it, and abuses the good woman for her interference. It is imperative that I return to Staffordshire immediately. I am certain that Sir George Mumps would wish it.”

“But has Sir James given us leave to go?” I enquired, surprised.

My cousin flushed. “I have not the least intention of conducting my affairs at that gentleman’s behest,” he retorted. “It lends a most unseemly air to my conduct, to kick my heels in Bakewell like a guilty party when I might better be in attendance upon my family.”

“If you do mean to throw yourself in Lord Harold’s way again, Jane, you had better have the wearing of Cassandra’s grey silk,” my mother observed in a resigned accent. “Its tone should soften the ill effect of your blushes, and pay some deference to mourning. Unhappily, it can do nothing further for your complexion; you are most disgracefully tanned!”

“Such contrivings shall hardly be necessary,” Mr. Cooper broke in. “You must refuse the invitation, Cousin. Express all that is proper to Lady Harriot — show yourself sensible of the very great honour you have been done — but refuse it in any case.”

“I could not deprive Cassandra of her silk—”

“Fiddle!” my mother cried. “You will never get Lord Harold, Jane, in a washed-out muslin! With Mr. Hemming fled in fear of his life, it cannot matter what Cassandra wears!”

“Fled?” I repeated. “Not truly?”

Mr. Cooper was approaching apoplexy in his looks. “If Jane were to dine at Chatsworth on Saturday, we should be incapable of quitting this miserable place until Monday at the earliest — for I trust you are not intending to subject me to Sunday travel.”