“Such a steward!” Lady Imogen observed mistily; “so caring and thoughtful in every respect, that I might run roughshod over your heart and mind both, and you will not presume to manage me. Take care, Charles,” she threw over her shoulder as she left him, “or I shall accept that proposal of marriage you offered me. It would ruin us both, I assure you.”

Major Spence did not allow his expression to change as his eyes followed Lady Imogen to the faro table; and in that perfect reserve and preservation of countenance I read the strength of the man. Perhaps I alone would name such a look as passion — but I, too, had loved a wild thing once to my loss. A simpleton could perceive that the steward was languishing for the Earl’s daughter.

Spence bowed correctly in my direction, enquired if there was anything I wanted — if I was amply supplied with muffin and tea — and then took up his place beside my mother at the whist table.

I am no card player. The elder Prowtings and the Papillons made up one party of whist; Mr. Middleton, Miss Beckford, my mother, and Major Spence another; while Lady Imogen was claimed by Julian Thrace.

“She is said to be a gamester of the most hardened kind,”

Henry murmured in my ear, “tho’ she is but two-and-twenty. It is not to be wondered at, with the Earl for a father. The gaming trait is fatal in the Vansittart blood. It is said to rival even that of the Spencers.”

“Did you know, Henry, that the Earl was a friend of Lord Harold’s?”

“I did not. But they were both of a Whiggish persuasion; and I confess I cannot be surprised. The Earl’s society is rackety enough, Jane — his lordship being cheek by jowl with the Carlton House Set; and Lady Imogen’s mother, you know, ran away with a colonel of the Horse Guards when her daughter was only three.”

“How diverting is your knowledge of the Great, Henry!” I sighed. “The appearance of Mr. Thrace — the prospect of losing so considerable an inheritance as Stonings — must make her ladyship quite blue-devilled.”

“I should think the earldom would be entailed on the male line,” Henry said doubtfully. “Absent the upstart Beau, the title will pass to a cousin of some kind. But it is certainly true that Stonings at present forms a significant part of Lady Imogen’s jointure. At her marriage or her father’s death, the estate should come to her; but his lordship now appears inclined to allow Thrace to live in it. Spence told me as much himself.”

“So it is for Thrace that Major Spence is undertaking repairs?” I enquired in astonishment. “That cannot be an easy circumstance — when the Major has so clearly lost his heart to Lady Imogen.”

“Do you believe it? Perhaps he means to rescue her ladyship from an unendurable future. Julian Thrace will be three-andtwenty in three weeks’ time, and on that date the Earl will throw a ball and invite the entire county. His lordship intends, so Spence assures me, to appoint Thrace his heir — to Lady Imogen’s loss. She must either marry, or in some other wise put an end to the Bond Street Beau’s pretensions.”

“—By discovering, perhaps, that Thrace is not at all what he claims,” I said slowly. Three weeks was little enough time to secure a fortune. Who would know the truth about Thrace? An acute observer — a man of the world — a self-trained spy with his finger in every tonnish plot. Lord Harold might know, and guard the facts in his subtle papers. Did Lady Imogen comprehend as much? Was direst need the spur to her playful conversation?

My own father. would part with half my inheritance to know in what manner he himself figures in those pages, and which secrets have been let slip like the veriest cat out of the bag.

“Is Lady Imogen expensive?” I asked Henry.

“Ruinously so. It is said that young Ambrose, the Viscount Gravetye’s heir, cried off from an engagement when acquainted with her true circumstances, and that only old Coutts stands between her and disaster.[17] Observe: Lady Imogen will end the evening by wagering that emerald circlet with young Thrace — for she cannot abide to lose.”

“Particularly to him. ”

They were a compelling pair: the Beau with his guinea-gold hair in fashionable disorder and his coat of the most elegant cut gracing a sportsman’s form; the easy humour of his smile; the warmth in the lazy blue eyes. And Lady Imogen: dark, hectic, her lips parted with excitement at the turning of every card, her alabaster throat a lily rising from the vessel of her gown. They reminded me of two others who had once played at faro—

Lord Harold, and the woman he believed a spy, long since fled from England in the arms of her betrothed. But Lord Harold had always been in command of himself as well as the cards; I doubted Julian Thrace was so masterful.

“The lady looks to win,” Henry said admiringly. It is a curious game, faro — played upon a little baize table set between the two players. One must deal the cards, and the other guess as to their face value before each is overturned; a talent for tallying sums, and holding a keen memory of all the cards played, will serve the gambler well. The tension in Lady Imogen’s body suggested that a good deal rode on the outcome of this hand; she was half-risen from her seat, her cheeks flushed and her dark eyes sparkling.

“And so to the final card,” she said in that low and throbbing voice, “and so to the final card! Turn it over, Thrace! Show its face! My luck cannot desert me now!”

He smiled, and with long fingers turned the card to the fore; she sprang from her chair, face exultant and fierce as a huntress’s, oblivious of those who watched her from the flanks of the room.

“The Devil!” she cried out, impassioned. “The Devil is in these cards, and by God, the Devil is with me! I shall outrun you yet, Thrace — you and all the petty duns of England who would see me ruined!”

In the heavy silence that followed this extraordinary outburst, the doors of the sitting room were thrust open to reveal a manservant bearing a note on a silver tray. The assembled guests stared at him in fascination as he moved towards the magistrate, Mr. Prowting.

The gentleman took up the note, perused it swiftly, and then raised his head to stare accusingly at me.

“Is anything amiss, sir?” I enquired.

“Gentlemen and their boots be demmed! Footprints in the cellar, likewise! It is as I expected. Bertie Philmore has returned to the scene of the crime — and has been caught stealing into your cottage, Miss Austen!”

Letter from Lord Harold Trowbridge to Mr. Henry Fox, later 3rd Lord Holland, dated 13 December 1791; one leaf quarto, laid; watermark fragmentary ELGAR; signed Trowbridge under black wax seal bearing arms of Wilborough House; Personelle, Par Chasseur Exprès, in red ink.

(British Museum, Wilborough Papers, Austen bequest)

My dear Henry—

You ask if I am well; and I suppose that I am in health enough. The trifling mark of a foil on my left shoulder is healing nicely, and gives no trouble, save to impair my aim with a pistol in that hand — but as it is not the one I write with, I may give you a letter long enough to satisfy the main points of your last. Many of our old friends are gathered here at Aix and elsewhere in the province, laying in provisions and bartering for places in the boats putting off at Marseille. There is a rumour abroad that a party of considerable size is lost and wandering in the Pyrénées, giving the Comte much cause for uneasiness; the snows are already deep at the pass’s height, and his daughter has not appeared although she is daily expected. I hope to meet you soon, with a group of thirteen, and drink a bumper of wine to your health; but if the Comte pleads his cause well enough I may be forced to return and form a search party for Hélène — even if only to retrieve the frozen end of a father’s hopes. It is said that the Committee intends to seize all émigré goods before long; let us trust we shall be paid before they do.