CHAPTER ONE

I am so nervous I can barely think. Soon, I shall be a real lady of society! If he comes tonight, I don’t know what I shall do…  My heart belongs and will always belong to Henry Linfield. I cannot wait for the opportunity to dance with him tonight. It’s been two years since I have seen him. Will he even recognise me in my new gown? Will he ask for my first dance? Will he ask to walk on the terrace with me under the moonlight? I don’t even really care about coming out this season! Not really, I know I want Mama and father to be proud of me but the idea of being the centre of attention all night is disconcerting. But I’ll put up with it to be with Henry. I would do anything for him.

“Tilly! Tilly, come and play with me!”

Matilda sighed and looked up from her diary, closing the worn leather book on the section she had been re-reading from two years ago. Her younger brother barrelled into the room, a whirl of red hair and long limbs.

“Careful, Barty!” Matilda scolded, catching her seven-year-old brother’s arms to stop him from knocking something over. He was in the middle of a growth spurt, and was prone to not realising the length of his arms.

“Are you writing in your diary?” Barty’s brown eyes fixed on the red leather notebook with eager curiosity. “Can I see?”

“You know you can’t.” Matilda quickly slipped the book into the drawer, deftly locking it with a key she kept around her neck. Ever since her father had gifted her the journal on the night of her first ball two years ago, Barty had been trying his hardest to have a peek into it. “Come on, what shall we play?” Matilda asked him, trying to distract her nosy little brother.

“I have a new set of jacks that Holton gave me.” Barty bit his lip, thinking hard. “Or we could play cricket?”

“Boring,” Matilda teased, rolling her eyes. “What about … polo?”

“Really?” Barty’s eyes lit up and he jumped up and down. “Yes please! Let’s go!”

Matilda took his hand and ran down the stairs, the two of them laughing as they raced along.

“Matilda!”

They stopped in the hallway, turning to see Mrs Bury poking her head out from behind the parlour door. She had served the Duke of Sinclair and the Wynter family for so long and had been Matilda’s only mother figure in the intervening years between her mother’s death and her father’s second marriage. Matilda couldn’t help but responding obediently.

“Yes, Mrs Bury?” she called. “Little Lord Wynter and I are going riding.”

“You are expecting a suitor, remember?” Mrs Bury shook her head. “Honestly, Miss Wynter, you cannot avoid every gentleman your father suggests!”

“She can try, right Tilly?” Barty quipped, grinning up at his big sister as he parroted her usual phrase back to her. Matilda cuffed him gently on the back of the head.

“Hush you,” she said fondly. “But yes, Mrs Bury, you can tell my father that I have a much more pressing engagement with a future Duke, that should make him happy.”

“I imagine it shall make him less happy when he learns the Dukedom in question is his own,” said a lilting, laughing voice in the parlour. Frances appeared, smiling languidly as she leaned against the door frame in a beautiful gown. She was not yet thirty years old and still held onto that beautiful plume of youth, despite mothering a wild girl through her adolescence and now an even wilder son. Matilda had always loved growing up with a beautiful young stepmother, she had always been the envy of all her friends and Frances had been the jewel of society as the young woman who managed to catch the Duke of Sinclair, a man ten years her senior.

Now, as Matilda had reached adulthood, she had lived with Frances as her mother nearly as long as her birth mother and had quickly adjusted to calling her “Mama,” happy in the maternal bond they shared. She couldn’t wish anything to be different — Frances had made her father so happy and their family complete. Yet Matilda couldn’t help but feel the squeezing pressure of expectation for in reality there were only eight years between them. Consequently, Frances had always been a very current example of how to be an ornament to society; her courtship of Matilda’s father was the stuff of legends among débutantes. Though Frances had never been anything but encouraging of Matilda’s journey and the most supportive mother she could be, but Matilda had already been out for two seasons and she knew the truth deep in her heart: she could never achieve the same heights of glory as her Mama. How could she ever compare to the elegant woman who stood before her? So radiant with her hair that matched Barty’s, that same red shine of autumn leaves, and her unique, arresting eyes.

“Like a leopard,” her father used to whisper to Matilda whenever Frances was enraged, and her eyes glowed dangerously. “Like a hunting cat, watch out!”

Frances’ eyes held none of their furious fire now. She looked at her children with an indulgent smile, her arms folded across her chest and her reddish-brown eyebrows raised in amusement. Matilda knew she had room to wiggle in when Frances was wearing that smile.

“Come on, Mama.” Matilda rolled her eyes. “This gentleman is nearly forty!”

“And a Viscount,” Frances grinned, “and one of your father’s close acquaintances …”

“I’m half his age!” Matilda exclaimed.

“Oh, is there something wrong with that?” Frances laughed. “Don’t forget how many years lie between your father and I.”

“Ten,” Barty said promptly. He had been told the tale of his parents’ courtship many times. It was one of his favourite bedtime stories. “And Mama says it is what is inside a person’s heart that counts.”

“I do, indeed.” Frances laughed at her son, reaching forward to pet his head affectionately.

“Yes, well, ten is not twenty,” Matilda rebuked them both. “And I sincerely doubt the viscount is coming to court me on account of what he has heard of my heart.”

“For shame, Miss,” Mrs Bury tutted. “You shouldn’t talk so in front of Milord.”

“Talk about what?” Barty asked, looking between them.

“Oh, so we should lie to Barty should we?” Matilda raised her eyebrows as she stared between her two mother figures. “We should tell him that a gentleman twenty years my senior was enticed to court an eighteen-year-old on account of her personality alone?”

“I doubt it were that,” Barty piped up, wrinkling his nose. “People say you’re odd, Tilly.”

“Barty!” Frances scolded. “Don’t say such things about your sister.”

“I like it,” Barty pulled on Matilda’s arm affectionately. “She’s not silly and boring like other girls, she’s fun and adventurous and ex — ex —,”

Barty’s face was scrunched up as he tried to remember the right word and Matilda laughed, taking pity on her brother.

“I think ‘eccentric’ is the word you are looking for.” She smiled, poking her little brother’s nose. “And that is the word that society uses to describe pretty women who are not married or courting.”

“Is that why the gentleman is coming?” Barty asked his mother, turning to face her. “Because he thinks Tilly is pretty?”

Matilda bit her lip in amusement, raising her eyebrows at Frances who rolled her eyes in frustration and sighed.

“Yes! Lord give me strength.” She threw her hands up and looked up to the heavens as she often did when she was pressed by both of her children at the same time. “It is because she is very pretty, Barty, but also because she has a very prominent title and making a match with a lady of fortune and circumstance is appealing to a man.”

“But it’s not her fortune, it’s mine.” Barty frowned. “That’s what Tilly told me.”

“What?” Frances exclaimed, rounding on Matilda. “What did you tell him?”

“I merely explained that women are property in this world, and when they marry their status is transferred from the father or brother to their husband,” Matilda said innocently, watching in amusement as Mrs Bury crossed herself again and muttered under her breath about the things women should and shouldn’t talk about.

“Which means Tilly belongs to me, because I’m the heir and I’ll be the Duke one day and have all the money and the titles, so I’m keeping her,” Barty said, wrapping his arms around his big sister’s waist. “I decide that she stays here! Forever!”

Matilda grinned and looked up at Frances, who stared down at her son with an open mouth, utterly lost for words. Mrs Bury frowned and shook her head at Matilda as if she was a lost cause.

“Well, since the Master has the final word on the matter …,” Matilda began, slowly taking a step towards the door with Barty, eager to escape into the fresh air. “I think we’ll just …”

“That’s all very well, but Bartholomew is not the master here,” Frances said, recovering quickly and lifting her hand to stop them both from leaving. They both froze. Those amber eyes were beginning to glow dangerously, and Frances had used Barty’s full name. They knew they might both be in trouble now.

“Your father is, and he has arranged this meeting for you. Whilst he is still the Duke of Sinclair and you still live here, you will do as he wishes.”

Matilda felt a soft flare of temper which she tried to choke down. Just the mention of her father’s authority in this matter was enough to make her angry. She tried to hide it, squeezing Barty’s hand tightly and speaking with a curt, clipped tone.

“I am not leaving the property, I am not defying his wishes,” she said, holding Frances’ gaze. “If this man is truly interested in courting me, then he can come and find Barty and I and join us in some polo.”

“Heaven save us,” Mrs Bury exclaimed. “Viscounts do not play polo with ladies!”

“It’s alright, Mrs Bury.” Frances patted their housekeeper’s arm consolingly, shooting Matilda a frustrated look. “Fine, go. But don’t disappear! I don’t think your father will be very forgiving this time if you do.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Matilda breathed, rushing forward to kiss Frances gratefully on the cheek. “We’ll not be long.”

“Thank you, Mama!” Barty chorused, chasing off through the doors. “We’ll be back before the gentleman who wants to buy Matilda from me comes!”

“Lord in Heaven,” Mrs Bury groaned, disappearing back into the parlour as Matilda tried to stifle her giggles. Despite her frown, Matilda saw Frances’ lip quirking involuntarily.

“You know, when I had a son I had no idea that his big sister would be able to be such a corrupting influence on him.” Frances shook her head ruefully. “You are shaping him into a radical.”

“Says the woman who once persuaded my father to withdraw thousands of pounds from sugar because slavery was abhorrent,” Matilda retorted, and Frances chuckled appreciatively.

“You remember that, do you?” Frances sighed as Matilda nodded. “Well, enjoy it for now, my love. Wisdom comes with age, as does propriety.” She nudged Matilda’s side significantly. “Though I doubt you could ever be truly proper in that sense.”

“Could the daughter of Frances Fortescue, the woman who rescued the Duke of Sinclair from a poisoner and survived an attempt on her life, be anything other?” Matilda said fondly, holding Frances’ hand tenderly. She was proud to be Frances’ child. She was proud of everything Frances had done to protect her and her father, even before she was officially a member of the family. Some people had said Frances’ had been inappropriate in her ardent affection for both Matilda and her father. Matilda could only be grateful.

“Oh, my love.” Frances pressed her forehead against Matilda’s and Matilda took a deep breath: the scent of rose and warmth that instantly made her feel at home. “I am proud of your strength of mind, but your father …,”

“I know.” Matilda pulled away, not wanting to talk about her father at that moment. When it came to the subject of her lack of suitor their disagreement was intense. She looked out of the main doors of the house to where Barty was excitedly having their ponies brought up. “Will you defer him for us whilst we play?”

“Of course.” Frances squeezed her hand. “Be safe. Remember —,”

“Not to ride near the lake,” Matilda finished for her, both of them recalling the near tragedy that had occurred when Frances was still Lady Fortescue and had thrown herself into the lake to save Matilda from drowning after falling from her horse. “I never forget. Until later, Mama.”

Matilda kissed her mother’s cheek and pulled away, running down the stairs of the main house to meet her brother and the groom on the gravel courtyard. The groom had two polo sticks slung over his shoulder and Barty was tossing the ball up in the air and catching it. Matilda felt her heart lighten. There was nothing like a ride out in the fresh air to shake away dark thoughts about the future.

“Are you ready to lose, Barty?” She grinned, grabbing her brother around the waist, and helping him mount his pony. The groom handed him the junior polo stick, the same one that she had used when her father had taught her to play.

“I don’t think so!” Barty grinned, spurring his pony and trotting off towards the back lawn, twirling his stick in practice. Matilda let the groom help her mount the older pony, big enough to carry her light frame but not so large as to make it a dangerous game for Barty and his small steed.

“Thank you, James.” Matilda took her own stick and laid it over her shoulders. “I’ll take it from here.”

She clicked her teeth and the pony obeyed. It was not her normal horse; Matilda favoured a bay stallion named Shakespeare, but all horses responded to her well. She had been riding since she was a little girl, and it was her one great love. There was nothing more thrilling to her than cantering away over the countryside, the trees and hedges rolling past her. Every season that passed only made her more sure that society life was never going to be enough to satisfy her. She turned onto the makeshift pitch on the back lawn and saw Barty looking thoughtful as his pony nibbled grass.

“What’s on your mind, Barty?” Matilda asked, letting her pony trot in an easy circle around him.

“Daddy didn’t buy Mama, did he?” Barty frowned intently. “I thought they were in love.”

Matilda cursed her own hubris. She might be jaded from two years out in society, but there was no need Barty should be so disillusioned.

You are corrupting him!

“They are deeply in love,” Matilda said forcefully. “No, he didn’t do that. They would give their lives for one another. They are best friends. Their marriage is a marriage of souls, not only minds.”

“Oh. Good.” Barty looked relieved. “So have you never been in love like they are?”

His question, though gently asked, nearly knocked Matilda off her horse. She had always tried to be honest with her little brother, to tell him the truth even when it was difficult, but this was one thing she could tell no one.

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t think anyone is in love like Mama and Father. Besides,” she stuck her tongue out at Barty and twirled her pogo stick. “Gentlemen are boring and uninteresting.”

“Not all of them, surely?” Barty knocked the ball towards her, clearly more interested in their conversation than the sport. “You liked that boy who used to come and play when I was little.”

Matilda’s throat felt dry.

“What boy?” she asked innocently, knocking the ball back towards Barty with a little more force, hoping to egg him on and change the subject, but he let the ball roll past, barely looking at it.

“That boy!” he said insistently. “He used to visit our house, and we played with him. He was funny. He helped build the tree house in the forest.”

Oh goodness, the tree house.

  She remembered Henry’s smile as he gripped her hand tightly, pulling her up the tree to the platform he and Barty had nailed together. His sister, Althea had been there too. How she had fantasised about kissing him in that tree house!

“I don’t remember.” Matilda nudged the pony forward, chasing the ball half-heartedly. “Are we going to play, or what?”

“Henry!” Barty exclaimed behind her. “That was his name! Henry Linfield! What happened to Henry?”

What had happened indeed. Matilda had her back to her brother and allowed herself to close her eyes briefly, swallowing down her emotions. How quickly she remembered her disappointment when Henry had not appeared at her début, the crippling dismay when she overheard other ladies discussing his notoriety in town. Even at sixteen, she had known that Henry was developing a reputation as a rogue at Oxford, but it hadn’t stopped her heart from breaking. That night, barely holding back tears as she danced with gentleman after gentleman, wishing the whole sorry affair could be over, she had closed herself down. She had never seen Henry again. She had never felt that way about anyone else. Everyone in society might think she was eccentric and adverse to marriage and that was just as well, it was better than them knowing the truth: that her heart was foolishly and irrevocably given to Henry Linfield.

“Nothing happened.” Matilda tried to keep her voice light. “He grew up, that’s all. Now, let’s play some polo!”

CHAPTER TWO

After an hour, Barty was worn out from polo and ready to go back in and find some jam tarts in the kitchen. Matilda wasn’t so easily sated. The mention of Henry’s name had rattled her more than she cared to admit. Riding the young pony on the back lawn had only whetted her appetite for a good ride over the fields with the wind in her hair. The last thing she wanted to do now was to go back into the house and sit politely over tea whilst a viscount made eyes at her. She sighed heavily, dismounting to lead the pony back to the stables.

“What’s the matter, Tilly?” Barty asked, looking at her solemnly as she helped him dismount at the stable.

“Nothing.” Matilda smiled stiffly. “You should go inside and find something to eat.”

“Your suitor will be here soon.” Barty gazed back up to the house. “Shall I tell him to go away? That you’re not allowed to get married?”

“No! I don’t think father would like that.” Matilda smiled and petted her brother’s hair. It was soft and cold under her hand. She wondered at what age he would stop letting her touch him so affectionately. Time was so fleeting. Yet her father was ever more eager to find her a match. When that happened, she would be taken away from Sinclair Manor and lose these precious years watching her brother grow up. She couldn’t help but feel resentful. Suddenly, all of her goodwill about meeting the viscount vanished.

“You go on ahead.” Matilda gave the groom a significant nod as he took the pony’s reigns from her and gave Barty a little push towards the house. “I’ll be right behind.”

“You’re not coming?” Barty watched the groom walk towards Shakespeare’s stall and gasped. “You’re going out? Mama said not to!”

“Don’t you worry about that.” Matilda ruffled his hair and smiled down. “I know you’re hungry. Go on!”

“Alright.” Barty took a hesitant step towards the house, watching as Shakespeare was brought out with a slight longing on his face. Matilda knew that Barty had high hopes for one day riding Shakespeare — he was a feisty stallion with a reddish gold coat and a black mane. He had been a gift for her seventeenth birthday from her father, and the best gift she had ever received, aside from her diary. “Don’t be long?”

“Of course.” Matilda swooped down and gave her brother a kiss. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Barty pretended to scowl, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand as if full of distaste, but Matilda saw the happy blush in his cheeks as he ran away. As he trotted up the steps to the house, Matilda saw her lady’s maid, Betty, running down the stairs towards her. No doubt she had been watching anxiously out of the window, trying to keep an eye on her mistress, clearly on orders from Frances. Matilda sighed and gently rubbed Shakespeare’s nose, enjoying the velvety feel of his nostrils as she took a piece of apple that the groom gave her and fed it to him.

“We’ll have a nice little ride, hey Shakespeare?” she murmured, rubbing her thumb against the white whorl on his forehead. “Maybe we’ll go and call on Julia? That’s a nice ride.”

The horse snorted happily and pressed his nose into her palm. Matilda waited calmly for her flustered maid to arrive.

“Mistress, where are you going?” Betty gasped. “You have a caller coming —,”

“Yes, unfortunately, I have no interest in meeting a viscount today,” Matilda said breezily, watching in amusement as Betty wrung her hands and looked back towards the house. “But do not worry, I am sure I shall be back with enough time to catch the tail-end of his appointment with my father.”

“Oh, Lady Wynter, you cannot be earnest,” Betty groaned, rubbing her forehead. “Do you not remember the last time? Your father was so —,”

“I shall deal with Father when I get home,” Matilda said, quickly mounting Shakespeare. “At least then, I shall be in a better mood for it. Something that several tedious hours making small talk with a man old enough to be my father certainly shall not encourage.”

“The Viscount has an excellent reputation. He is a kind man, and do you not think it is time that you moved on from Lord —?”

“No, Betty.” Matilda gave her maid an intense glare, but Betty wouldn’t back down. She had been Matilda’s lady’s maid since Matilda was fourteen and wasn’t afraid of a little stare.  She stepped forward, gently pulling Matilda’s skirt down to cover her boot.

“I remember the night of your début, my lady,” she said, quietly. “You were so excited. So full of hope. It saddens me to think that you have lost that part of yourself.”

Matilda’s eyes stung suddenly with unshed tears. Betty’s words were touching the deep, sore place of her that still longed for Henry Linfield. Together, the two of them lapsed into silence as the memory of the night of her début rushed between them.

Betty was setting a crown of white roses and pearls into Matilda’s hair. Matilda was fidgeting, tugging at her gloves.

“Don’t worry, my lady.” Betty pressed her hands onto Matilda’s shoulders and caught her eye in the mirror, smiling brightly. “He will be there.”

“Do you think he will dance with me?” Matilda whispered, blushing terribly in her white muslin gown. It was all she wished for, to have Henry’s face close to hers and his hand in hers as they swirled perfectly in the centre of the dance floor.

“I am certain of it,” Betty giggled. “He is always so friendly toward you! I cannot imagine why he would not.”

 Betty spoke first, interrupting their reminiscing. Matilda both relieved and sad to leave that bitter-sweet memory, and looked down at her maid with glassy eyes.

“If you loved before, you could love again,” Betty whispered encouragingly. “Another gentleman might alight those same feelings in you that Lord Linfield —,”

“No,” Matilda cut her off, swallowing painful tears. She shook her head fiercely. “There is no other.”

“Oh, my lady. You cannot pine forever.” Betty sighed sadly, patting Shakespeare’s neck.

“I can do whatever I wish,” Matilda sniffed, feeling petulant, but Betty was undeterred and shook her head.

“Is that what you wish for your life, my lady?” Betty squeezed Matilda’s hand. “To long for a boy from the past and let your future disappear?”

I don’t want a future without Henry in it, Matilda thought, but it was too close to her heart to speak out loud. Besides, it would sound bizarre to Betty, who only wanted her to be safe and content like her parents did. How could Betty understand that Matilda would rather live alone than marry someone who wasn’t Henry?

“I won’t be long,” Matilda said, blinking away disappointed tears as she clicked her teeth.

“You’re not taking the groom with you?” Betty’s eyes widened. “Again?”

“I am perfectly capable of riding the five miles to Julia’s house alone,” Matilda snapped.

“You are a lady. You should not be riding anywhere unchaperoned, please!” Betty implored her, giving her the same look Mrs Bury did when she did something ‘eccentric.’

“I have been riding alone since I was a child, Betty,” Matilda sighed.

“But you are not a child any longer,” Betty countered. “You know it will enrage your father to know you have left, and left alone. It is most inappropriate for a lady.”

“I am my own person, Betty, I can make my own decisions!” Matilda pressed her heels into Shakespeare’s belly, turning him around to face the rolling fields. She saw Betty’s face, her sad, worried expression and the tightness around Matilda’s heart eased a little. She sighed and reached out for Betty’s hand.

“I do not wish to be rude,” she said softly. “I only wish to be free, Betty. I shall be safe, and you can send a groom to ride back with me, if you must. If you are worried. Just … let me have my ride.”

“Oh, my lady, I know better than to test my mettle against your strong will,” Betty smiled, squeezing her mistress’ hand, and then stepping back. “I shall tell the Duchess where you are. I am sure she can manage your father for a while.”

“If anyone can, it’s Mama,” Matilda smiled, setting Shakespeare into an easy trot towards the gate. “I’ll be back shortly!”

As she set her sights over the hills she let Shakespeare ease into a steady canter as he prepared himself to jump the fence to the field. When he took it with an elegant leap, she closed her eyes for a moment and imagined that she was flying. How nice it would be to be entirely free of all responsibility, to not have to worry about making a match or the future or what it would feel like to walk down the aisle on her wedding day and make promises to a man she didn’t love. The wind whipped through her hair and she unconsciously pulled it free of its bindings, letting her dark tresses stream behind her. She loved the feeling of it, and on a usual day it was enough to lighten her mood, but not today. Today she could not shake the memories of Henry.

“Henry, don’t!” She laughed, raising her arms to cover her face as Henry splashed water at her.

“Come further in, the water’s lovely!” Henry chuckled. He was knee deep in the brook on the Sinclair estate. It was a boiling hot summer’s day and Matilda was fourteen. She and Henry and Althea were playing in the Sinclair woods, but Althea had deferred the option to join them in the cool, rushing water of the stream, saying it was too cold. Matilda was revelling in this surprising moment of solitude in Henry’s company, helplessly giggling as she tucked her skirts around her knees and waded out towards him. Suddenly, her footing slipped away from her and she stumbled, plunged deeper into the water than she anticipated, soaking her gown up to her thighs and splashing water into her face. Henry doubled over in laughter, overjoyed by his prank.

“Henry! You beast!” Matilda cried, floundering to find her feet in the strong water, drenched to her skin. “You knew! How could you do this?”

“In my defence, Tills, it was very funny.” Henry grinned, grasping her by the elbows and pulling her up onto the higher ground he was deceptively stood on. Her gown clung wetly to her legs and she clutched his forearms to steady herself, feeling his warm, suntanned skin under her fingers.

“Don’t call me that,” Matilda had mumbled, her face flushing to be so close to him, her heart pounding furiously. “Don’t call me Tills.”

“Why not?” Henry teased, tugging on her wet hair, and flicking one of her sopping, wet curls into her eyes. “It’s funny. I like it.”

“Should you like it if I called you Linnie?” Matilda asked in mock bravado. “Linnie Lord Linfield?”

“Ha!” Henry threw back his head, laughing uproariously. He was so perfect to look at and Matilda hadn’t been able to stop herself staring. He was sixteen years old, already becoming a man. His blonde hair curled alluring against his forehead, slightly damp from the river. His skin had tanned a glorious gold in the summer sun and his throat was slightly red in a patch at the bottom of his neck, where gold curls of chest hair had begun to grow. His blue eyes sparkled humorously in the golden sunshine.

“You can call me whatever you want, Tills,” he joked, giving her his most charming smile.

Even in memory, Matilda felt like she had been given no choice. She would not have been able to stop herself falling in love with him even if she had tried. She sighed heavily, realizing that in her remembrances she had ridden all the way to Julia’s without a second thought. She reined in Shakespeare and dismounted, just as Julia opened the door and stepped out, smiling to greet her friend.

“Goodness, Matilda, you came here without a groom?” Julia shook her head, as if the whole thing was very funny. “You really have no intention of catching a husband, do you?”

“I find such things rarely interest me.” Matilda ignored the barb and handed Shakespeare’s reigns to a waiting servant.

“Oh, well, then I have some delicious news that I am sure will interest you,” Julia said, her eyes alight with mischief.

“Oh, gossip is it?” Matilda asked wryly. “I hope it is not about me.”

“No, it is not, but it is about a family that once was closely associated with yours,” Julia wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Can you guess?”

“I would rather not,” Matilda sighed, “and I should dearly like some tea, so can you cut to the chase, dear Julia? Who does this gossip concern and why should I care?”

“I cannot answer the second for you, only you know your own interest.” Julia giggled infuriatingly. “But as for the first question, I shall tell you. It is none other than the eldest son of Baron Foley.”

“Baron Foley?” Matilda’s heart cramped painfully. It seemed that wherever she went today, a certain name was destined to follow her. “You mean …?”

“Oh yes,” Julia nodded smugly. “None other than your old friend, Henry Linfield.”

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