He threw back his head, and his laughter startled a wood pigeon out of a tree. Broke the spell. He had intended on frightening her. She wanted the earth to up and swallow her. She had been naive.

‘I fail to see the amusement in this.’

‘Your expression is that of an outraged kitten with spiky hair.’

‘My hair is not spiky.’ Lottie opted for an expression of haughty disdain. ‘I have had odes written to my hair. Lord Thorngrafton sent me an ode about the gold in my curls.’

‘Not from me. Never from me.’ The colours of his eyes changed and she wondered that she had thought them deep black. They appeared full of hidden lights, shifting, dancing. Never the same, but spellbinding to watch. ‘I never write odes to hair. Never write odes at all if I can help it.’

He crossed the distance between them in one stride. His hand brushed her curls. ‘Definitely not spiky. I retract.’

‘Oh.’ Lottie put a hand against her throat. Her heart had begun to beat very fast. She parted her lips and closed her eyes. What would it be like to feel his lips against hers? She had only been kissed twice last Season, and neither time had been what she would qualify as a success. They had been somehow dissatisfactory, particularly after she had learnt that Lieutenant Ludlow had gone around trying to catch Caroline, Diana and Leda under the mistletoe as well. She waited, lips pursed and poised.

‘Virtuous virgins hold little attraction, even those with strawberry red lips. You may lower your mouth, Miss Lottie, and next time, wait.’

Lottie opened her eyes and hurriedly lowered her chin. She could feel the heat beginning to rise on her cheeks. A mocking smile twisted his mouth and his face became like carved marble.

‘Do they indeed?’ she asked in her frostiest tone as she drew her body up to her full height.

‘Too many complications. Too many considerations.’ He gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders.

Lottie released the air from her lungs. She should be relieved, but a small stab of regret ran through her. She had wanted to experience his arms holding her. ‘You make me sound positively frumpish. Highly unattractive.’

‘Not plain. Just a young lady who is far too aware of her charms and wants to play games, dangerous games that lead where neither party is prepared to go.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Women such as you provide complications, complications any sensible man would be well advised to give a wide berth, if he wished to retain his place in society. Even among my kind, we have a certain honour. I prefer someone who knows how to play the game.’

Lottie inclined her head. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dyvelston. It has been enlightening.’

‘Until we meet again, Miss Lottie.’

‘I doubt that very much.’

‘One never knows. When you are older, perhaps…’

He captured her hand, raised it. His lips brushed the exact point where her glove gapped, and touched her naked flesh for the briefest of instants. It seared through her.

Lottie jerked back her hand, and fled to the echoing sound of laughter. She ran straight into Frances, who wore the look of a disgruntled hen as she squelched along the lane. Her straw bonnet dripped muddy water.

‘Ah, Cousin Carlotta, at last we discover you.’

‘I was regarding the old church through my Claude glass.’ Lottie held up her reticule with a smile. How many times had she told Frances that she hated the name Carlotta? And how many times had her cousin ignored the request? Her hand went around the reticule. She winced as she realised that she had dropped the Claude glass and returning to the ruins was impossible. Not while Tristan Dyvelston was there. ‘The moonlit aspect was quite unusual. I shall have to show you some time.’

‘You mean now?’ Cousin Frances held her hands as an alarmed expression crossed her face.

‘Impossible, Fanny dear, as you appear a bit damp and I have no wish for you to catch a chill.’

‘I hate the name Fanny.’

Lottie gave a small smile. ‘I always have difficulty remembering that.’

‘We thought we heard voices, Miss Charlton, just now.’ Mr Shepard’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He appeared to have a very damp, dead sheep look about him and Lottie was positive that she detected a tinge of pink to Frances’s cheeks. ‘Yours and someone else’s.’

‘Yes, a male voice, Cousin, and yours answering him.’ Frances gave her a piercing glance. ‘Is there anyone of our acquaintance there?’

‘How did you find the bridge at Cruel Sykes burn?’ Lottie asked quickly. They had to get away from here before Mr Dyvelston appeared with a sardonic twist to his lips. When Frances was in one of her moods, everything would come out. Then she would never get back to Newcastle. ‘Was it easy to cross?’

‘Wet,’ Frances replied. ‘Very wet. Cold and slippery.’

‘Miss Frances fell in.’ Kent Shepard puffed himself up. ‘I had to rescue her.’

Lottie did not miss the slight change of name. Some good had come of this afternoon after all. Her scheme showed definite positive signs.

The golden portals of society and triumph beckoned. Tristan was wrong. She glanced behind her at the seemingly empty churchyard, biting her lip. As long as her little encounter went undiscovered. It had to go undiscovered. No one would believe that a notorious rake like Mr Dyvelston had gone to the churchyard of his own volition. He supped with the devil, according to Cousin Frances.

Why was it that the attractive men were always among the most unsuitable?

Lottie gave automatic answers as the conversation turned towards pleasantries about the weather. Her hand went to the place his lips had touched her wrist. She shivered involuntarily. She had had a lucky escape. Mr Dyvelston represented danger and she had best remember it. She would lead the sort of life that her mother and Henry wanted her to, if only she could return to civilisation. It was her destiny. She knew it.

Tristan watched her go. He heard her bright laugh and artless explanation and then turned back to his parents’ graves. A small case winked up at him. He reached down and pocketed it.

There was very little point in going after the woman now. Tristan closed his eyes. He had lied when he’d said that Lottie’s hair was ordinary. It was the colour of spun gold. He could see how men could have their heads turned. But there was something else about her. Something that called to him.

‘We will meet again, Lottie, you and I. And on my terms,’ he said, fingering the Claude glass and staring down at the village. ‘But first I need to determine who the false Thorngrafton is.’

Chapter Two

‘I had expected my sister to be here.’ The sound of Henry’s pompous voice greeted Lottie as she entered Aunt Alice’s house. ‘You know, Aunt, what sort of mischief Lottie can get into when left to her own devices. It is precisely this sort of thing that I warned you about.’

Her aunt’s soothing reply was muffled behind the door to the parlour.

Typical, Lottie thought, the one time her brother decided to make the journey here, she was out, gallivanting across the country with an ungrateful Cousin Frances. It could have been worse. Frances could have spotted her with Mr Dyvelston. But Frances showed a singular lack of interest in her whereabouts or in the church. And nothing had happened, nothing at all.

Lottie’s fingers explored the underside of her wrist. The imprint of his touch still burnt her flesh. What was it about that one particular man? Was it the danger he represented?

‘Do you have any idea of when she might return?’ Henry’s pompous voice brought her back to reality with a bump. ‘I have business to attend to and cannot wait around for ever. The train leaves for Gilsland in two hours. And there is not another one until morning.’

‘Henry, is that you? Are Lucy or Mama with you?’ Lottie called out as she removed her gloves and bonnet with trembling fingers. Why was her brother here? Had something happened? She would be brave.

‘Ah, Lottie, you make an appearance.’ Henry turned from her aunt and Lottie was surprised to see how fat he had grown. ‘Come and greet me. What do you have to say to your brother?’

He had a well-fed look like a trained seal. If anything, the last five months had made him sleeker and fatter. She noticed he wore normal clothes and not mourning ones. Lottie gave a sigh of relief, thanking God for small mercies.

‘You should have sent word, and I would have been here.’

‘I had expected you would be here, doing your needlework or making another one of those pincushion mottos that you and my wife are enamoured with.’

‘Why?’ Lottie blinked rapidly and refused to let his cutting words hurt. She would have been here, sitting, doing needlework if only he had let her know. ‘We keep different hours in the country. I went for a stroll with my cousin. The fresh air is reputed to be good for most constitutions. You should try it some time.’

Henry harrumphed. ‘I suppose there is no harm in a quiet walk.’

‘Now, tell me, Henry what is the news?’ Lottie came forwards and caught her brother’s hands. ‘How are Mama, Lucy and the children? They send letters, but it is not the same as hearing it. I do miss them so. Do say they are all well and that you are not here because of them.’

‘Lucy sends her regards. The children are well, or so Lucy tells me.’ Henry’s face softened. ‘Mama has gone to Gilsland Spa for the waters.’

Lottie concentrated on her aunt’s patterned Turkey carpet. It could be that this was her best chance, far better than the marriage plans for Frances and Mr Shepard. She had to show that she had learnt from her exile. ‘Is my dear sister-in-law planning to come out to Haydon Bridge? There are some fine walks around here. I can tell her the legend of Cruel Sykes burn and she can look for the blood in the water.’

‘Yes, Carlotta and I went to the Cruel Sykes burn today.’ Frances nodded and her cheeks flamed to a bright pink. ‘It is quite a pleasant walk. I nearly fell in the burn, but Mr Shepard rescued me. Fished me out.’

‘I had no idea that Mr Shepard had accompanied you.’ Aunt Alice’s voice was chilling. ‘Who arranged this?’

‘He did not accompany us, exactly, Mama. We met him on the pathway and Carlotta suggested that he walk with us for a while.’

‘One can hardly be rude to one’s acquaintances, someone one has been formally introduced to.’ Lottie shifted uneasily. Perhaps she should have discovered Aunt Alice’s feelings towards Kent Shepard first, beyond noticing the warmth with which he was greeted at church.

‘Niece, are you going to explain further?’ Her aunt tapped her fan against the small table. ‘Is this some new scheme of yours? Why precisely did Mr Shepard join you and my daughter? Had he experienced difficulty with one of his cows? Goodness knows I have tried many topics with Mr Shepard but he always returns to his irksome cattle and their breeding.’

‘Our paths crossed,’ Lottie said, trying to forestall more of Frances’s confidences. From the thunderous look on Aunt Alice’s face, she was beginning to think that perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps Aunt Alice had not wanted the match for Frances. ‘And I…that is…we suggested that he might like to join us. He appeared quite willing to do so and in a jovial mood.’

‘Yes, yes, Carlotta made the suggestion. Mr Shepard is very good at rescuing, Mama.’

‘Ah, and did he rescue you from the burn as well, Carlotta?’ Her aunt gave her an icy stare, one that caused her to shift uneasily in her boots.

Suddenly Lottie was very aware of the glaring and obvious flaws in her matchmaking scheme, fundamental flaws that she should have anticipated. She could not lie, but to tell the full truth would invite disaster. She had no wish to explain about Tristan Dyvelston, and the kiss on her wrist.

‘You might well ask that, but the truth is…’

‘Niece, none of your smoked gammon and pickles for me. You appeared to have outgrown the tendency once you were away from your mother and under an altogether steadier influence. Did or did not Mr Shepard fish you out of the burn?’ Aunt Alice raised her spectacles. And her piercing gaze appeared to look into the depths of Lottie’s soul. ‘You are rather less damp than my daughter. Your clothing shows no sign of being rumpled.’

‘No.’ Lottie kept her chin high, but she swallowed hard. How was she going to explain this away, particularly as Henry had put Aunt Alice into one of her moods? ‘He did not.’

‘He couldn’t.’ Frances gave a high-pitched giggle that echoed around the room. ‘She wasn’t there.’

Lottie heard her aunt’s little screech of horror and wished the floor would open up. Why had she ever considered that today could be called a good day?

‘Was not there?’ Her aunt’s voice sounded like a church bell tolling out a funeral march. ‘Why not there? You depart together. You come back together. But Lottie was not with you at the burn when Mr Shepard oh so gallantly fished you out.’

‘Lottie, what were you doing?’ Henry thundered. ‘Are you up to your old tricks? I warned you.’

‘I had gone to look at the old church’s ruins with the Claude glass that Lucy sent me as an early birthday present and I could have sworn they were right behind me.’ Lottie opened her eyes, and used the slightly singsong voice she adopted whenever her mother accused her of anything untoward. ‘It was only when I arrived that I discovered my mistake. They had taken the turning to Cruel Sykes burn. Seeing that I was there, I had a look about the church… Cousin Frances had extolled its virtues as a…subject for a watercolour…’

She glanced between Aunt Alice and Henry to see if they were going to accept the story. Cousin Frances made encouraging noises about the Claude glass.

‘Mr Shepard and Cousin Frances soon caught up with me.’ Lottie wiped her hand across her mouth and hoped. ‘And that is all to the story. A simple misunderstanding.’

‘Carlotta Charlton,’ her brother thundered, ‘how could you do such a thing!’

‘We were right behind Lottie. Only but a moment, once we realised there had been a mistake,’ Frances agreed, nodding vigorously, impressing Lottie with the way she entered into the spirit of the thing. Perhaps she had mistaken Frances’s intentions. Perhaps they could become friends. ‘Mr Shepard thought he heard voices. Lottie’s and a man’s.’

Lottie put her hands over her ears and turned her head away as everyone began to speak at once. No, definitely not friends.

‘That settles it, then.’ Her brother’s tone boomed out over the rest.

‘Settles what?’ Lottie asked into the sudden silence.

‘Haydon Bridge has singularly failed to curb your wayward tendencies.’

Lottie curled her fingers as she tried to suppress the wave of hurt that washed over her. ‘I think you are being harsh, Brother. I have led an exemplary life. Ask Aunt Alice, or Cousin Frances.’

‘Carlotta Charlton, you have been attempting to do mischief, serious mischief.’ Henry stabbed his forefinger into the air. ‘I told you at Christmas, I have had enough of your minx tricks! You treat your reputation with a casual contempt and a woman without a reputation might as well not live. Polite society certainly will not recognise her.’

‘I…I am entirely innocent,’ Lottie said through gritted teeth as Cousin Frances gaped, opening and closing her mouth like some demented cod fish. Right at that instant, she was not entirely certain whom she hated more— Cousin Frances, Mr Shepard or Tristan Dyvelston.

‘It is no matter.’ Henry brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his frock coat. ‘Mama is determined that her daughter will marry a title. There is no reasoning with her. You know what she is like with her enthusiasms.’

‘I am hardly likely to catch an aristocrat in Haydon Bridge.’

‘True, true.’ Henry gave an exaggerate sigh. ‘Mama has been bending my ear about the very subject. I had hopes when she left to take at the waters at Gilsland Spa that she would be distracted, but her experience has only served to renew her determination. She has sent me letter after letter on the subject. Hardly a post goes by without yet another epistle arriving.’

‘Do you mean to send me to London?’ Lottie felt the room tilt slightly. Perhaps today was not terrible after all. Perhaps everything was a blessing. She attempted to keep the eagerness from her voice. ‘I know I have missed the Queen Charlotte Ball, but a number of events remain in the Season. Mrs Fullen did say that she might be prepared to sponsor me and she is the sister of Lady Rowland. She knows the patronesses of Almack’s.’

‘Lucy considers otherwise. She thinks Mrs Fullen exaggerates about her connection with the patronesses.’

‘Lucy forgets what Mrs Fullen did for Ann Mason only two years ago. Lady Rowland is a respected member of the ton, Henry. I read her antecedents in Burke’s Peerage, Baronetage and Knightage, and if she is in Burke’s…’

Henry held up his hand. ‘I am unprepared to countenance you set loose in London. Lottie, you would be ruined within moments of stepping on a dance floor. Were very nearly, by all accounts, ruined by an unknown man in a deserted churchyard. You have no sense with men, Sister.’

‘Then Newcastle? You are taking me back home.’ Lottie refused to let the disappointment of London bow her spirits. Once she returned to Newcastle’s society, she could work on her mother. Mama would realise the true importance of having a London Season to securing a title.

‘Gilsland Spa where Mama is taking the waters.’

‘Gilsland?’ Lottie’s heart sunk. ‘What is at Gilsland? Who is at Gilsland at this time of year? It is fine for Mama, but does she intend to marry me off to some gouty lord or a creaking count from some unknown European principality?’

‘Lord Thorngrafton currently resides there. He has taken a suite at Shaw’s Hotel, as have several other members of the aristocracy. Mama has sent a list of the titled currently residing there. The prospects quite excite her and I must say that they make for quite intriguing reading. I had never considered Gilsland Spa as a possibility before.’ Henry puffed his chest out. ‘I am given to understand that Lord Thorngrafton was very interested in you at an Assembly ball last autumn, Lottie.’

Aunt Alice gave an audible gasp and Cousin Frances’s eyes gleamed as Lottie gave a sigh of relief. Here at last was an opening.

‘I believed Lord Thorngrafton’s attention was of a dis¬ honourable nature than honourable.’ Lottie settled on the horsehair sofa, crossing her ankles and arranging the folds of her gown. If she could turn Henry’s attention away from Lord Thorngrafton, she might be able to return to Newcastle after all. It was a matter of persuasion, applying the right sort of pressure. He would yield.

‘Our mother believes otherwise. She has had a conversation with the man in question and he remarked on your fine eyes and how much he admired them.’

‘Lord Thorngrafton spent most of last November speaking to my bosom. I do not believe that he once noticed my eyes.’

‘Carlotta!’ her aunt shrieked. ‘Unmentionables in front of Frances! Cover your ears, Daughter!’

‘I have done so, Mama.’

Lottie crossed her arms and glared at them. ‘It is true.’

‘Mama stated in her letter that he asked after you particularly.’ Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do not play the sly puss with me, Carlotta. I have it on good authority that Lord Thorngrafton is possessed of a more than agreeable fortune. He saw the possibilities of railways, long before I. He is a business associate of Jack Stanton, a partner in some of his ventures. And you know how rich Stanton is. I have done some investigating.’

‘So rich that Mama would have happily forgone a title.’ Lottie made sure that her smile was sweet. ‘Letter or no, Lord Thorngrafton is up to no good. Why should a titled gentleman possessed of an agreeable fortune wish to ally himself with our family?’

Aunt Alice began to fan herself rapidly at the outburst as Henry’s face turned a sort of mottled purple.

‘Explain yourself!’

‘I simply feel there are other better places where I could go.’

‘You do, do you?’ Henry jabbed his finger at her. ‘Let me tell you this, Miss Butter Would Not Melt in Her Mouth! Should you fail to bring Lord Thorngrafton up to the mark, I will marry you off to the next person who asks. In fact, I am tempted to marry you off to the next person— Lord Thorngrafton or whomever—after this latest outburst. I have it on good authority that Mr Lynch is currently on the lookout for a wife, or should I say nursemaid, for his brood of seven children.’

Lottie stared at her brother in horror. He could not do that. Could he? She fought against the panic that swept over her, struggling to breathe against the confines of her corset.

‘Where is Mama? Let me speak to her. You cannot do that, Henry. I forbid it. Mama will be distraught when she learns of your unkind and uncharitable attitude.’

‘Mama is at Shaw’s Hotel, waiting for your arrival. And despite Lucy’s misgivings, I must conclude that it is the best place for you. You will catch a titled husband there, so help me God.’

‘Why are you doing this, Henry?’ Lottie asked in a small voice. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

‘My sister’s marriage is a matter of business. You have two weeks, Lottie. I am not an unkind man, but it is all the time I wish to be away from my family. You and our mother together…’

‘But…but…’

‘Perhaps we send for Mr Lynch now?’

Lottie stared at her brother. Once she had thought him a god, but now she knew he was a hard, unfeeling monster. He did not care for her future happiness, merely for what prestige or power her marriage could bring to him. What business opportunities might arise. Her value on the marriage market. Lottie refused to cry or give way to temper. That, she knew from bitter experience, would not help the situation. She had to be calm. Somehow, she would find a way.

‘I will go,’ she whispered.

‘Good.’ Henry turned his back on her. ‘Now, Aunt, may I have another of your esteemed muffins?’

‘Lottie, dry your eyes.’ Cousin Frances patted her shoulder. ‘Things like this are always happening in my Minerva Press novels and they turn out all right in the end.’

Lottie gave a small hiccup. Somehow, Cousin Frances’s sudden solicitude made everything worse.

‘Time to wake up, Lord Thorngrafton.’ Tristan strode across the darkened room, pulled apart the curtains and let the fresh air enter the wine-soaked room. ‘Or should I say, Cousin Peter? I had wondered who I might find at Shaw’s and had suspected that it might be you.’

The prone figure on the bed groaned, mumbled a few incoherent words before pulling the pillow over his head. ‘Go away. It is the middle of the night.’

‘Time to be up, Peter. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Play time has finished.’ Tristan controlled his fury at his first cousin. ‘Quit your shamming or you will have cause to regret it. Can you give me any reason why I should not summon the parish constable?’

At the mention of the parish constable, the man sat straight up. His florid complexion paled as Tristan regarded his first cousin with a dispassionate eye. There was a vague family resemblance, but nothing remarkable.

‘You…you…you are supposed to be on the Continent. Or, better yet, dead in some alleyway.’ Peter’s hand trembled as he passed it over his eyes. ‘I was sure you would never return to England. And Uncle swore it when I changed my name from Burford to Dyvelston.’

‘Changing a name and being acknowledged as his heir does not change the order of succession, Peter.’

‘I know that, but…’

‘I returned, Cousin, as I promised I would.’ Tristan stared at him. ‘I always keep my promises…unlike some.’

‘Allow me some moments to dress. This is quite a shock to me. You here. Alive.’

‘Not as big of a shock as it was to me to discover that Lord Thorngrafton had been responsible for a variety of actions. What amazes me is how brazen you have been about it.’

His cousin stood up and started to dress.

‘Don’t begrudge me, Tris,’ he said. ‘I thought you dead. I was sure you were dead. Uncle Jeremiah swore it as well. He told me that you were seriously ill in Florence… or was it Venice? Don’t matter, but I didn’t expect you to appear.’

‘Reports of my demise were premature.’ Tristan paused and brushed a speck off his frock coat. ‘And never call me Tris. It implies a familiarity that does not exist between us.’

‘But I am your heir. There ain’t no other and if you were dead…’ Peter ran his hand through his hair. ‘Be fair, Tristan. Uncle’s obituary, of course, made the papers and everyone naturally assumed that I would be the one… Who am I to dissuade them?’

‘And who are you charging all this to?’ Tristan made a sweep of his hand. ‘The best suite at Shaw’s is ruinously expensive.’

‘You need not worry. I only borrowed the title.’ Peter shook his head. ‘I am not that let in the pocket. And one has to speculate to accumulate.’

‘Good use?’

‘Exploring business opportunities…’ Peter gave a practised smile. ‘I have a plan about lead mining, and I just need a little capital. There is a piece of property.’

‘And it has nothing to do with the card game I heard about being arranged at Mumps ha’ not a mile from here. Or the two aged widows Lord Thorngrafton pursued without success last month.’

Peter winced and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up on end. ‘You heard about that.’

‘Certain parties were keen to inform me of this development once I enquired. I am not without friends, Peter.’ Tristan regarded his cousin. ‘I warn you, Peter, the current Lord Thorngrafton will be above reproach, his name unblemished. I intend to restore the estate to its former glory, to undo the damage our uncle did.’

‘But…but scandal dogs your footsteps.’ Peter blinked. ‘It is why you went to the Continent. You killed a man.’

‘He failed to die.’

‘But you shot him.’

‘For cheating at cards. I had had too much to drink and my aim was less than true.’ Tristan gave a cold smile. ‘It has improved. Now your exploits are at an end.’

‘You remind me more and more of Uncle Jeremiah! He had the same aptitude for a chilling phrase. The same ice-cold eye.’

‘Shall I forget we are related?’ Tristan asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘Please, Tristan, for old time’s sake, let me do this one thing. I have prospects. There are three youngish widows whose heads are turned at the thought of a title. Then there is this businessman, whose mother is impressed with titles, but if I can persuade him to invest in the old lead mine, it will return a thousandfold…’ Peter laid his hand on Tristan’s shoulder. ‘When we were young, we used to help each other out. I helped you escape to the Continent. You can’t deny it. You owe me, Tristan. I was the one who aided you and Suzanne. Made things possible.’

Tristan regarded his cousin. Peter’s body was already starting to run to fat and his face showed a certain thickening. Perhaps the widows and the businessmen deserved what they got. But neither was he ready to forgive Peter’s observation. He and his uncle did not share a temperament.

‘You did indeed. Perhaps I do owe you for that. I recall precisely why I was there as well.’

‘A simple misunderstanding.’ Peter held up his hands and began to speak very quickly as he dressed. ‘It is my best chance of getting the readies I need. I have spent time conversing with the businessman’s mother. She is here taking the waters. He is coming to visit and bringing his sister.’

‘His sister?’

‘She has a small fortune in funds… A week—that is all I want and then I shall never trouble you again.’ Peter’s eyes grew crafty.

‘Who exactly is this businessman?’

‘Henry Charlton. His sister is mad for titles.’ Peter gave a laugh. ‘I had thought to seduce her last November, but she slipped through my fingers. Then her mother appears here, an odious woman with aspirations, and informs me of her daughter’s fortune in funds.’

‘You tried to seduce a number of women last November.’

‘Yes, but they knew what they were on about.’

‘As long as you are sure. Virgins and the like can lead to unforeseen complications.’ Tristan paused. ‘We leave now.’

‘This very instant? But it will take me a time to pack and it is past checking out. I will have to pay for tonight’s room.’

‘That is your problem.’

Peter’s eyes grew crafty. ‘You will need a place to lay your head. Stay here tonight. One night and see if I can’t persuade you to invest. For days gone by. Please.’

Tristan regarded his cousin, with his face pleading. ‘I want no more of this deception. You will put matters right.’

‘If I must…’ Peter’s face showed signs of clear relief.

‘I positively insist. You will follow my lead. Do not attempt to cross me, Peter. The next time, I will forget that you are kin.’

‘Have you memorised the list I gave you, Lottie, so you will know which gentlemen to dance with?’ Her mother grabbed Lottie’s elbow as they descended the stairs at Shaw’s Hotel the next evening. ‘You must make sure that you speak very loudly to Lord Crawley. He is as deaf as a post. And Sir Geoffrey Lea…’

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