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      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

       Chapter One

      1811

       J ane Hemingford was writing letters at her escritoire in the small parlour on the first floor of her London home, when her great aunt came bustling into the room in a fever of excitement. ‘Jane, Mr Allworthy is here.’

      ‘Mr Allworthy? You mean Mr Donald Allworthy?’

      ‘To be sure. Who else should I mean?’ Harriet Lane was a dumpy woman and the speed at which she had climbed the stairs had made her breathless. Her black lace cap had fallen over one ear and she straightened it as she spoke.

      ‘But it is barely ten o’clock, too early for morning calls. I am not dressed to receive him.’

      ‘Then you had better change at once. He has gone into the library to speak to your papa and then I have no doubt you will be sent for.’

      ‘Speak to Papa? You surely do not mean he has come to offer for me?’

      ‘That is precisely what I do mean. Now make haste and pretty yourself up. I doubt he will be talking to your papa for long, there is nothing to dispute. He is very eligible.’

      Jane was thunderstruck. Aunt Lane, who had been widowed many years before and had ever since lived in seclusion in Bath, had suddenly taken it into her head to pay a visit to her great-niece to ‘take her in hand’. ‘It is time you got over that old nonsense and began to think of finding a husband,’ she had said.

      ‘That old nonsense’ was a previous engagement to her second cousin, Harry Hemingford, which had ended in the most dreadful scandal that she did not even want to think about, much less discuss. It had been two and a half years before and she had put it behind her, but that did not mean she was ready to plunge into a new engagement, just because her aunt thought she should.

      Since her aunt had arrived at the beginning of the Season, they had been out and about, going to routs, balls, picnics and tea parties, it was at one of the latter that she had met Donald Allworthy. She had seen him several times since in company with other young people and found him attractive and attentive, but never so attentive as to suggest to her that he was seriously considering proposing marriage. ‘But, Aunt, I hardly know him. I certainly had no idea he was thinking of offering.’

      ‘Why should you? He is a perfect gentleman, he would not have spoken to you without your father’s permission.’

      Not like Harry, in other words. Donald Allworthy was, Jane conceded, quite a catch, so why had he chosen her? She was not particularly beautiful, she decided, her nose was a mite too large and her brows were too fair. She had brown hair which in certain lights was almost auburn and a pink complexion which became even pinker when she was angry or embarrassed. She was not exactly angry now, but certainly disconcerted. ‘I do not have to receive him, do I?’

      ‘Oh, Jane, do not be such a goose. You are not a simpering schoolgirl, you are twenty years of age and should have been married by now…’

      So I would have, she told herself, if I had married Harry. Aloud, she said, ‘I know, but that does not mean I should jump into the arms of the first man who offers.’

      ‘He is not the first man to offer, is he?’

      ‘Oh, Aunt, how could you speak of that, when I so much want to forget it?’

      ‘I am sorry, dearest, but I must say what is in my mind. You did not choose very sensibly before, did you? Now you are a little older and wiser and, with me here to guide you, you are doing wonderfully well.’

      Jane longed to tell her aunt she did not need that kind of guidance, but she was a tender-hearted, obedient girl and could not bear to hurt anyone’s feelings. ‘I am very sensible of your concern for me, Aunt Lane, but I had no idea Mr Allworthy wished to marry me. Are you sure that’s what he has come to see Papa about?’

      ‘Oh, I am sure. He spoke to me at Lady Pontefract’s ball, asked me if I thought Mr Hemingford would agree to see him and naturally I said I was sure he would. But I gave no such assurance on your seeing him. That is your decision, of course.’ She sounded hurt, as if Jane’s refusal would be a personal slight on the efforts she had made to bring it all about.

      Jane sighed. ‘Then I suppose I must speak to him.’

      ‘Good girl. Now go and change into something bright and cheerful.’

      The house in Duke Street was in the middle of a tall narrow terrace. The ground floor was little more than a hall, dominated by a staircase and a small reception room with the library behind it, where her father spent much of the day writing a philosophical tome which he hoped would make his reputation as a man of letters. The kitchens were in the basement, the parlour, drawing room and dining room were on the first floor, and above those the bedrooms. Higher still were the servants’ sleeping quarters. As the household consisted only of Jane and her father, there were few servants: a cook-housekeeper, Hannah, the housemaid, and Bromwell, who acted as butler and footman.

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