Praise for Felicity George

‘The perfect mix of dramatic, sexy, emotional and deliciously romantic’

CRESSIDA McLAUGHLIN

‘An enthralling, emotionally satisfying story with an unforgettable heroine who has the courage to fight for what she believes in - even if it breaks her heart’

EMMA ORCHARD

‘Oh what fun! Take the perfect hero, filthy rich & “frightfully rude and a dreadful grouch” add a spirited do-gooder heroine determined to separate him from his cash & send them on a poignant search & rescue through the underbelly of Regency London. It’s a treat!’

JANE DUNN

‘A gorgeous, captivating Regency romance’

SOPHIE IRWIN

‘A smart story, compelling writing and a big smile on any reader’s face when they finish’

JODI ELLEN MALPAS

‘A scorching romance combined with a very satisfying mystery. Readers are in for a treat’

JESSICA BULL

For Jessica Bull and Suzy Vadori

with gratitude

and in memory of Annie

Prologue

January 1808

Oakwood Hall emerged from the snowy Yorkshire countryside, grey stone blending with grey sky. As John Tyrold cantered out of the ancient oak grove fronting the manor house, the mist creeping over the moors seemed to seep into his bones. Ever since his parents’ letter had arrived in London with news of Helen’s death, he’d anticipated a gloomy return to his childhood home; evidently even the weather wished to ensure his expectations were fulfilled.

A legion of familiar figures fanned out from the house to stand at attention, as if even the scullery maids had been summoned to greet John’s arrival. Which was a damned nuisance, of course. He’d hoped to slip in undetected to see his grieving parents, at least initially. Every servant knew the reason he had not returned home in eight years, and their minds no doubt dwelt upon that now. In general, John was indifferent to the opinions of others, but, oddly, here at Oakwood, he wasn’t.

The servants arranged themselves like statues, their breath clouding around their noses, their black clothes stark against the grim, grey vista. Everyone wore mourning for Helen, and, as his horse drew closer, John grew conscious of his brown hat and green greatcoat, realising for the first time that he ought to have acquired black attire before leaving town. It had been an oversight on his part, for he rarely thought of his clothes, but perhaps it would look like disrespect.

He tightened his numb fingers around the reins and halted Thunder in front of the formidable company. As he dismounted, his parents stepped forwards, his father tall with long white hair and his mother weeping, her arms outstretched.

‘My boy is home at last,’ Mrs Tyrold cried, enveloping John in a warm embrace. ‘But you’re not a boy any more, are you?’ Tears pooled along her lower lashes as she stroked his unshaven cheek. John was seventeen when last he’d seen her; he was five-and-twenty now. ‘All the same, how good it is to see my son. If only Helen were alive and well, then I could be happy again.’

John held her close. ‘There, there, Mother. All will be well,’ he said with as much conviction as he could muster. ‘I can’t stay long, but while I’m here I shall help in any way needed.’ Even a short absence from London was a strain because of the incessant demands of his ever-expanding fortune, but John loved his parents too well not to have cast aside business to return home when he’d received their heartbroken letter.

He glanced at his father, who looked careworn, his face lined, his eyes weary. ‘When is the funeral?’ John queried, his voice flat.

‘Tomorrow. We shall bury her in the Tyrold vault.’

‘Naturally,’ John responded curtly.

The wrinkles on his father’s forehead deepened. ‘Son, Helen was like a daughter to your mother and me.’

Mrs Tyrold buried her face into John’s chest, her sobs muffled against his greatcoat.

‘I know, Father,’ John said, more kindly. He rubbed his mother’s back. Dammit, now there was a lump in his throat, but John wouldn’t reveal any weakness here, in front of the entire household staff. ‘Come, Mother, let’s go inside. It’s far too cold to stand about, especially when there has so recently been illness in the house.’

Mrs Tyrold sniffled and broke the embrace to thread her arm through John’s.

A groom stepped forwards to lead Thunder to the stables, and John patted his horse’s neck before relinquishing the reins. ‘Take care of him, please,’ he said. ‘He’s been on the road for three days.’

‘Shall we expect your luggage by carriage later, sir?’ the groom asked.

‘No, no carriage follows,’ John replied. He’d packed his few changes of clothes in the saddlebags.

‘But, John, you will need a carriage to return to London,’ his mother said. She hung heavily on John’s arm, and her tread was slow as their feet crunched the icy gravel on their walk to the front door.

‘Thunder does very well,’ John reassured her.

The fashionable world scratched its head that he kept neither carriage nor any other trappings of a gentleman despite his nearly unparalleled wealth, but it suited John to have everyone believe him a miser. In truth, he did despise the unnecessary waste of money, and his horse did the job as well as a carriage, with much less expense.

His mother tightened her hold on his elbow. ‘I’m certain Thunder is a good horse, but the child cannot make such a long journey on horseback.’

John frowned as they stepped over the threshold and into the vaulted medieval hall, as oppressively cold and grey as the outside despite the crackle of logs in the vast stone hearth. ‘Whatever do you mean, Mother?’

It was his father who replied. ‘Flora will return with you, my son.’

John drew back, astonished his father would make such a request about Helen’s young daughter, but his reply withered on his lips as he noted movement by the hearth. Emerging from a makeshift construction of blankets and pillows was a slip of a mite wearing a black frock and clutching a large leather book to her chest.

The child’s appearance froze John, for the mass of burnished copper curls, the rosebud lips and the small nose were the spit of her mother – yet the owl-like eyes that returned his gaze with frank regard weren’t blue like Helen’s, but the unadulterated green of an oak leaf.

‘John, this is Flora,’ his mother said, her voice sounding muffled in John’s ears.

The servants filed in behind his parents. Aware that dozens of eyes watched, John disguised how the child’s appearance affected him. ‘Good day, Flora,’ he said, his bootsteps echoing as he approached the hearth. He knelt, facing her on her level. ‘I’m John.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she whispered, before pressing her lips together, as if sealing her mouth.

A dull ache throbbed in John’s chest. Helen had been an effervescent child, a ray of sunshine, but Flora was sombre beyond her years.

He tried again. ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance at last, although I’m terribly sorry it’s under such dreadful circumstances.’

She blinked, studying him.

Then her large eyes gleamed, abruptly animated. ‘What’s your favourite bird, John?’

John hid his surprise at her transformation. Birds were clearly a topic that interested her, and he knew from his own childhood experiences that she expected a proper answer. In such cases, nothing was worse than an adult who laughed, so he replied solemnly with the first bird that came to mind. ‘Owls.’

‘Tawny, barn, long-eared, or short-eared?’ she queried, her green gaze intense.

‘All owls,’ John replied and, suspecting she’d want him to justify his answer, he fabricated reasons, although it was the child’s appearance that had inspired his response. ‘I admire their solitary nature, their keen observational skills and the effectiveness of their hunt.’

Flora nodded approvingly. ‘If you wish to observe one in nature, look for their pellets. An owl’s nest will be nearby. Tomorrow, let’s search together. If we find a pellet, we can dissect it, for inside will be the tiny bones of mice and shrews, and we can reconstruct their skeletons.’

With that pronouncement, she marched out of the hall, still clutching her book. For a moment, John stared after her, marvelling at her obvious intelligence, but then the deep ache stirred again within his chest. The child had witnessed her mother’s slow death; what dreadful thoughts would invade her young mind as she sorted mouse bones?

John stood and turned to his parents, who gazed after Flora with misty eyes. The servants had dispersed, allowing him to speak candidly. ‘I cannot take that little one to London. She’s better off here, scampering over the moors in search of owls.’

His father shook his weary head. ‘Regardless, she must go with you. You’re her guardian now, per Helen’s will.’

‘Helen left you this.’ Mrs Tyrold extended a folded paper. ‘To explain, presumably.’

John took the letter and ripped the seal, his heart thudding at his name rendered in Helen’s familiar script. After all these years, what had she written?

As it turned out, very little, for only a few lines crossed the page.

My dearest John,

I leave you my precious doll and I trust that in your heart of hearts you know why. Flora has never known a papa’s love, although your own father did well by her. Love her, Johnny, for the sake of all which was once dear between us.

Helen

John’s hand shook, causing the written words to waver. Helen trusted his heart of hearts to know why? What the devil did she mean by that? Good God, if there had been a reason, why had he not received this letter years ago? Why hadn’t Helen …

Swiftly, John buried this disturbing new thought in the same deep hole where he concealed his old resentment, and refolded the paper. Her word choice likely meant nothing; Helen had been feverish for months before her death, according to his parents. ‘I shall act as the child’s guardian, but Helen writes nothing about London. It is best Flora remain in the only home she has ever known.’

‘I disagree, son.’ His father delivered his contradiction in a tone much firmer than John had ever heard from the quiet man. ‘This has been no life for her, especially during Helen’s long illness. Oakwood is too remote. You had Helen and Arthur to keep you company growing up, but Flora has always been alone. She needs other children—’

‘School, then,’ John said. ‘I shall find a school, for I am in no position to raise a child, nor would she be around other children in my company.’

‘But it’s time you settled down,’ his mother urged. ‘A proper home, a wife—’

‘I have no inclination towards fortune hunters, Mother. And women only want my money.’

‘Helen didn’t,’ his father ventured softly, looking at the floor.

John snorted. ‘You know how that turned out.’

Mrs Tyrold shot her husband a scowl before addressing John again. ‘Son, what happened with Helen is in the past. You have a full life ahead of you. Don’t you feel lonely?’

John shrugged. ‘I’m considering a dog.’

‘Be serious, John.’ His mother was evidently unamused for there was exasperation in her voice. ‘You must have a son to inherit this estate after you.’

‘Flora will inherit,’ John replied.

His father’s head snapped up from observing the flagstones. ‘You well know that Flora cannot inherit an estate entailed through the male line.’

‘As legal heir, I can change the entail. I shall be the first Tyrold heir ever to do so, but I assure you it can and will be done.’ John shoved Helen’s letter in his pocket. ‘And, as Flora’s guardian, I believe it is best if she remains here—’

‘No,’ Mrs Tyrold said with finality.

John lifted his brows, for it was the first time in his recollection in which either of his parents had told him no.

But his mother stood resolute. ‘Frankly, she is too much for us. We are not young, John – we were not young when we were blessed with you, our only child, but we grow old now.’

John felt the truth of her words. Lines that hadn’t been there eight years earlier were etched on her face, her red-gold hair was streaked with grey, and his father’s shoulders stooped with age. Mrs Tyrold’s slow and heavy tread John had attempted to dismiss as grief, but the truth was, his father had passed seventy and his mother was not much younger.

‘Flora is a handful, John,’ Mrs Tyrold said with a sigh. ‘Not without justification, mind you. She’s lived a difficult life in her few short years. Death, illness, more death, and now you suggest she continue to live with two aged people in this remote corner of Yorkshire? No, she needs youth and vitality. She needs firm but loving guidance. She needs you, and all you can provide her.’

John tossed aside his hat and ran his fingers through his long hair, his thoughts in turmoil. He couldn’t return to London with Flora in tow. If he wasn’t ready to face the explanation he’d have to offer his friends, he certainly wasn’t ready to parent a child who was the spitting image of the woman who’d broken his heart … except for those damnable green eyes.

And there was another concern. John had long ago made Flora the primary beneficiary in his will, and his arriving in London with a child people would suspect – quite rightly – of being the heiress to the Tyrold millions would cause a sensation. It was one thing for John to be hounded – he knew how to throw off fortune hunters – but a little girl? Flora would be a target of incessant toad-eating and flattery, if not worse. It was no way to grow up.

Yet John couldn’t disregard the only request his parents had ever made of him. It was simply a matter of managing the situation properly. Naturally, Flora must reside at a school. A sensible, homey institution where she’d receive a well-rounded education, perhaps with the daughters of prosperous shopkeepers.

That way, none amongst his circle of acquaintances need know of her existence until John decided they should.

John applied himself to locating such a place that very evening, writing a dozen inquiries by candlelight after Flora and his parents had gone to bed. Within a fortnight – despite spending every afternoon being pulled across the icy moors by a little red-haired wildling – he reached a satisfactory arrangement with a Miss Crayford at the David Street Girls’ Seminary in Mary Le Bone.

He described what he knew of the school as he left Oakwood Hall in a post-chaise a month later, Flora snuggled against his side. ‘It’s a small school, with about a dozen girls to be your friends. You will live there, but I shan’t be far away.’

‘I like to learn,’ Flora said. ‘And I think I shall enjoy having friends.’ Wrapped in blankets and furs, she swung her little legs on the bench seat, her gaze fixed on the icy moors outside the carriage window. In her lap rested the large leather volume she was rarely without, The Birds of Britain embossed on its cover. ‘Will you come and see me, John?’

‘On occasion, yes. I can visit, although I must be discreet when I do.’

She peered up at him, her owl-like eyes piercing. ‘Why?’

John tugged at his shirt collar, loosening its hold. ‘I’m rather well known.’

‘Mama said your fortune has made you famous. She showed me whenever your name appeared in the papers.’

John’s mind conjured a vision of Helen and Flora together, reading about him as if he were a fairy-tale character in a bedtime story, but he erased the imagining swiftly. It probably hadn’t been anything like that. Helen had perhaps mocked and ridiculed him, silently if not aloud. Had she hated him, even?

He despised these wonderings, which had come to him frequently in the last fortnight. He hadn’t wanted to resolve things when Helen was alive, so why did he care now?

Because now you have seen her child, a disturbing thought whispered.

Swiftly, John silenced it by returning to his conversation with Flora. ‘It’s not a nice thing to be famous.’

‘Why not?’ she asked in her solemn manner.

‘Because people constantly bother me. They fixate on me and pursue me relentlessly unless I am dismissive and rude. Even then, they attempt to force my attention in all manner of ways. I rarely go into company because I find it so …’ John hesitated, searching for the word which best described his sentiments. Exhausting wasn’t quite right. Nor was grating. It was something more complicated than that. Interacting with society confused him because he could never trust people’s motives. Except for his few close friends, when people were kind or attentive or acted as if they found him interesting, it was because they wanted something. ‘Because I find it difficult to discern who I can trust, Flora,’ he concluded at last. ‘If others learn of your connection to me, I’m afraid unkind people might treat you in confusing ways. I don’t want you to experience that until you’re ready.’

‘When will I be ready?’

John exhaled, considering. ‘You’re seven now?’ He knew the answer.

‘Eight in April.’

That gave John a decade, at least. Surely, within the next ten years, one of his friends would marry a lady John could trust to oversee an heiress’s coming out. ‘When you’ve completed school at eighteen, you will be ready.’

Flora studied him carefully. ‘And then I shall live with you?’

‘Perhaps.’ The girl’s eyes narrowed, as if she intended to question him further, but John changed the subject. ‘There’s one matter more to discuss, little one. I believe it’s best if you’re called Flora Jennings at school.’

Flora tilted her head. ‘But I’m Flora Tyrold.’

‘Yes, yes,’ John said quickly. ‘But that surname will connect you with me, whereas Jennings protects you from the unkind people I mentioned earlier.’

Flora’s lips turned down, but at last she nodded. ‘Very well. Jennings was Mama’s name, and I shall like that.’ Her green-eyed gaze fell to her book. ‘Do you have a pencil?’

‘A pencil? I believe so, yes.’ John reached into his coat pocket and shuffled round his pipe, his tobacco pouch and his coin purse until he felt the wooden cylinder. He extracted it, checked its tip – well sharpened enough for writing – and handed the instrument to Flora.

After opening her book, she wrote the name FLORA JENNINGS in careful block print with her left hand.

John’s breath hitched. The green eyes and now this? What did it mean that he and the child shared such a rare peculiarity? But scarcely had the question formulated before he scolded himself for thinking it. Surely it meant nothing other than his parents had imparted upon Helen their belief that it was cruel to tie back the hand of a left-handed child. If others were so sensible, left-handedness likely wouldn’t be so uncommon.

All the same, John’s chest ached with a profound sharpness, as if wounded anew. He drew Flora close and placed a kiss on her copper curls. She sighed, contented, closed her book, and soon fell asleep in his arms.

1

1st April 1816

London

Georgiana Bailey strolled on the arm of her father’s wife, drawing courage from the beauty of the day. Hyde Park was a brilliant burst of opulence and colour during the late afternoon hour when the beau monde emerged, to see and be seen. On the fashionable bridle path Rotten Row, young bucks atop high-bred horses cantered past barouches and curricles, their occupants on display, while a sea of silk parasols, plumed bonnets, and tall-crowned hats navigated the tree-lined walkways. To Georgiana’s right, the Serpentine sparkled blue, dotted with swans and toy sailboats, and the laughter of the boys and girls playing along its edge lent a festive air.

The sight of the children warmed Georgiana’s heart. She promised herself for the thousandth time that somehow, one day, she’d purchase a garden for the residents of Monica House, the refuge she ran for women and children in distress. The garden would be a place for children to run and play amongst trees and flowers, and for the women, a sanctuary of beauty and peace, offering healing and hope to those who had suffered.

Today was the renaissance of all her dreams after months of despair; it was also her unofficial debut into the world of the haut ton, which was why she felt alert and tense, like a deer facing a pack of wolves. Georgiana knew that she appeared to fit the part in an indigo-blue redingote adorned with gold braid, but all the trimmings on earth wouldn’t long disguise the fact that she was the natural daughter of an opera singer, whose father had hidden her like a shameful secret, until now.

Regardless, for the sake of everything she held dear, Georgiana simply must make the ton accept her. The odds were stacked against her, as always. Society never looked kindly on illegitimacy, and the discovery that the moralist Duke of Amesbury had a bastard had already caused a stir. Never mind that Georgiana’s conception predated her father’s marriage by a few months; Amesbury’s hypocrisy was raising eyebrows and setting tongues wagging. The smallest misstep on Georgiana’s part would destroy her chance of acceptance, for the ton would judge her far more harshly than other young women. Like the deer amongst the wolves, the slightest falter could be her demise.

Yet failure wasn’t an option. The wellbeing of too many people depended upon her success.

‘These first few appearances will be the most challenging for both of us, Georgiana,’ said her father’s wife. Fanny Bailey, the Duchess of Amesbury, was an exceedingly pretty blonde lady in her mid-forties, a leader of high society for more than two decades and yet, now, on this all-important afternoon, there was a quiver in her rather girlish voice. She offered a smile as she smoothed the walnut-brown curls peeping from Georgiana’s bonnet brim, but the action was one of nervous energy rather than necessity. Georgiana had dressed herself, and she knew not a pin was out of place nor a hair astray. ‘You look lovely,’ the duchess continued, ‘and despite your protestations, I do want you to attempt to secure an advantageous match this Season. Have fun, dearest. Flirt – demurely, of course. As pretty and clever as you are, you’ll have a husband in no time, for everyone is thinking of marriage since Princess Charlotte’s engagement last month.’

Georgiana blinked, incredulous that the duchess was rehashing this dispute. For years, she’d remained steadfast against her father and his wife’s arguments for her marriage. The only reason she’d finally agreed to enter society this Season was because Monica House had recently lost a valuable benefactress, depriving the charity of much of its income.

All Georgiana’s thoughts were bent upon helping Monica House. She must raise a substantial sum of money for the charity to operate without a deficit, not to mention find funds to pay an arrear of debts and to restore her dream of establishing a school and the garden. Her successful debut into a social world filled with wealthy potential sponsors wasn’t coming a moment too soon.

‘No more talk of marriage, ma’am,’ Georgiana said firmly. ‘As I have said many times before, I am entering society to find sponsors for Monica House, not to find a husband.’ She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as she surveyed the crowds before her, like a soldier facing the battlefield. ‘So with that in mind, please introduce me to the most charitable souls of your acquaintance.’

A tightness formed at the corners of Fanny’s lips. ‘First, make an effort with some eligible gentlemen, Georgiana. You underestimate the benefits of marriage to a man of breeding and fortune, both for yourself and your charity work. In fact, ready yourself now, dearest. Sir Ambrose Pratley-Finch comes your way. He has ten thousand a year, and he’s looking for a wife.’

An old man with wispy white hair weaved towards them, a leer on his florid face and a black armband tied round the sleeve of his mauve tailcoat.

Georgiana’s eyes widened. ‘You cannot be serious, ma’am! Pray, let us walk in the other direction before he approaches.’ She turned – intending to escape whether or not the duchess joined her – but Fanny clasped her hand, restraining her, and then it was too late to leave without appearing impertinent, a misstep Georgiana couldn’t afford.

‘Good afternoon, Sir Ambrose,’ Fanny said, responding to the baronet’s bow. ‘I’m pleased to see you looking well. Naturally, the duke and I were devastated to learn of the death of Lady Pratley-Finch in the autumn.’

The baronet, whose watery eyes scaled the length of Georgiana’s frock before peering at her face, dabbed his bulbous nose with a purple handkerchief. ‘Yes, yes. But life goes on. May I beg an introduction to your protégé, Duchess?’

With effort, Georgiana set her face into a pleasing expression while the introductions were made. After all, Sir Ambrose was a rich man and therefore it was worth her time to encourage him to donate to Monica House.

Her composure almost faltered when the baronet planted a raspy kiss on her gloved hand.

‘Stroll with me, my dear,’ Sir Ambrose said, speaking in a deep voice he must imagine was alluring. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and manoeuvred her away from Fanny. ‘I don’t mind admitting I’m already quite in your thrall. I didn’t know Amesbury had a daughter until last week when Lady Frampton told me. Everyone’s talking of it, many not so kindly, but it doesn’t matter to me if you were born on the wrong side of the sheets. A duke’s daughter is a duke’s daughter, and I expect your papa intends to do well by you, eh?’

Still hoping for a donation, Georgiana formed her lips into what she hoped resembled a genuine smile. ‘My father is extremely good to me, sir,’ she said sweetly. The truth was, the fortune her father had bestowed upon her four years earlier was long spent on renovations to Monica House and other charitable deeds, but neither the duke nor the duchess knew that. ‘I am so truly blessed that I try to give a little back by running a charity house for women and children. Perhaps you might like to sponsor—’

The baronet pressed close, his sour breath on Georgiana’s cheek. ‘A bit of do-gooding is well enough for a lady, but a gentleman has bigger concerns, doesn’t he? I hear your mother was Anna Marinetti, La Grande Bellezza. Saw her perform countless times. By God, what a voice. What a figure, what a face. There never was anything more exquisite. You resemble her, you know. Haven’t got her shape, more’s the pity, but you’re still a handsome thing. Besides, you might yet put some meat on your bones. And you’re more of an age for me than most debutantes, eh?’

At six-and-twenty, Georgiana was old for a debutante, but that didn’t mean she was ‘of an age’ for an ancient lecher like Sir Ambrose.

If the baronet didn’t wish to donate to Monica House, Georgiana was done with his company. ‘Excuse me, Sir Ambrose,’ she said as prettily as she could muster. ‘But I must beg to return to the duchess.’

Sir Ambrose’s expression darkened, his bushy brows drawing together. ‘Don’t be so dismissive, my girl. There won’t be many as tolerant of your birth and as willing to make you an honourable offer as I am.’

Georgiana repressed a retort, for she couldn’t afford to give offence. ‘I do not intend to be dismissive, sir. I merely wish to be at the duchess’s side, as is right and proper for a debutante.’ Without giving him a chance to protest more, she curtsied and then darted to Fanny, who stood blinking innocently under a tree some distance away. ‘That was a cruel trick, ma’am,’ she hissed against the duchess’s plumed hat.

Fanny drew her lips into a circle. ‘You didn’t like Sir Ambrose?’ As Georgiana glared her response, the duchess shook her head, as if in disbelief. ‘I can’t think why, dearest. He’s rich and likely to die soon.’

Georgiana couldn’t help but smile. ‘Ah, now I know you’re only teasing.’

Fanny’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘About dreadful Sir Ambrose, yes. But I am quite serious about your finding a husband, so show me who you do like.’ With that pronouncement, the duchess swept her closed parasol towards Rotten Row, as if it were a fairy wand able to grant Georgiana her pick of husbands.

Exasperated, Georgiana followed the arc of the parasol over the promenading crowds as she readied her argument against marriage, for the thousandth time. ‘Ma’am, my work at Monica House consumes me …’

The rest of her words withered away as her attention was captured by a man approaching from the west with determined strides, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, a pipe dangling from his lips and a lanky black wolfhound at his side.

Georgiana drew herself up, raising on her tiptoes as she studied him, for he was none other than John Tyrold, one of the wealthiest men in Britain, and at the very top of Georgiana’s list of people to approach about Monica House. An introduction to Tyrold could change everything if she played her cards well; he was rich enough to reverse Monica House’s troubles by tossing out his pocket change. It was unimaginably good fortune to spot him on her first day out with Fanny, especially since he was famously a recluse.

‘Him?’ Fanny asked, having evidently followed Georgiana’s gaze. ‘Good Lord, child! Do you know who that is?’

Georgiana dropped down from her tiptoes, grinning. ‘I live at a charity house, not under a rock! All of London knows the legendary “King Midas” Tyrold on sight.’

It was said that everything Tyrold invested in multiplied its value manyfold, so that the man was hounded by every venturer and capitalist in the kingdom. It was also said that Tyrold was eccentric, brusque and unapproachable. That despite possessing the wealth of a king, he’d skin a flint if he could.

He certainly seemed to wear the evidence of his parsimony with apparent pride; as always, the same shabby brown hat shaded his stubble-darkened face, his olive-green frock coat was years out of fashion, and he must be the only gentleman under seventy in London who still sported long hair tied back into a queue, as if he were too cheap to visit a barber. Even his pipe was terribly outmoded, for the fashionable set had long preferred snuff.

‘Georgiana, you won’t succeed,’ Fanny cautioned. ‘Everyone has tried to catch Tyrold for years; he’s considered the prize of the marriage market, for although his fortune is largely self-made, he comes from an ancient family and is heir to a vast estate in Yorkshire. He never shows interest in debutantes.’

That didn’t deter Georgiana. She wasn’t truly a debutante and she only wanted his attention to ask for a substantial donation. But it wouldn’t do to tell Fanny that, as determined as the duchess was for her to find a husband, so she continued her pretence. ‘You told me to find someone eligible. I might as well aim for someone worth catching.’

Fanny gazed again at Tyrold. After some moments, she shook her head. ‘It’s no good, dearest. You must set a more realistic goal. Quite honestly, I can’t fathom how I’d initiate a conversation with the man. Although I was introduced to him some time ago at a ball of Lord Holbrook’s – for he’s a good friend of the marquess’s – I’m too terrified to approach him. He’s frightfully rude and a dreadful grouch.’

Georgiana raised a sceptical brow. ‘He won’t ignore a duchess, surely?’

Fanny scrunched her face. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him, and I’m far too frightened to find out. If your father were here, it would be a different matter, but, alone, I shan’t attempt it. Only look at him, my dear! Observe how he walks amongst the most fashionable company in London – he barely acknowledges anyone and only gentlemen when he does. Not a word to a lady.’

The duchess wasn’t wrong. Tyrold bore swiftly through the crowds, people parting before him like the waters of the Red Sea. Occasionally, he nodded to an acquaintance or two – always a man – but he conversed with no one. When a courtesan threw a glove in his path, he kicked it out of his way and didn’t even spare her a glance as he and his wolfhound walked on.

As Georgiana narrowed her eyes to focus more closely, a smile played on her lips. She noted with amusement that dog and master were two of a kind: both gangly, with tousled black hair, their dishevelment rather endearing, as if they simply needed someone to take care of them …

A hot wave of embarrassment swept over Georgiana. Lord! What was she thinking, letting her imagination take her down such a dangerous path? She couldn’t let herself be attracted to Tyrold. Imagine the disaster if she blushed or giggled like a schoolgirl as she asked for a donation.

He’d think her a fool!

No, she must retain her composure and speak intelligently – and not flirtatiously – with him. Georgiana knew she possessed intelligence in abundance; she drew upon it now, her thoughts bent on getting her introduction.

She scanned the scene before her, her mind rapidly proposing options of how she might capture Tyrold’s attention and discarding them as ridiculous just as quickly, until she was half tempted to emulate the courtesan and throw her own glove. Perhaps the oddity of two kid-leather missiles within such a short span of time might startle Tyrold into noticing her.

Thankfully, fortune smiled before she was driven to such desperation for as she watched, Tyrold fell into a conversation with Lord Edward Matlock, a gentleman she knew well.

Lord Edward had been her friend during her schooldays and although she hadn’t spoken to him in years, the moment it became clear that he and Tyrold were on congenial terms, Georgiana knew she’d found her opportunity for an introduction. If she could engage Edward’s attention, he would certainly bring her into his conversation with Tyrold. But for her plan to succeed, she had no time to waste – and to convince Fanny to participate, she must pretend she was still husband-hunting. Edward would do perfectly for that as well.

She clasped the duchess’s wrist. ‘The gentleman currently conversing with Mr Tyrold is another with whom I am willing to make an effort,’ she said urgently, indicating the handsome chestnut-haired exquisite, dressed to the nines in skin-tight pantaloons and a pale blue tailcoat.

Fanny tapped her closed parasol thoughtfully against her skirts. ‘Lord Edward Matlock? Why him?’

‘I was friends with his sister, Lady Henrietta, at school.’ Georgiana offered the simplest explanation. No need to add ‘before you even knew I existed’, because the words already hung like a deadweight between her and Fanny, as always happened when Georgiana mentioned her childhood. ‘I was infatuated with him, once upon a time,’ she added quickly, hoping to ease the discomfort. ‘And he’s eligible, as you requested.’

She spoke only partial truth. Georgiana had thoroughly enjoyed a flirtation with Edward during one sun-soaked summer holiday at the Matlock estate in Sussex, in the naïve days of her youth. When her high spirits had aroused passionate urges in her body. When she’d craved attention and lapped at any offered. But, of course, Lord Edward wasn’t truly eligible. Georgiana would rather marry a tomcat than the rakish artist, but at least Edward was someone with whom she could flirt to appease Fanny with no real danger of engaging his fickle heart.

Georgiana tugged at Fanny’s wrist. ‘What say you, ma’am?’ she asked, desperate to move towards the men, for Edward had thrown an arm about Tyrold’s shoulders and they had resumed their eastward progression. If Georgiana didn’t hurry, they’d be out of the park and she’d miss her chance.

‘Well,’ Fanny said frustratingly slowly, drawing out the word while seconds ticked away, ‘Lord Edward is a shocking rake, but so are many men before they marry and come to their senses.’

Although the duchess likely didn’t mean to refer to her own husband’s past, the words still cut Georgiana deeply. The Duke of Amesbury was a faithful husband to Fanny and devoted father to his five legitimate sons, but that didn’t erase the fact he’d impregnated Georgiana’s mother and left her to bear a bastard at Monica House while he married a proper lady.

But the opportunity to meet Tyrold was too critical for Georgiana to waste time dwelling on her father’s betrayal, so she dismissed those thoughts. ‘Lord Edward’s parents always appeared agreeably married,’ she said emphatically. ‘Surely he will be the same.’

Fanny brightened. ‘Yes, that is very true. Lord and Lady Lockington are as happy as your father and me. In fact, now that I reflect, I think this an excellent plan, dearest. Start with Lord Edward, for practice, if nothing else, and if it comes to anything I believe your father will consider it an unobjectionable match, since Lord Edward’s father is his particular friend.’

‘And it appears as if Mr Tyrold is Lord Edward’s particular friend,’ Georgiana added with a grin. ‘So I shall get my introduction after all.’

Fanny blinked before bursting into laughter. ‘You’re incorrigible, but you’re correct. Lord Edward and Mr Tyrold lodge together on Half Moon Street.’

Better and better. ‘Shall we walk over? We must make haste if we are to overtake them.’

Fanny nodded, her eyes sparkling, and together they scurried towards the retreating backs of the millionaire and the artist. Georgiana’s spirits soared; perhaps she’d acquire that school and garden for Monica House’s residents sooner than she thought. Of course, it was madness to hope, but if anyone could make her dream come true, it was John Tyrold.

Georgiana merely needed to convince him he wanted to.

But Tyrold and Edward walked quickly and when she and the duchess made little progress with their quarry, Georgiana threw manners to the wind, cupped her hands beside her mouth, and called, ‘Lord Edward!’

Fanny hissed a reprimand, but Georgiana had achieved her purpose. Edward pivoted, no doubt attuned to stopping the moment a feminine voice called his name.

Fanny halted just as abruptly. ‘Stop walking, dearest!’ she urged, out of breath. ‘We must stand now. We cannot appear to be pursuing them!’ And with that proclamation, the duchess popped open her parasol and twirled it over her head, staring towards the sky as if they hadn’t been almost running a second earlier.

Edward still scanned the crowds, so Georgiana waved to assist him. The instant he noticed her, a brief recoil crossed his face, swiftly replaced by a wide grin. He called to his friend and, to Georgiana’s delight, Tyrold stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

After a short, rather agitated exchange between the men, they both approached, although Tyrold lacked Edward’s enthusiasm. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his boots, his countenance obscured by his hat brim and pipe smoke.

‘Here is an enchanting face I haven’t seen in an age,’ Lord Edward exclaimed when they neared. ‘Georgiana Marinetti, you outshine the springtime. Does she not, Tyrold?’

Georgiana smiled her brightest smile, but Tyrold appeared not to have heard Edward, for he gazed to the side, as if lost in his own thoughts. Georgiana suppressed a flicker of frustration, reminding herself that engaging with the famously reclusive man wouldn’t be easy. But armed with intelligence, noble purpose and her well-prepared speech about Monica House, she was confident of her ability to succeed.

‘Good day, Lord Edward,’ she said cheerfully.

Edward put a hand to his heart. ‘Darlingest Gee, I haven’t seen you in years! How can you offer a mere “good day”? Where have you been, my lovely scamp?’

In fact, Edward had seen her a number of times since her return from Italy four years previously. He simply hadn’t recognised her, for she’d been in costume. But Georgiana couldn’t say that with Fanny present.

She chose not to answer his question. ‘I’m called Georgiana Bailey now, my lord.’

Edward’s eyes darted to the duchess and back again, no doubt understanding everything. ‘Ah, I see!’ Collecting himself, he made a formal bow to Fanny. ‘Good day, Duchess. Please forgive my familiarity with Miss Bailey. She and I knew each other as children – old habits and whatnot. I trust you are acquainted with my friend, Mr Tyrold?’

‘Naturally,’ Fanny said, still catching her breath. ‘And, Mr Tyrold, if I may introduce you to my … to my husband’s relation, Miss Bailey.’

Georgiana boldly extended her hand, knowing this was her opportunity to create a favourable first impression.

But the moment Tyrold faced her directly, she made a fool of herself.

By blushing, of all things.

Deeply, judging by the scalding heat of her cheeks.

And for no better reason than because she hadn’t realised John Tyrold was a surprisingly handsome man.

His eyes were a brilliant oak-leaf green, startling next to his black lashes and the long strands of inky hair that had escaped his queue. He wore his collar and cravat looser than most men, displaying a strong neck and a hint of his Adam’s apple. His days-old dark stubble – inexcusably untidy but rather devastatingly masculine – defined a firm jaw.

A jaw that was clenched, perhaps to hold his pipe between his teeth, but more likely because he didn’t enjoy introductions to blushing debutantes.

Georgiana cursed silently. Her face was most certainly scarlet and she could do nothing about it other than hope he attributed her blush to the warmth of the sun – but she doubted he did because his brows drew together in a manner worryingly like a scowl.

Taking a deep breath, Georgiana decided to be forthright and bold, no pretence, no façade. She couldn’t help the blush, but she could draw upon her courage.

‘Mr Tyrold, I have long desired to meet you.’ She grasped his hand firmly, gave it a vigorous shake, and his scowl dissipated into vague surprise. ‘Indeed, I confess I called my old friend over hoping for an introduction to his friend. If you have a moment to spare, may I tell you about the charity home I manage? We are in desperate need of sponsors, and I believe it would touch your heart to learn of the positive impact your patronage could make.’

Fanny’s head snapped round, her blue eyes flashing. ‘Georgiana!’

But Georgiana didn’t care.

For the sake of Monica House, she couldn’t let this opportunity pass.

The friend Edward had begged John to meet was a diminutive young woman. Pretty and delicate. Not really John’s style, but he noted her voice from the moment she spoke. It was exceptionally beautiful. It possessed presence. There was a complexity to its timbre, an unusual richness, depth and control.

It intrigued John.

His attraction to that voice alleviated some of the annoyance he typically felt during forced introductions. In fact, he found himself contemplating how to engage her in a bit of conversation to discern if she possessed at least some of the intelligence her voice seemed to suggest, without giving her false hope. But that was always an impossible balance, which John had never learnt to navigate. Displaying the slightest interest in a young lady linked her name to his so instantly that John hadn’t attempted to converse with a debutante in years. He didn’t want to raise expectations he had no intention of fulfilling and he had enough business to attend to already, without fighting fraudulent lawsuits claiming a breach of promise.

Not that John was opposed to matrimony as a rule. He believed marriages could be extremely happy when two partners united in mutual love and respect. His friends, Nick and Meggy, and Sidney and Kitty, as well as his own parents’ decades-long union (evidently still as strong as ever, although John rarely returned to Oakwood), provided proof that the institution could be joyful.

But his distrust of others prevented him from choosing it for himself. He refused to marry a woman drawn to his wealth, yet that was what they all wanted. He’d long since resigned himself to bachelorhood, deeming loneliness preferable to partnering with someone who valued only his fortune.

Yet he frowned when Miss Bailey offered her hand, no doubt displaying his curiosity despite his best intentions. There was something familiar about her heart-shaped face, her tanned complexion, her small but shapely lips. She blushed, as young ladies often did when introduced to him, but she met his gaze boldly with a pair of captivating dark eyes – long-lashed, expressive and, like her voice, seemingly intelligent.

His curiosity escalated into genuine surprise when she commenced her bold appeal for her charity home. People weren’t usually so honest about wanting his money.

Her frankness was commendable. As was her confident approach. Furthermore, she seemed to possess something of independence and strength of will, for she was clearly acting against her sponsor’s wishes. The Duchess of Amesbury trembled like a displeased hummingbird, looking as if she wished to swat her protégé with her parasol.

Yet John smoked his pipe impassively, concealing his intrigue behind a composed countenance. It wouldn’t do to let Miss Bailey know he admired her gumption, but he was curious if her appeal would match her bold beginning. He decided to hear her but determined to receive her in a brusque manner. It was best to keep both a figurative and literal distance from debutantes.

He spoke without removing his pipe. ‘Be aware that efforts to engage my sponsorship are rarely successful, Miss Bailey, but I shall nevertheless grant you two minutes to present your appeal.’ He extracted his watch, flipped its lid and noted the position of the second hand. ‘Begin now.’

Her dark eyes gleamed as if she relished the challenge. ‘I manage a charity home situated off Soho Square. Monica House. I doubt you’ve heard of it?’

‘Never.’ John glanced at the second hand. ‘Begin stronger if you wish to secure my investment in your project, Miss Bailey. Time’s ticking.’

Edward shot him a reproachful glance.

Miss Bailey, evidently undeterred, began to speak rapidly. ‘We are more than a project, sir. Monica House has stood for over a hundred years, but our roots extend further. We are a refuge for women and their children, if they have any, who need a place where certain people won’t find them.’ As she spoke, she caressed a gold locket that glinted against her blue gown, tracing the etching of an A and an M with her finger. ‘We protect them from cruel husbands and vicious fathers. Controlling brothers. Uncles, stepfathers. Thieves who keep them as molls and force them to steal. Their pimps or bawds.’

That made John withdraw his pipe. Edward coughed to hide an exclamation of surprise and Miss Bailey paused to support the duchess, who emitted a strangled sound and looked as if she might wilt to the ground.

‘It’s a sanctuary, then,’ John said, encouraging Miss Bailey to continue once she retrieved a silver bottle from the duchess’s reticule. ‘And you want a sponsorship from me, to assist in the cost of meals and other necessities?’

‘Exactly, sir,’ Miss Bailey agreed. She uncorked the bottle and held it to the duchess’s nose, prompting a recoil and a return of colour to the noblewoman’s cheeks. ‘And in strengthening my networks to find women who need my help,’ she continued cheerfully, leaving the restorative vinaigrette in the duchess’s hand. ‘I’m skilled at locating women in trouble, but there’s always room for improvement. Some women are so oppressed as to be nearly imprisoned, and many of my sponsors are comforted to hear of the relief I’m able to give with their donations. I believe you would find the same. While you go about your impressive business, sir, it might brighten your day to recall, as you can spare the thought, that I shall be tirelessly using your generous donation to make this world a better place for women and children to whom life has been cruel.’

John stuck his pipe back in his mouth, unimpressed by the end of her speech. ‘I despise flattery, Miss Bailey, and it makes you seem silly to attempt it.’

‘Oh, no, Mr Tyrold,’ she replied with sunny self-assuredness. ‘I assure you, I’m not silly to attempt a tactic that works like a charm with most rich people.’

‘But I am nothing like most rich people,’ John replied, matter-of-factly. ‘I am without parallel, which is why your appeal to me should be impeccable. At this point I might consider giving you two pounds a month. If you’d like more money, try another approach.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll grant you another thirty seconds.’

Miss Bailey hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Very well,’ she said with renewed vigour. ‘Since you are without parallel, I shall tell you about a venture only you could support. There is a leasehold available for an adjacent property – a house with a beautiful garden – in which I want to open a school for the children. I was close to achieving my goal when the family of a long-time donor contested her will successfully, and we lost a great deal of expected income. If I could move your heart to give a one-time donation of two thousand pounds, plus a generous monthly subscription of your choosing after that, I could begin to resurrect this dream. A man of your wealth wouldn’t notice the absence of five times that, and, since you are peerless, you might wish to declare so to the world. Be the school’s patron and make an éclat of your philanthropy. The Tyrold Seminary, if you wish. I shall steward your donation with the greatest of—’

He snapped his watch shut. ‘Time’s up.’ Her appeal was still too obsequious. She was performing to whatever she imagined he expected, employing the same affectation and pretence most people used when they wanted something from him. ‘Five pounds a month, take it or leave it.’

She hesitated, mouth slightly ajar. ‘In addition to the one-time donation of two thousand?’ she ventured hopefully.

John snorted. She was bold, he’d give her that. ‘Of course not. Your appeal about the school was weak.’

She drew back, colour draining from her cheeks. ‘So only five pounds in all?’

‘Approach me in the autumn to show me what you’ve done with my donation and I’ll consider offering more – but sixty pounds per annum is nothing to scoff at. Managed wisely, it could provide a year’s worth of basic necessities for thirty individuals.’

‘Basic necessities?’ She shook her head, as if in disbelief. ‘Mr Tyrold, perhaps you aren’t aware of the power for good which your wealth holds? It could reverse the fortunes of thousands of people.’

John slipped his watch into his fob pocket. ‘There are twelve million people in Britain, many of whom are poor. I cannot help them all.’

She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze undaunted. ‘No, but you can do more than provide enough coal and oats for thirty people to shiver around the same hearth, supping upon watery gruel. If I were you, I would welcome every opportunity in which a knowledgeable charity worker offered to distribute my wealth for the betterment of those in need.’

John raised an incredulous eyebrow. Was this tiny woman now telling him how to manage his money? ‘With such a foolish attitude, you wouldn’t have any money to give to others – and now you’ve made me quite determined not to give you more of mine. Anyone who’d carelessly donate to the first supposedly needy person who asks shouldn’t oversee charity subscriptions. My request that you prove yourself isn’t unreasonable, Miss Bailey; everything about your appearance indicates that you don’t know the value of money. I doubt it’s your fault; hardly anyone here’ – he waved his hand over the fashionable crowds – ‘does. Your gown, bonnet and the other frivolities you wear likely cost twenty or thirty pounds from whichever high-priced shops you and the duchess patronise, but a working-class family lives for a half a year on that same amount.’

‘I say, John,’ Edward objected. ‘A bit much, old man.’

The colour rapidly returned to Miss Bailey’s cheeks. In fact, they blazed scarlet, revealing a previously hidden temper. The sensation that there was something familiar about her features returned in force, along with the rather disturbing discovery that she was an exceptionally handsome woman.

‘With all due respect, sir,’ she declared defiantly, ‘you know nothing about me.’

‘If my possessing such knowledge would have strengthened your appeal, then you should have told me about yourself. But that is a moot point now. Besides, while I may not know you, I do know business, and one doesn’t start a second charity when one’s first charity isn’t yet self-subsisting, which is what you propose doing with your school. Investments of whatever principal you possess is what you need, not more people throwing more money into an ever-expanding pit. I’ve been exceptionally generous in offering you five pounds for what is no doubt a charitable hobby—’

‘A hobby!’ Miss Bailey exclaimed, aghast. ‘Mr Tyrold—’

John held up a hand to interrupt. He needed to draw the conversation to a close, for he was beginning to feel the danger of giving her too much attention, of spending too much time looking at her lively dark eyes and wondering why she looked familiar. ‘Yours is not the first charitable appeal I’ve heard from ladies who dabble in this sort of thing, Miss Bailey. If you decide you want my subscription of five pounds, send your direction to Twenty-Nine Half Moon Street, and I shall arrange for the money to be delivered quarterly.’

As Miss Bailey held his gaze, the fire vanished from her eyes. ‘Thank you for the five pounds, Mr Tyrold,’ she said in subdued tones. ‘However, Monica House isn’t a hobby. It’s a serious and noble endeavour in desperate need of assistance. When I send you my direction, I shall request another audience to show you my ledgers, for I have nothing to hide. Please consider granting me a second interview sooner than the autumn, sir.’

John puffed on his pipe, finding himself moved by her even-tempered resilience. ‘State a stronger appeal in a letter and perhaps I shall,’ he said, employing a kinder tone.

The Duchess of Amesbury, who had been fretting and twisting her parasol for some time, looked greatly relieved. ‘Well, well, now that’s settled, do let’s talk of other matters. Lord Edward, Mr Tyrold, will we have the pleasure of seeing you at Lord and Lady Holbrook’s garden party on Easter Monday?’

After replying in the negative, John let Edward assume control of the conversation, as he had no interest in further small talk with the duchess. It was a mercifully brief period of time before Miss Bailey bid him a polite good day, and the interaction was thankfully over.

John glanced at her retreating form as she and the duchess strode away, wondering if he’d been unnecessarily harsh. But the incongruity between Miss Bailey’s plea for sponsorship while dressed expensively and clearly enjoying the patronage of a wealthy aristocrat soon eased his conscience. It hadn’t been unreasonable of him to insist she demonstrate responsible use of a small donation, before considering giving her anything more.

Clicking his tongue to his wolfhound, Jolly, he walked on.

Edward caught up shortly. ‘Where have you been today?’

‘I had business in Kensington and now must see someone south of Knightsbridge.’

As he walked towards the French automatiste who lived on Cross Street, his thoughts wandered to his ward, Flora. Her sixteenth birthday was four weeks away, but the present he’d ordered months ago was finished and he wanted to have it delivered early. Their relationship had grown strained in recent years, yet John had reason to hope that would soon change.

Flora had been a near-constant source of stress since around the time of her thirteenth birthday, when she’d turned into the most impetuous child imaginable. Scarcely two weeks had passed in the interim without notes from the headmistress lamenting Flora’s deliberate overturning of inkpots, her habitual lateness for morning prayers, or her propensity for engaging other girls in disruptive tussles during dinner.

But of late, according to Miss Crayford, Flora had become thoroughly sweet-tempered, and John was pleased. It was a surprisingly rapid alteration from Christmas, when she’d told John she despised school, life, and John most of all, but Flora had always been an unpredictable child. He’d long lamented their uneasy relationship – and her words had often hurt him more deeply than he cared to acknowledge – but surely when he visited her on the morrow to show her the glorious birthday present, she’d no longer have any doubts about how much he loved her.

‘Georgiana is quite something, isn’t she?’ Edward asked.

John had forgotten his friend’s presence. ‘I’m not going home yet, so why are you following me?’ he asked, ignoring Edward’s question.

‘Because I have nothing better to do,’ Edward replied. ‘Did you know, Johnny, that Georgiana remains, to this day, the only lady to whom I ever proposed marriage?’

‘Indeed?’ John asked, more astonished than he let on.

‘Indeed. And at the moment, I’m rather regretting that it didn’t work out,’ Edward said as they crossed Knightsbridge at the turnpike. ‘Gee is a delightful scamp. Vivacious, full of fun, and pretty, as you can see. Sings like a nightingale, too. Got her voice from her mater, who was a famous opera singer. La Grande Bellezza. Sir Joshua painted her. The full-length portrait of a lady in blue hanging at the Royal Academy – you must know the one I mean.’

This revelation utterly astounded John. ‘Do you mean to tell me Miss Bailey’s mother was the soprano Anna Marinetti?’ he asked, no longer hiding his surprise. But even as he spoke, he knew it to be true. That was why Miss Bailey looked familiar, for John knew the portrait of which Edward spoke. Recalling the A and M on Miss Bailey’s locket, a heated sensation crawled over his skin, as if the day had grown uncomfortably warm. If Miss Bailey possessed even a fragment of her mother’s talent, she must be something, and her lovely speaking voice held a great deal of promise …

Edward interrupted his thoughts. ‘You know of Anna Marinetti, then?’

‘I saw her perform, in fact.’ The memory was etched deeply in his mind, for watching his first opera on a trip to London as a young child had been the foundation of John’s lifelong love of music. The performance had ignited a fervour, leading him to beg his father for voice and pianoforte lessons. His father, always indulgent, had located the best master in the North Riding and paid him handsomely to travel to Oakwood twice a week.

‘What happened to Anna Marinetti?’ John asked. He’d wondered about her fate. It seemed no one knew what had become of her – only that La Grande Bellezza had been the greatest soprano in London prior to the King’s Theatre fire in June of 1789, but that by the time the opera recommenced, she had vanished.

‘I think she died when Gee was an infant,’ Edward replied. ‘But all I know for certain is that Gee’s father wanted to hide his by-blow, so he put my father in charge of supervising her education. Pater placed her at school in Brighton with my younger sister, Henrietta, and Gee spent her summers with us at Deancombe. Before then, she was fostered at that charity home she spoke of.’

John rubbed his stubbled chin as he walked. Edward’s revelations changed matters. If Miss Bailey was raised amongst the desperate women and children she spoke of, there must be far more to her life experience than her elegant appearance had suggested. It spoke to the depths he’d suspected were hidden within her – the depths she disappointingly hadn’t revealed.

‘Perhaps my judgement was too hasty,’ he admitted. ‘I shall grant her a second interview.’

Edward’s blue eyes gleamed. ‘Impressive that she squeezed some money out of your tight fist already, but Gee is clever. And admit it, it didn’t hurt that she’s pretty, eh?’

John lifted his brows. ‘Since when has a pretty face ever swayed my actions?’

Edward shrugged, his smile fading. ‘True, true,’ he said, conceding the point. ‘Why have we come here?’ His gaze took in the cramped terraces of the streets south of Knightsbridge.

‘I must speak with someone inside. Wait with Jolly.’ John gestured for the wolfhound to sit. Jolly obeyed, lowering his lanky bottom to the pavement, but he whimpered, as if asking why he must remain outside. ‘It’s your tail, sir,’ John explained kindly. ‘Wags far too much. You’ll destroy the shop.’

Jolly sighed, resigned to his fate, especially once Edward began to scratch his ears, and John stepped into the automatiste’s home.

He was pleased from the moment he saw Flora’s present. The life-sized mechanical swan was a work of art, so exquisitely detailed as to appear real. With feather-like metal plates covering its cogs and clockwork, the swan moved its slender neck to preen and feed itself as an internal music box played.

Walking around it, studying it from every angle, John grew confident the swan would change matters for the better. This masterpiece was more than a mere gift; it was a declaration of what John felt in his heart. A way for him to express that though he watched from afar, he recognised Flora was growing into a young lady. This gesture, combined with Flora’s newfound maturity since Christmas, would hopefully restore their relationship to what it once was, when she was younger and understood why they must live apart.

John arranged for the swan to be delivered to Flora’s school the next day and left the shop feeling happier than he had in months.

John’s optimism lasted less than twelve hours.

Just before midnight, a frantic knocking upon the door of Number Twenty-Nine Half Moon Street shattered his slumber. With a groan, he raked his fingers through his hair, donned his banyan and trudged down the stairs. His manservant, Smith, clad in a nightcap and holding a candle aloft, had already unbolted the door.

Standing before them was Miss Gertrude Crayford, the younger sister of Flora’s headmistress. ‘I must speak with you at once, sir.’

John’s heart pounded. ‘By God, what’s happened? Is she injured? Ill?’

Miss Crayford dabbed a handkerchief to her swollen eyes. ‘Worse, sir. Ever so much worse. She’s run away – and with a man.’