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events that followed, Phoebe had started taking daily lessons from one of England’s best fencing masters, an Italian by birth, Signor Luigi Verdi. Not that she expected to use her new skills in combat, but one never knew these days; anyway, she was by no means the only woman to enjoy the art for its own sake. A recent mode was for younger women to dress up in men’s clothing occasionally, and Phoebe found it both gratifying and liberating to adopt a masculine persona for an hour each morning with only her fencing master to see. They had laughed at the suggestion that now she would be able to fight her own duels but rather that, she thought, than waste someone else’s life. Too many lives had been lost for no good reason.
    Her own gown was of sea-green silk shot with turquoise, the neckline, full sleeves and tight bodice bound with braids of pink and gold that accentuated her peachy skin and glossy black curls. The silk swished seductively as she moved and, as she paused to lift the hem of her skirt higher, so too did he wait politely until she had gathered it, though he did not offer her his arm.

    For the rest of the afternoon he stayed close by her, and others noticed that she made no objections. ‘D’ye see that then, Duchess?’ said the Duke of Lauderdale. ‘He’s sticking to her like a leech and she’s nae making too much fuss aboot it.’
    ‘Yes John, I do see. Could he have been annoyed that I put her between Salisport and Mawes at the table, I wonder?’
    ‘Ach, I think he’s keener on her than she is on him, mind.’
    The Duchess smiled. ‘I would not be too sure about that, John.’
    ‘Wishful thinking,’ he said, walking away. ‘He’s got some ground to make up if he wants to get anywhere with your Mistress Laker.’
    But Phoebe was unexpectedly relieved to have the unsolicited guardianship of Sir Leo after what had happened earlier, for it had not pleased her at all to be fumbled and pawed over like a common street-walker. It brought home to her quite forcibly that perhaps they were not the only ones to so regard her. And while she could still feel humiliated that it was Sir Leo who had found her in that situation, she realised that if he had believed she was enjoying herself, presumably he would not have interfered. She was also relieved that he had not reported the incident to the Duke, who would certainly have asked the men to leave, spoiling the party.
    The dainty repast in the small two-storey banqueting house by the river passed pleasantly in nibbling and drinking, in word-games and singing after which they strolled back to the bowling green for a game until suppertime. Phoebe made an effort to encourage the two young daughters of her hostess and to make them her partners in the games, knowing only too well the inexplicable pain of a love that will come to nothing. The Duchess’s plans for her daughters would not include her husband’s secretary.

    Except for Phoebe, the guests departed in a fleet of coaches lit by the torches of the running link-men, leaving Ham House to unloose its stays and relax into the peace of the night. Phoebe’s yellow bedroom became a haven where her last thoughts were of the excuses she could use to make an early return home. Mrs Overshott’s condition had worsened? That would be the most plausible, except that she had nothing more than a head cold, and no one had come from Mortlake with such a message.

    By morning, her decisions were veering like a weather-vane in a gale between staying in the same house as a man she had made a point of hating for the past three years and galloping off home on an excuse that was as transparent as the June sky. It was, after all, the first time she had spent so long in his company, and her first impressions bore little resemblance to these more recent ones when he appeared to be less objectionable and more at ease. She decided to give it another day. For the Duchess’s sake, she told herself.
    They went riding round the