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this matter with me and you shall hear from me shortly. Please write down this artist, Freddy Hecker’s, address.’
    Again the reticule was snapped open and a small notebook with a silver pencil attached produced from its depths. Lady Glensheil wrote down an address, tore off the page and handed it to him.
    She rose to go. ‘Do you have your carriage?’ asked the captain.
    ‘Of course not. I came in a hansom.’
    ‘Then Becket will find you one to take you home. Ah, how do I contact you? You will not want me to call at your town house in case your husband is there.’
    ‘Glensheil’s in Scotland. Wait, my card. Call on me as soon as you have anything.’ While she ferreted for her card-case, the captain rang the bell and asked Becket to fetch a cab.
    Soon her majestic figure, once more veiled, had departed and there was only the faint scent of patchouli in the room and a large roll of banknotes as a reminder of her visit.
     
CHAPTER THREE
    When leaving town, it is usual to send round cards to all your friends with the letters PPC (pour prendre congé) written in the corner. This obviates the necessity of formal leavetakings.
    Flora Klickman, How to Behave
    T he earl’s well-sprung carriage bore them off to the country. It was a perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky. The striped blinds and awnings on the shops and houses gave the city they were leaving behind a festive air.
    Rose sat in a corner of the carriage, trying to read, trying to escape from the feeling that as much as she had been tricked by Sir Geoffrey, she was as much to blame for her disgrace.
    If only she had cultivated the friendship of the other debutantes, she thought again, she might have picked up useful gossip about the season in general and Sir Geoffrey in particular.
    The fact was she had armoured herself in learning to combat her shy nature. She had felt her superior education had given her the edge over those other silly girls. And yet she was the one being banished from London in disgrace.
    She also felt a slow burning resentment for Captain Harry Cathcart. There was no need for him to have produced such dramatic evidence to overset her. If he had not interfered, then Geoffrey would have propositioned her and her eyes would have been opened to what kind of man he really was.
    If she and the captain ever crossed paths again, she hoped she could think up some way to humiliate him.
    The morning after Lady Glensheil’s visit, Harry strolled along the King’s Road and found a pub opposite to where the artist, Freddy Hecker, had his studio. Most of the windows were of frosted glass, but one which had been smashed recently had been replaced by plain glass.
    He bought a half pint of ale and positioned himself at a table at the window and began to watch.
    After an hour, a maid opened the door and handed a man his hat and stick. That must be Freddy, thought Harry.
    He waited until the artist had strolled off down the road and then left the pub and went across and knocked on the door.
    The maid, who was buxom and pretty, answered his knock.
    ‘Hecker in?’ asked the captain languidly.
    ‘I am afraid the master is out, sir.’
    ‘When are you expecting him back?’
    ‘In about an hour, sir.’
    ‘Good, I’ll wait.’
    The maid hesitated. ‘Would you not like to leave your card, sir, and come back later?’
    ‘No, my good girl, I would not. The wretched man is supposed to be painting my portrait.’ He loomed over her and she nervously stood aside. ‘Where is the studio?’
    ‘Upstairs, sir, but—’
    ‘I’ll find my own way.’
    Harry went up a narrow staircase. A door on the landing was open, revealing the studio, a vast room made up of two storeys that had been knocked into one.
    ‘May I bring you some refreshment, sir?’ said the maid’s voice behind him.
    ‘Nothing, I thank you. Run along. I must figure out which is my best side.’
    He closed the door behind her and began to look around. Now where would the wretched man have hidden