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minutes have passed, Frances gathers in her silken shawl and rises from her chair, giving the ladies their cue to depart. Her sister is away immediately, rushing around the table in a wide circle and off through a door at the back of the room. The two other women follow at a more leisurely pace, arms linked, sharing a whispered joke that Will suspects is at Mary Ann’s expense. Frances is equally unhurried, but she sweeps rather than strolls – stopping by a sideboard to murmur an order to the ever-present Mr Cope. He bends down to offer his ear, then nods once in obedient understanding.
    The door closes behind her, to a collective release of breath. Costly jackets are removed, wrapped into balls and hurled aside; waistcoats are unbuttoned; sweat-sodden shirt-tails are wrenched free from breeches. Servants bring in crystal brandy decanters, large tumblers and trays of sweetmeats, folding back the tablecloth to set them upon the polished wood beneath. Intrigued, Will leans forward to scrutinise the jewel-bright confections – selecting one that is a rich raspberry red and moulded in the shape of a conical sea shell. He gives the point a cautious nibble; the soft, jellied flesh dissolves instantly, flooding his mouth with a taste of summer fruit so succulent and intense that he nearly blurts out an oath.
    Beau wishes to clear the air. ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, ‘please tell me that you are far too wise to pay any mind to that saucy talk concerning my younger sister.’ He props a foot on the empty chair to his left. ‘None of what we said was of any consequence. God knows, Mary Ann has had a miserable time of it lately. I’m sure you’ll have heard the rumours – the scurrilous stories that swirl about London. It was not gallant of us to wave it before her up here as well.’
    The others indicate that they understand Beau and Mr Purkiss spoke only in jest – Douglas adding that his wife was damnably prone to over-reaction where her sister was concerned. Will, for all his theorising, has heard none of these rumours about Mary Ann. Keen to learn more, he wonders how best to assure his host of his discretion.
    Mr Purkiss is watching him, his pocked face heavy with contempt. ‘An appropriate moment for you to withdraw, Mr Turnbull, wouldn’t you say?’
    Will looks to Beau. He is swilling brandy around in a tumbler; he makes no objection, not even to the error regarding Will’s name. A silence settles upon the dining room. These fine gentlemen will say nothing else while the painter is present. He is being dismissed.
    There is a second or two’s numbness while Will fully apprehends what is happening – and then a jolt of furious, dizzying energy. Lips pursed hard, he clambers from his chair like a man dismounting a difficult horse. The plum waistcoat has gone awry and one of his stockings is coming loose from his breeches. He doesn’t attempt to adjust them. Drawing himself up, he announces that he will retire for the evening – adding, a little more pointedly than is politic, that he has much work to do . A cursory bow and he is off across the carpet, accelerating shoe-squeaks marking his progress to the door.
    The music room beyond is far darker, lit by only a triple-stemmed candelabrum placed atop a pianoforte. Will slows, feeling a gummy sensation in his right palm: the remainder of the shell-shaped sweetmeat, carried with him from the table, is starting to liquefy against his skin. All appetite gone, he looks about distractedly for somewhere to dispose of it.
    His mind teems with unpleasant questions. Was he asked here specifically to be mistreated? It’s beginning to feel deliberate. Has he perhaps offended Beau in some way, or connected himself inadvertently to an enemy of the Lascelles? Is this all, in short, a trick? Have they dragged him out to Harewood in order to avenge a slight received during the season, in a London drawing room or pleasure garden? Will has grown up listening to the ton talk in