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Sinclair. ‘If it’s a grand mansion, we might be sent to the right-about.’
    ‘
I
am a lady,’ said the spinster, flashing a malicious look at Fiona, ‘although others may not be.’
    ‘That is quite enough of that,’ said the lawyer’s clerk in the quavering voice of a timid man determined to assert himself.
    The spinster sniffed, but relapsed into silence.
    The coach finally stopped in front of a large mansion. A lamp was hanging over the entrance portico. The coachman climbed down and rang the bell.
    A powdered, liveried footman came out on the step. He retreated and was replaced by an imposing-looking butler. The butler shook his head. The coachman waved his arms. Inside the coach, they could not hear what was being said, but no one wanted to open the window and risk losing the little warmth they had.
    The butler retired and then reappeared with a tall gentleman beside him. The gentleman had a weak, dissipated face that was rouged and painted. He was exquisitely dressed, and his fair hair was teased into a miraculous array of tangled and artistically disarrayed curls. He listened with a listless, bored air to the coachman’s tale and then said something to the butler.
    The coachman came back towards the carriage, rubbing his hands. He pulled open the door and said cheerfully, ‘We can spend the night in the kitchens, so we’ll have food and warmth.’
    ‘Whose place is it?’ asked Mr Sinclair.
    ‘Gentleman by the name of Pardon.’
    Pardon. Mr Sinclair frowned. There was something about that name, something unsavoury connected with it. He looked uneasily at Fiona’s innocent face and felt inadequate for the first time. He felt he should never have brought such a ewe lamb out into the cold world.
    Huddled together, the inside and outside passengers trooped into the entrance hall, clutching their belongings. The hall was wood-panelled and hung with portraits. A fire burned in a marble fireplace, and the air was scented with rose water.
    ‘This way,’ said the butler, leading the way to the back of the hall so that he could conduct these plebeian guests down to the kitchens.
    Mr Pardon stood in front of the fireplace, warming his bottom, the tails of his evening coat hitched up. ‘Serve dinner, Johnson,’ he called to his butler. ‘My guests are sharp set.’
    ‘Very good, sir,’ said the butler. ‘I will usher these persons belowstairs first.’
    The passengers shuffled through the hall, gazing about them in awe, all except Fiona, who seemed unaware of her surroundings. She drew back the hood of her cloak and shook out her hair.
    ‘By George,’ muttered Mr Pardon. Something made Mr Sinclair take Fiona’s arm and draw it protectively through his own.
    His languid pose completely gone, Mr Pardon glided forward and intercepted Mr Sinclair and Fiona. ‘My apologies,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was not aware a
gentleman
was of the party. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Pardon, Percival Pardon.’
    ‘Roderick Sinclair,’ said Mr Sinclair, executing a clumsy bow.
    ‘And this . . . ?’ asked Mr Pardon, smiling at Fiona. Before Mr Sinclair could speak, Fiona said, ‘I am Fiona Sinclair, Mr Sinclair’s daughter.’

THREE

    . . .
his legs were so beautiful . . . his skin so clear and transparent . . . Really all these things, and thirty thousand a year besides, were enough to melt a heart of stone.
    HARRIETTE WILSON’S MEMOIRS

    Mr Sinclair blinked, wondering why she had not said she was his ward, but quickly decided Fiona was being simple-minded as usual.
    ‘Charming,’ said Mr Pardon. His pale eyes studied Fiona’s face and figure in a way that Mr Sinclair did not like. ‘Of course you must join me for dinner.’ Mr Pardon snapped his fingers. ‘James,’ he said to a tall footman, ‘tell Mrs Anderson to have . . . let me see . . . the Yellow Room and the Blue Room made ready for Mr and Miss Sinclair and set dinner back by half an hour.’
    ‘We are honoured, sir,’ said Mr