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Sinclair, still holding tightly on to Fiona. ‘But I fear we are putting you to too much trouble.’
    ‘Nonsense, my dear Sinclair. You will not be my only unexpected guests. The Earl of Harrington has also thrown himself on my . . . er . . . mercy, having been travelling south when the storm struck.’
    Mr Sinclair had a longing to say he would be quite happy in the kitchens with the other passengers, but the housekeeper had appeared and was obviously waiting to conduct them upstairs. All he could do was to bow and thank Mr Pardon, resolve to caution Fiona, and hope she might grasp at least a tenth of what he was saying.
    The house was richly carpeted. Ornaments and statues gleamed in the soft light of oil lamps. Fiona was given the Yellow Room. The Blue Room was next door. A footman put their scanty luggage on the floor and said he would send a maid to see to their unpacking.
    ‘No need,’ said Mr Sinclair hastily. He turned to the housekeeper. ‘If you will excuse us, mistress, I wish to have a word with my wa— daughter.’
    The housekeeper and footman left.
    ‘Sit down, Fiona,’ said Mr Sinclair. ‘It’s time we had a talk.’
    Fiona took off her cloak and sat down by the fire. The room was very warm. It was dominated by a large modern bed that had the bedposts left bare and supporting an elaborately domed top. Thick yellow silk curtains hung at the window. The mantelpiece was of marble and, to the right of the fire, a mahogany tallboy soared up to the shadows of the ceiling. There was a bowl of rose petals on a satinwood dropside table, sending their delicate summer scent into the quiet, still air of the room.
    ‘Now,’ said Mr Sinclair, ‘why did you call yourself my daughter?’
    ‘I thought it . . . more fitting,’ said Fiona after a pause.
    ‘Well, so it is, so it is. It had not crossed my mind that as my ward people would wonder why you were not chaperoned, and with a predator like Pardon around, it is as well to observe the conventions. Make sure he does not get you alone.’
    Fiona nodded, her eyes very large and limpid.
    ‘What is your real name, Fiona? I assume my brother gave you his name.’
    ‘Yes. I do not know my real name. The orphanage called me Fiona Ross because it was a Mr Ross who found me.
    ‘Found you . . . where?’
    ‘Outside St Giles Church.’
    ‘Then you should have gone to the Foundling Hospital.’
    ‘I did. I was kept there until I was seven and then sent to the orphanage so that I might be trained as a servant. The Foundling Hospital called me Fiona. The orphanage added the Ross.’
    ‘And why weren’t you sent out as a servant? It is unusual for the orphanage to keep you so long.’
    ‘I was employed at the orphanage, cleaning and cooking. Mr Sinclair took me home with him when I was thirteen.’
    ‘And how old are you now?’
    ‘Eighteen . . . I think.’
    ‘So Jamie had ye all that time and never a word to me!’
    Fiona said nothing.
    Mr Sinclair rose to his feet, went to the window, pulled back the curtain and peered out. ‘Rain,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘The mail won’t wait here longer than necessary. We’d best fix ourselves for dinner as best we may. Leave the talking to me. I’ll apologize for our dress – say we’ve sent the bulk of our wardrobe on to London. Knock at my door in about ten minutes and I’ll take you down.’
    Fiona nodded again. When he left, she was still sitting by the fire, gazing dreamily into the flames.
    As Mr Sinclair scrambled into a rusty black evening coat, which he had bought ten years before, and was now two sizes too small for him, he kept thinking of Fiona, sitting by the fire. The full enormity of what he was doing struck him like a hammer blow. How could he take such an innocent girl and put her up on the block of the marriage market like a cow at Smithfield?
    He thought of the past few weeks, of how pleasant it had been to dress in clean linen and eat good food and sit in the evening in a shining apartment.