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Society's Most Scandalous Rake
Isabelle Goddard


CAN SHE TAME THE TON’S MOST NOTORIOUS REBEL? Domino de Silva appears quite the most innocent of girls: young, beautiful and pure. Her sparkling merriment charms all who meet her. But all is not what it seems, and a summer spent in Brighton promises every delectable temptation…Mr Joshua Marchmain is reputed to be society’s most scandalous rake: tall and wickedly handsome, with a dangerous allure that can disgrace even the most decent of ladies…An overwhelming force draws Joshua and Domino together – but there are those in society who would stop at nothing to keep them apart…










Joshua was left looking after the carriage, a prey to uncertainty. Domino was to be sacrificed on the altar of family duty and there was little he could do.

He was a disreputable man and could have no voice in her future. That kiss—those kisses, he corrected himself reminiscently—could only ever be an interlude. But what an interlude! It was ridiculous that his heart still sang.

How many kisses had he known in his lifetime? Not like this, a small voice within him argued, not like this. He had known instinctively that she was a girl of strong emotion, that beneath her modest exterior lay a sleeping passion waiting to be roused, and he had been right. He had wanted to kiss her until she begged him never to stop, and she had wanted him to. She desired him as much as he desired her.

Another conquest to add to the many, he thought acidly. All the more reason, then, to keep his distance. Otherwise he would hurt her—and hurt her badly. It was inevitable—for didn’t he damage everything that became dear to him?




About the Author


ISABELLE GODDARD was born into an army family and spent her childhood moving around the UK and abroad. Unsurprisingly it gave her itchy feet, and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world.

The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university. Isabelle loves the nineteenth century, and grew up reading Georgette Heyer, so when she plucked up the courage to begin writing herself the novels had to be Regency romances.



Previous novels by this author:

REPROBATE LORD, RUNAWAY LADY

THE EARL PLAYS WITH FIRE



Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?

Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk


Society’s Most Scandalous Rake

Isabelle Goddard






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Jackie

A generous friend and reader who loves Brighton




Chapter One


Domino de Silva raised her face to the warm sun and breathed a sigh of contentment. The gentlest of waves whispered along the pebbles at her feet and the wide blue dome of the sky spread itself with ease to meet a distant horizon. She closed her eyes in pleasure. For a short time at least she was free; all too soon she would have to return to the house on Marine Parade and her cousin’s inevitable questioning. If only her father would send Carmela back to Spain, she might truly enjoy this last summer before the dreary future she was resigned to. But Papa would not do that. Her stern aunts back in Madrid had only agreed to her acting as his hostess if her cousin accompanied her.

‘You seem to have dropped this.’

She was startled from her reverie by a warm voice, disturbing in its intimacy. Shading her eyes against the sun’s strong rays, she detected the outline of a slim but muscular form. The man appeared to be offering her a crumpled cambric handkerchief bearing all the marks of having been trampled in sand and sea.

She shook her head decisively. ‘Thank you, but no. The handkerchief is not mine.’

‘Are you quite sure?’

‘I think I should know my own possessions,’ she responded a little tartly.

‘Naturally. But you had fallen into such an abstraction, I thought you might not realise if you had dropped something.’

She felt herself becoming ruffled. Whoever the man was, he was intruding on the few moments of solitude that were hers.

‘As I said, sir, I fear you are mistaken.’

Her voice was edged with ice, but it seemed not to perturb him for he took the opportunity to move nearer. She became aware of a pair of shapely legs encased in skin-tight fawn pantaloons and a coat of blue superfine perfectly fitted to his powerful shoulders. Hessian boots of dazzling gloss completed an ensemble ill adapted to a provincial beach.

‘It would seem I was mistaken,’ he admitted, ‘but I shan’t repine. It’s given me the opportunity to speak to a vastly pretty girl.’



She was astonished at his audacity. His voice and dress spoke the gentleman, but no gentleman of her acquaintance would have addressed a lady so.

‘I would be glad, sir,’ she said in the most frigid of voices, ‘if you would leave me in peace to enjoy this wonderful view.’

He let out a low chuckle and for the first time her gaze moved upwards towards his face and she was unnerved by what she saw. She had not realised how young he was or how good looking. His fair hair fell carelessly over his forehead and a pair of golden-brown eyes lingered over her in a way that made her flush with annoyance. A small scar on his left cheek only enhanced his attractiveness.

The gold-flecked eyes considered her with lazy amusement. ‘I’m not impervious to your request,’ he drawled, ‘but it places me in an awkward situation.’

‘How is that?’

‘My wish to gratify a lady is at odds with my strong sense of duty.’

Her determined silence did not deter him. ‘My wish to oblige requires me to walk away this minute and leave you to your solitude.’

‘Please do!’

‘If only it were that simple,’ he exclaimed mournfully, ‘but chivalry requires I put my duty first. Since you appear to be entirely without an escort, it clearly behoves me to stay as chaperon.’

‘How fortunate then that I can put your mind at rest! Trouble yourself no further. I am used to walking alone and am well able to take care of myself.’

At that moment she was far from feeling so. Her desire to venture out alone had never before exposed her to such persistent harassment. This man would not be shrugged off lightly.

‘You’re a mere slip of a girl,’ he continued blithely, ‘and it seems unlikely that you’re quite as accomplished as you think in escaping unwanted attentions. Though a most comely slip of a girl, I grant you,’ he finished after a slight pause. His eyes, glinting amber in the sunlight, danced with laughter.

There was nothing for it but to turn tail. He was impervious to disapproval and entreaty alike. She turned quickly to make her way back across the beach and her sudden movement impaled the flounce of her dress on a twisted piece of iron, which had detached itself from the groyne. She was well and truly caught.

‘Allow me.’

And before she could protest he was down on his knees, carefully unhooking the frill of delicate cream lace from the iron stanchion. She stood rigid with mortification, thankful for the cooling breeze on her heated cheeks. But there was worse to come. Before she could stop him, his hands began to rearrange the crumpled hem of her silk gown and for an instant alighted on her ankle.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said in a stifled voice and fled towards the safety of Marine Parade.

‘Must you go already?’ he called after her. ‘I feel we are only just getting acquainted.’ He grinned at her departing figure. ‘It’s not every lady’s ankles I get to see before luncheon, you know.’

She hurried away, more shocked than she cared to admit. That would teach her to walk unaccompanied. She must stop breaking the rules; within a year she would be married and there would be no more solitary strolls, no more escapes to the sea. And no chance meetings with impertinent strangers. Relieved, she reached the promenade and looked back to the spot she had just vacated. The man was still there, watching her every step, it seemed. He saw her pause and gave a cheerful wave. Impossible! She turned from the beach abruptly and hurried home.

Joshua Marchmain watched her for some time as she strode rapidly over the wet pebbles and began to climb the worn stone steps to the promenade. He had not meant her to flee quite so precipitately and just as things were getting interesting. He would have liked to spar a little more, for it was an unusual young lady who walked alone and disputed with strangers. And she had cut a most charming figure. The encounter had certainly provided a welcome break from the tedium of ministering to George’s whims. How he had become so indispensable to the Regent he hardly knew. For years he had exiled himself from life among the ton and it seemed unlikely that on his return he would become a palace favourite. But he had, and quickly. At first it had been amusing to supplant long-serving courtiers in the Prince’s favour, but now it was simply a dead bore.

A summer spent at Brighton had promised new interest, but the reality was proving very different. Or at least not different at all, that was the problem. The Prince’s life revolved around banquets, gambling, horse racing, music and his love affairs, whether he were in London or Brighton. The sound of the sea was the only novelty. Joshua had spent that morning, as so many others, idling in the hothouse that was the Royal Pavilion but, faced with the six-course luncheon the Regent felt an appropriate midday snack, he had rebelled to play truant in the salt-tanged air.

Almost immediately he had seen her, a small, trim figure in cream silk and lace with a saucy villager bonnet on the back of her head, barely keeping her unruly dark curls under control despite an enormous bow of azure ribbon. Her face, when she’d raised it to look at him, had more than matched the promise of her figure. Her eyes, dark and tragic, set in a heart-shaped countenance, had sent an unaccustomed longing through him. She would never be a diamond of the first water, but her youth and vulnerability spoke to him in a way that perfect beauty no longer did.

The ripple of emotion was over in a trice. Just as well, he thought breezily. Suppressing inconvenient sentiment had made life a good deal simpler over the years. It might have been amusing to dally a while, but in the event the flirtation was over before it had really begun. Regretfully he retraced his steps; it was time to resume his duties before the Regent noticed his absence.

As soon as Marston opened the door to her, Domino knew she was in trouble. Her cousin was in the hall, an apron wrapped around one of the black dresses she habitually wore and a furious expression on her face. The butler made a strategic exit, winking conspiratorially at the young girl as he retired to the servants’ quarters.

‘And where exactly have you been?’ Carmela’s tone was as angry as her face.

Domino did not answer immediately. She had meant to provide herself with some excuse for her absence, a frippery purchased from the stalls in Bartholomews, perhaps, but in the flight from the beach she had completely forgotten. In any case her cousin hardly drew breath before the next onslaught.

‘You do realise that your father is to host a reception here this very evening and you were supposed to help with the hundred and one things that have to be done.’

She did realise and felt a twinge of guilt. As the new ambassador for Spain, Alfredo de Silva was setting great store by tonight’s entertainment. He had only recently presented his credentials at St James’s; though the Court had abandoned a hot and dusty capital for the sea, it was vital that he continue his work among those who surrounded the Prince Regent. Only a few days ago he had confided a rumour to her that even George himself might attend this evening’s event.

‘I’m sorry, Carmela,’ she said quietly, trying in vain to mollify the angry woman, ‘I felt a little unwell—you know how stuffy this house gets in the hot weather—and I thought it would help if I took a short walk in the fresh air.’ Her cousin seemed unable to decide whether to look sceptical or shocked. In the end she managed a mixture of both.

‘It’s even stuffier outside,’ she scolded, ‘and how many times have I told you that you must not walk alone? You are imprudent, Domino. Why do you have a personal maid if it is not to accompany you wherever you wish to go? And why go anywhere today?’

‘I’m here now, so tell me what I can do to help.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Everything is done. As always, I have worked myself to a standstill.’

It was difficult to see how Carmela had worked so very hard. She herself had planned the event days ago and had left the maids to arrange flowers and set tables. The catering firm and their own kitchen had prepared every morsel of food and drink necessary to entertain the cream of the ton. But she said none of this, unwilling to upset her cousin further.

She was sharply aware of the sacrifice Carmela had made. Her cousin was devoted to the family and could even be kind in her own stiff fashion. She had not wanted to come to England, least of all to a scandalous resort known throughout Europe as a den of extravagance, if not downright immorality. But come she had, putting her loyalty to the family before her own comfort and leaving behind the pleasing pieties of her Madrid home. Domino might wish she were alone with her father, but Carmela was part of the bargain, part of the price she had to pay for a few months’ freedom.

Hurrying up the stairs to her bedroom, Domino locked the door with relief; she was out of reach here. Marriage, though unwelcome, would at least deliver her from the endless scolding of relatives. Her aunts had already presented her with the names of three suitors they considered eligible and all she had to do, they said, was choose one. Any of the three would make a highly suitable husband, able to oversee and conserve the vast estate she would inherit at twenty-one and certain to be assiduous in keeping the inevitable fortune hunters at bay. It didn’t matter who she married. After Richard Veryan, it was utterly unimportant. She had loved and lost, and she knew even at this young age that she would never feel so deeply about any man again. It was enough for her to know that he was happy now with the wife he should always have had, and that she was in some small way responsible for bringing them together. But if only …

She was sunk in the customary forlorn dream when a knock at the door roused her. Fearing a resurgent Carmela, she opened it cautiously, but it was Alfredo de Silva who stood on the threshold, a beaming smile on his face and his arms outstretched in greeting.

‘Querida, come with me,’ he ordered, having hugged her until her ribs almost buckled under the strain. ‘I have a little present for you.’

‘I fear that I don’t deserve a present, Papa. Ask Carmela.’

‘Oh, Carmela—what does she know of deserving? I intend to spoil you to death now that you are with me again. I’ve missed you more than you will ever know.’

Her father was hustling her along the landing to his own room where the door stood open and a stunning gown of the deepest rose pink tumbled invitingly on the bed. She snatched it up eagerly and held it against her body. A glance at the cheval mirror in the corner of the room reflected back her creamy olive skin and burnished curls, their beauty heightened by the rich rose of the satin-and-gauze gown. Still holding the dress tightly, she waltzed around the bed laughing with pleasure.



‘Thank you, thank you so much. It’s quite lovely. But far too good for a mere reception, Papa. We should save it for a grand ball at the very least!’

‘A ball? No, indeed. You can be sure that when the time comes, I will find something even better,’ her father said mysteriously. ‘Wear the rose pink tonight and your mother’s amethysts. They will be perfect for the dress and perfect for you—you look so like Elena.’

His voice faltered a little and Domino took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly. ‘I love being spoiled, but you are much too kind to me.’

‘You should know, my dear, that I have an ulterior motive. In that dress you will entrance all my guests and then they will say how lucky Spain is to have such an excellent ambassador!’

She was glad now that she had returned to England to be with her father, despite Carmela and despite Lady Blythe’s warning. Their English cousin had refused to continue as Alfredo’s hostess once he left London; Brighton had been a step too far for Lady Loretta Blythe. Raffish, my dear, she had warned Domino in a letter to Spain, please consider carefully whether you will be comfortable entertaining in such a place. Domino had considered, but the prospect of living with a much-loved parent again, free of her aunts’ strictures, had been too appealing.

Returning to her bedroom, she found Flora in a fizz of excitement at the prospect of dressing her mistress for the evening’s celebrations. The abigail, the best of a mediocre selection according to Lady Loretta, who had despatched her from London, had never before acted as a lady’s maid and this evening would be a test of the skills she had been practising so assiduously. The rose-pink gown with its assorted underpinnings was soon in place, the very slightest brush of rouge applied to both cheeks and a smear of rose salve for the lips. Taming Domino’s luxuriant curls into the popular Roman style, though, took a little longer, and it was some considerable time before Flora pronounced herself satisfied with the result. Her mistress’s raven locks now cascaded from a carefully arranged topknot to rest lightly in two glistening ringlets on the soft cream of her neck. A careful fastening of the delicate necklace of amethysts around Domino’s neck and the placing of matching earrings completed the toilette. Both young ladies viewed the finished result in the mirror and smiled with pleasure. Whatever Domino might lack in willowy elegance, she made up for in sheer prettiness.

‘I’m determined to enjoy this evening, Flora,’ she pronounced, her dark eyes sparkling with anticipation. She had begun to feel the old excitement returning even though she was once more about to enter the lion’s den.

‘Of course you are, miss, why ever wouldn’t you?’ her maid asked innocently.

‘When I agreed to come to Brighton in Lady Blythe’s place, the prospect of helping my father entertain seemed nicely distant. But now!’

‘You’ll be fine, Miss Domino, you always know exactly the right thing to say and do,’ Flora soothed.

‘My aunts have schooled me well, it’s true, but this is the very first ton party I have ever hosted.’

And it had arrived rather too quickly, she thought. It seemed as though they had hardly settled themselves in the elegant town house on Marine Parade before Alfredo announced that he wished to give a reception. But it was more than that. Her last foray into the social life of England’s top one-hundred families had ended in disaster. She saw the young girl she had been, so open to all the pleasures of that first London Season: balls, picnics, exhibitions, ridottos, Venetian breakfasts. How young and foolish! She had fallen in love with the wrong man and fallen foul of one who meant her nothing but dishonour.



‘It’s time you went downstairs, miss. I’ve just heard Miss Carmela’s door close.’

The maid fussed around her, adjusting a tendril here, a fold of the dress there. Domino bestowed a warm smile on her. ‘Thank you so much, Flora. You’ve had magic in your fingers this evening. I hope I shall live up to your handiwork.’

‘You will, Miss Domino, for sure. You look fair ‘ansome.’ Flora grinned, betraying her rural heritage and forgetting for the moment the town bronze she was painfully acquiring.

The hall had been sumptuously decorated with tall vases of early summer lilac and as Domino walked slowly down the marble staircase, their perfume rose in a sensual spiral to meet her. The main doors were open and in the still evening air she could hear the rhythmic beating of waves against stone parapet. Her father and Carmela were already waiting by the front entrance to receive the first of their guests, her cousin having forsaken her usual black gown for a slightly less funereal mauve. They looked up at her approach and Alfredo glowed with pride; even Carmela gave her a tight smile of approval. So far, so good, but her nerves were taut. Would her planning stand up to the ton’s stringent demands? Could she perform the role of hostess with aplomb? She had not long to find out.

Lord Albermarle was the first to arrive and his bluff good nature put Domino immediately at ease. Most of their guests that evening would be men—an inevitable imbalance in a diplomatic reception—and she had not been certain whether to feel this as an advantage or not. But Lord Albermarle’s gentle compliments and genial smile decided her. Far better to make her début without female whispers to disparage her efforts. Soon the ground floor of Marine Parade was throbbing with life. Most of the guests were involved in some way with the Court or with Parliament, but there were a few without any diplomatic or political interest who came simply to look over the new ambassador and his household. They appeared to like what they saw.

Sir Henry Bridlington spoke for many when he observed, ‘Señor de Silva seems a very good sort and his daughter is bound to make a stir in Brighton this season.’ He took a long pinch of snuff. ‘The girl has looks, breeding and she’s no fool. Refreshing to meet a woman with opinions!’

‘It depends on the opinions, I imagine.’ The man who spoke was flaxen haired and his tawny eyes glittered with amusement.

‘Nothing outlandish, I swear,’ Bridlington responded. ‘In fact, I thought she spoke most sensibly. And a very attractive face and figure, don’t you know.’

‘Ah, now you’re talking sense. A woman’s opinions are as changeable as the sea. But her looks! That’s a different matter entirely. I must ensure I make the acquaintance of this nonpareil.’

So it was that Domino, busily circulating among her guests, came face to face with her tormentor of the morning.

He smiled lazily down at her while a flush gradually suffused her entire body as she realised who was barring her way. He had looked complete to a shade during this morning’s encounter. Now he looked simply splendid. He was dressed in the satin knee breeches and black long-tailed coat befitting a gentleman attending an evening party, but the way he wore them singled him out from every other man in the room. His clothes fitted him impeccably—the work, she surmised, of a master tailor—and clearly suggested the perfect male body beneath. A dandyish silk waistcoat of maroon-and-grey stripes was countered by the restraint of a crisp white neckcloth, tied in an elegant trône d’amour and fastened by a single diamond stud. Her gaze travelled slowly over him, but always came back to those amber eyes, sensual and appraising.

‘Miss de Silva, I imagine? Joshua Marchmain, at your service.’ He bowed with a languid grace.

She bobbed a bare curtsy and inclined her head very slightly. His smile deepened at her evident reluctance to recognise him.

‘Forgive my somewhat unorthodox approach. I lack a sponsor to introduce me at the very moment I need one.’

She remained tense and unsmiling, but he affected not to notice.

‘I am forced therefore to introduce myself,’ he continued. ‘I would not wish to leave this delightful party before thanking my hostess—that would be grossly discourteous.’

‘Discourtesy should not concern you, sir. You seem to have a fine stock of it.’

Her high colour was fading fast and she felt control returning. She was not to be overpowered by this arrogant man; she would make him acknowledge his earlier impertinence.

‘How is that?’ He was looking genuinely puzzled and she was reduced to saying weakly.

‘I think you know very well.’



‘But then I would not have been so discourteous as to mention our delightful …’ he paused for a moment ‘… rendezvous.’

‘It was not a rendezvous,’ she remonstrated, ‘it was harassment and you were abominably rude. How dared you accost a lady in that fashion?’

‘But, Miss de Silva, consider for one moment, how was I to know that I was accosting a lady? No lady of my acquaintance would ever walk alone.’

‘So you feel you have carte blanche with any woman you don’t consider a lady?’

‘Let us say that solitary females are not usually averse to my company.’

Domino seethed at his arrogance; he was truly an insufferable man. ‘You deliberately trespassed on my seclusion,’ she said wrathfully. ‘Despite my pleas, you refused to leave me alone.’

The golden eyes darkened and not with amusement this time. ‘But naturally,’ he said in a voice of the softest velvet. ‘How could I? You were far too tempting.’

She felt the tell-tale flush beginning again and longed to flee. But her training stood her in good stead and she drew herself up into as statuesque a figure as she could manage and said in an even tone, ‘I believe, Mr Marchmain, that we have finished our conversation.’

He bent his head to hers and said softly, ‘Surely not, Miss de Silva; I have a feeling that it’s only just beginning.’

In an arctic voice she made a last attempt to put him out of countenance.

‘I don’t recall my father mentioning your name in connection with his work. Do tell me what your interest in this evening’s event might be.’

He moved away from her slightly, but his manner remained as relaxed as ever.

‘Which is a polite way of saying, what am I doing here without an invitation? You’re quite right, I have no invitation. However, I believe the Prince Regent’s presence was expected and I am here as his humble representative.’

‘Then he’s not coming this evening?’ She felt a keen disappointment and, despite her dislike of Joshua Marchmain, found herself wanting to ask more.

‘Did you expect him to?’

‘My father was told that he might attend.’

‘Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ He smiled that lazy smile again. ‘George is a somewhat indolent prince, I fear, and only rouses himself to action when he anticipates some pleasure from it.’



She was taken aback by his irreverence. ‘You are a member of the Prince’s household?’

‘For my sins and at the moment, yes.’

‘Then how can you speak so of a royal prince?’

‘Believe me, it’s quite easy. If one knows the prince.’

‘It would seem that you hold the Regent in some aversion. If that’s so, why do you stay?’ she enquired with refreshing candour.

‘That is a question I ask myself most days. So far I haven’t found an answer. Perhaps you might provide me with one.’

She looked puzzled. ‘I cannot see how.’

‘One never can at the time,’ he replied cryptically.

Domino was rapidly tiring of the continual fencing that Mr Marchmain appeared to find essential to conversation, but was too eager to learn of life in the Pavilion to walk away. ‘Is the palace very grand inside?’ she asked impulsively and then wished she hadn’t. She had no wish to betray her gaucheness in front of this indolently assured man.

He smiled indulgently, seeming to find her innocence enchanting.

‘Yes, I suppose you could call it grand; although I would rather say that it is eccentric. But surely you will see the Pavilion for yourself very soon and will be able to make up your own mind.’

‘Perhaps. My father has not yet told me of his plans.’

‘It is to be hoped they will include a visit to the palace. If so, allow me to offer my services as your guide.’

Domino had no intention of ever seeking his company, but she made the expected polite response. At least for the moment he was conducting himself unexceptionally. Then out of nowhere he disconcerted her once more with a passing remark.

‘I understand that you have been living in Madrid.’

‘How did you know that?’ she demanded.

‘I ask questions and get a few answers,’ he murmured enigmatically. ‘There’s a wonderful art gallery in Madrid, the Prado. Do you know it?’

‘My home in Madrid is close by.’

‘Then you are most fortunate. To be able to look on the genius of Velázquez any day you choose.’

She stared at him in astonishment. ‘You are interested in art?’

‘A little. I collect when I can. I have recently acquired a small da Vinci—a very small one—so at the moment I am quite puffed with pride. When you visit the Pavilion, I would like to show you the studio I have set up.’

‘You are an artist yourself?’

‘I am a dauber, no more, but painting is a solace.’

If she wondered why a man such as Joshua Marchmain should need solace, she had little time to ponder. Carmela had arrived at her elbow and was hissing urgently in her ear that they were running out of champagne and would she like to come up with a solution. The party had been more successful than they had hoped and people had stopped for longer to drink, eat and gossip.

Domino excused herself and Joshua swept them both a deep bow. Carmela glared at him fiercely before following in her cousin’s wake. She must warn Domino to keep her distance from that man. She knew nothing of him, but every instinct told her he was not to be trusted and her young relative had spent far too long talking to him. At the best of times it would look particular, but with this man it was likely to begin gossip they could ill afford. Domino was to be married next year and it was Carmela’s job to guard her well until such time as the wedding ring was on her finger.

Joshua watched them out of sight, smiling wryly to himself. He knew Carmela’s type well. How many such duennas had he taken on and vanquished in the course of an inglorious career? But Domino appeared to have a mind of her own. That and her youthful charm made her a prize worth pursuing; the next few weeks might prove more interesting than he had expected. He weaved his way through the chattering guests to receive his hat from a stray footman before sauntering through the front door of Number Eight Marine Parade, his step a little livelier than when he had entered.

The next morning was overcast. The sun hid behind clouds and the sea looked a dull grey. The prospect of a walk was uninviting, but it was Sunday and attendance at the Chapel Royal was essential for the ambassador and his daughter. Carmela had refused point blank to accompany them; nothing would induce her to attend a Protestant church, she said. She would stay at home and follow her own private devotions. If Domino and her father felt a little jaded from the previous evening’s exertions, a vigorous walk along the promenade soon blew away any megrims. Tired they might be, but they were also in good spirits. The reception had gone without a hitch and Alfredo was feeling increasingly optimistic for the success of his mission. Domino, too, was cheerful, seeing her father so buoyant. To be sure, entertaining the ton had been a little daunting, but she had come through her first test with flying colours. Apart from the impossible Mr Marchmain, nothing had occurred to spoil her pleasure. And even he had intrigued her. He was an enigma, a man of contradictions. She had thought him nothing more than a highly attractive predator, but then he had announced himself a lover of great art. He was sufficiently wealthy to laze the summer away in the Prince Regent’s very expensive retinue, but seemed to lack the responsibilities that accompanied such wealth. And far from enjoying his exalted social position, it appeared to give him little pleasure.

A wind had sprung up by this time, blowing from the west, and Domino was forced to pay attention to her attire, hanging on with one hand to the Angoulême bonnet with its fetching decoration of golden acorns, while with the other she strove to keep under control the delicate confection of peach sarsenet and creamy tulle that billowed around her legs. They walked briskly, her father enumerating his plans for the week while she listened, but all the time her mind was busy elsewhere.

‘Papa,’ she said suddenly, when he fell silent for a moment, ‘what do you know of Mr Marchmain?’



‘Only a very little. He is one of the Regent’s court, I understand, so no doubt expensive, idle, possibly dissolute.’

She felt dismay at her father’s description. Marchmain was certainly persistent in his unwanted attentions, but dissolute!

‘Do not concern yourself, my dear.’ Her father patted her hand. ‘Members of the Prince Regent’s entourage are a law unto themselves. We will have dealings with them only when we must.’

She tried another tack. ‘How is it that Joshua Marchmain is only a plain mister? Surely if he belongs to the Regent’s company, he should have a title.’

‘I believe the young man is related in one way or another to any number of the nobility and has inherited a wealthy estate, which he will certainly need if he keeps company with the Regent for long. But why this interest, querida?’

‘No real interest, Papa,’ she said stoutly. ‘He just seemed an odd person to be attending the reception, a fish out of water.’

‘I think we can say that Mr Marchmain’s appearance at our small entertainment was the Regent’s overture to Spain. We must accept the overture politely, but still maintain a distance.’

He took her arm firmly in his. ‘Come, we should step out smartly if we are not to be shamed by our lateness at church.’

They walked quickly on, the summer wind skirling around their feet and sending up dust and abandoned news sheets into a choking cloud. Brighton was a fashionable resort—almost too fashionable, she reflected—and Marine Parade was a less-than-ideal residence. It was too near the centre of town and attracted promenading society far too readily. She had quickly realised that lodgings close to the Pavilion were in general reserved for young bucks, looking forward to a lively few months by the sea, and for the sprinkling of dandies with their pencilled eyebrows and curled mustachios who were always ready to ogle any stray female who crossed their path. She had come to wish that her father had chosen a house on the outskirts of town but, this morning, proximity meant they had only a short way to travel before they arrived at the church a few minutes before the last bell ceased tolling.

The Chapel Royal was a square building in the classical style with rounded sash windows and a row of Doric columns flanking the main door. It was the custom for visitors without their own pew to be charged an entrance fee and Domino and her father obediently joined a straggling line of people, all waiting to pay their shilling. The queue was moving slowly and they waited for some while to disburse their fee, but as they neared the imposing front door of the church, there was a sudden commotion behind them, a servant pushing his way forwards to clear a pathway for his employer. She turned to discover who this grand personage might be and received a terrible shock; she found herself staring into the eyes of the man she had come to loathe when last she was in England.

Leo Moncaster smiled grimly at her. ‘Miss de Silva? Imagine that. And there was I thinking never to see you again.’

Her father had turned around and was looking with surprise at the sneering stranger. ‘Is this gentleman annoying you, Domino?’ he asked her quietly. She was quick to reassure him and he turned back to pay their shillings.

‘I see you have brought reinforcements with you this time.’ The sneer became even more pronounced. ‘And is your aunt here also, ready to come to your defence at any moment?’

‘Lady Blythe remains in London, sir, although I see no reason why that should interest you.’

‘On the contrary, Miss de Silva, everything to do with you interests me. I have a long memory, even if you do not.’



And with that he pushed past beneath the pediment displaying the Prince Regent’s coat of arms and into the church. She was left trembling from the encounter, but anxious that her father should not suspect anything amiss. She linked arms with him and smiled as bravely as she could.

‘Shall we go in?’

Seeing Leo Moncaster had been a crippling blow. When she had agreed to play hostess for her father, she had never for a moment imagined that she would meet the man who had done her so much harm. If she had been thinking sensibly, she might have known he could well be here and living at the Pavilion. Moncaster was an inveterate gambler and it was said that fortunes were won and lost on a nightly basis at the Regent’s tables. Where better for such a man to spend his summer? It was clear that his malevolence was unabated despite Lady Blythe having paid her niece’s gambling debt in full. Of course, he had not wanted the money. It was herself, or rather her body, that he had wanted. That was the prize of which he’d been cheated. But how could she ever have thought him attractive? A shudder ran through her as though she were tiptoeing over a grave, fearful of disturbing dark layers of memory. Her only comfort was her father’s assertion that they need have little to do with the Prince Regent or any of his cronies.

Certainly the Prince would not be in evidence this morning. Although he had laid the church’s foundation stone some twenty-five years ago, he had stopped worshipping at the Chapel Royal when a sermon on immorality had offended him. But there was some compensation to be had. An enormous man with creaking corsets was heaving himself into the pews reserved for the Royal Family a few rows in front of her: the Regent’s brother, the Duke of York. He kept up a constant muttering, hardly audible, but nevertheless highly embarrassing to his companions. Their attempts to stifle him made her smile; for the moment she forgot the dreadful meeting she had just endured and was emboldened to look about her. The galleried church was filled with decoration, its supporting columns and pulpit highly embellished, while a large organ in burnished copper thundered from above the altar. It was a rich man’s building.

She looked sideways across the aisle, scanning a busy canvas of faces, hoping to keep out of Moncaster’s sight. Immediately beneath one of the galleries a countenance she was beginning to know well swam into view. Joshua’s gaze was on her, sporting an appreciative smile as he took in her situation just behind the noisy Duke. She noticed that he was dressed more soberly this morning, but the familiar lock of fair hair trailed over his brow and his sprawling figure exuded his customary confidence. Her glance moved on to the woman who sat next to him; there was something proprietorial in her posture. She was richly dressed in an ensemble of emerald-green Venetian silk and her hair was covered with a headpiece of ostrich feathers. The feathers swayed slightly in the current of air and their height ensured that those who sat immediately behind could see little of the service at the altar.

Domino did not profit from the parson’s homily that morning. She was too conscious of both the men she wished to avoid and was relieved when the final hymn reverberated through the rafters and she was able to walk from the church into a burst of sunshine. The rector was at the door to greet his parishioners and once again they were forced to wait patiently in line before they could pass through the narrow entrance.

‘Pious as well as pretty,’ a voice said softly in her ear. ‘It gets better all the time.’

She turned to face him, grateful that her father was engaged in talking to a fellow communicant.

‘Still accosting unwilling women, Mr Marchmain?’ she snapped back.

‘Never unwilling, Miss de Silva.’

Her face flushed scarlet as she took in the implication of his remark. She was just about to retort angrily when another voice cut across their interchange.

‘Joshua, why don’t you introduce me to your delightful new friend?’

It was the richly dressed woman she had seen sitting next to him in the pew.

A look of irritation flitted across his face, but was gone in a moment.

‘But of course. Miss de Silva, may I present the Duchess of Severn. Charlotte, Miss de Silva—the daughter of our new ambassador from Spain.’

‘How delightful to have you in Brighton, my dear.’

Domino wasn’t sure she liked the woman. She seemed to purr when she spoke and the glances she cast towards the waiting Joshua verged on the covetous. But she curtsied decorously and made her father known to the duchess.

‘You must both come to one of my small soirées as soon as possible,’ Charlotte Severn said smoothly. ‘I will send an invitation this very week. I am sure Joshua will know your direction.’

Domino sensed a hidden meaning, but managed to smile politely and hope that her father would conjure some excuse for their not attending.

‘She is a very fine lady, is she not, Papa?’ she remarked as they made their way back along the promenade.

‘Who?’

‘The Duchess of Severn.’

‘Finely dressed at least.’

‘You don’t sound as though you like her.’

‘I don’t know her, Domino, but I do not like the set she moves in. I would prefer you to have as little to do with her as possible.’

‘Mr Marchmain seems to know her well,’ she ventured.

‘Indeed he does,’ her father said grimly, then abruptly changed the subject.

She was left to puzzle over just what had vexed him so badly.




Chapter Two


Joshua turned abruptly on his heels and headed back towards the Pavilion, his temper frayed. He needed to be alone and Charlotte Severn could easily be left to the escort of Moncaster, whom he had noticed in the distance. He was angry with her for intervening in his conversation with Domino and even more annoyed that she had promised an invitation to one of her celebrated soirées. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to keep Domino to himself, or at the very least not expose her to the intimacies of the Severn household.

He had no intention of seducing the young girl, that was not his style, but neither did he want her knowing a woman such as Charlotte. That lady might be the wife of one of the premier dukes of the land, but she had the soul of a courtesan. The role suited her well and she should stick to it, he thought, rather than attempting to befriend the young and inexperienced. The Royal Pavilion was a suitable milieu for her. Every kind of dubious pleasure was available there and she had a husband happy to look away while she played. His Grace was content in his declining years to puff off his wife’s beauty and retire to the lure of the gaming table. He was one of the Regent’s most assiduous companions, not least because he was so wealthy that it mattered little to him how much money he lost.

Charlotte had access to wealth untold—but that was not enough, Joshua reflected wryly. It hardly compensated for a dull and ageing husband. He remembered when he had first seen her two years ago—Wiesbaden, it was, at the town’s most opulent casino, and seated at the hazard table. She had looked across at him, her eyes staring straight into his, their porcelain blue still and expressionless, but nevertheless saying all they needed to say. That very night they had become lovers and from time to time continued to meet. But for long stretches of the year the duchess could not shrug off the duties incumbent on her position and that suited him well. There were always others happy to keep him company and lengthy periods of absence had until recently staved off the inevitable ennui which acquaintance with any woman produced. Or any woman since that first disastrous love affair.

But things were changing. He didn’t know if it was the sea air stirring his blood and making him restless, but something had altered in him. Charlotte Severn no longer beguiled him and his frustration at being part of the Regent’s sycophantic court was beginning to acquire a sharper edge. And the girl—she had something to do with it, too. It wasn’t just that he wanted to bed her; that was as certain as it was unlikely. It was, he thought, that he had enjoyed their encounters, enjoyed her vitality, her verve, the zest with which she resisted his raillery. He had met her on three occasions and each time behind his gentle mockery he had wanted to explore, to discover more, to begin to know her. Today she had looked enchanting in peaches and cream and yet another rakish bonnet, those dark tragic eyes looking out at him so scornfully from beneath its brim. They could be made to wear another expression, he was sure. If ever he felt mad enough to risk exile again, he would savour the challenge. Charlotte’s companionship had never seemed more irksome; she had stepped between them, muddying the waters, placing her footprint where only his had previously been.

The duchess was waiting for him in the outer vestibule of the Pavilion. If his temper had improved with the circuitous route he had taken, hers certainly had not. He barely had a foot through the door when she addressed him in a voice crisp with indignation.

‘There you are, Mr Marchmain. I had begun to think I had lost you.’

‘Why is that, Your Grace?’ He would be as formal as she.

‘Not unnaturally, I awaited your escort from the Chapel Royal. But when I turned to call on your services, you had gone.’

‘Forgive me. I felt in need of a slightly longer walk and I am aware that it is not a pastime you favour.’

‘A walk with you is always a pleasure, Joshua,’ she replied in a more conciliatory tone.

‘Then forgive me once more. Had I known, I would certainly have requested your company,’ he lied.

She fixed him with a cold, enquiring eye. ‘How is it that you know the ambassador’s daughter?’

‘I was representing the Regent last night, if you remember,’ he said indifferently. ‘We met at her father’s diplomatic reception.’

‘You seem already to be on good terms with her.’

‘Why should I not be? I understand the need for England to maintain a good relationship with Spain.’

‘Ah, so that’s what it is.’

Leo Moncaster strode into the Octagon Hall as they talked and viewed the two tense figures with satirical amusement.

‘Quite a breeze blowing out there,’ he offered with an assumed bonhomie. ‘That’s the problem with being beside the sea, never without a wind. Still hopefully Prinny will soon get bored with coastal delights and leave for Carlton House within the month.’

His audience remained resolutely silent and his eyebrows rose enquiringly.

‘Have I been guilty of interrupting a private conversation? If so, my profuse apologies.’

‘Apologies are unnecessary. Your manners are never anything but perfect, Moncaster,’ Joshua remarked acidly, unable to conceal his dislike. ‘Her Grace and I were just about to part.’ And with that he strode off to his rooms, leaving Leo Moncaster looking quizzically at the duchess.

‘I realise I am hardly a favourite of Marchmain’s, but, beyond my unwelcome presence, what ails him?’

‘I imagine no more than a tedious sermon and a cold walk from the Chapel Royal.’

‘He seemed ruffled—uncharacteristically so.’

‘I may have annoyed him,’ the duchess admitted, her voice carefully neutral.

‘How so?’

‘I invited a young woman who appears to have become his protégée to one of my soirées. That apparently is not something to be done.’

‘And why not exactly?’

‘Possibly he thinks I may corrupt her innocence,’ Charlotte said with a knowing little smile. ‘Would you be so good, Leo, as to escort me back to Steine House? A trifling distance, I know, but I prefer to have a reliable man by my side.’

Lord Moncaster offered his arm and they sailed past the waiting footman. He was not to be put off the scent, however, and as they walked through the Pavilion Gardens enquired, ‘And what innocence would that be, if she knows Joshua Marchmain well?’

‘Don’t be so crude, Leo. Joshua is a gentleman.’

‘You think so? Never trust a man not to sully innocence.’



‘I suppose you should know,’ she answered in a bored voice, ‘your reputation precedes you.’

‘At least I make no pretence to be other than I am,’ he responded harshly. ‘Marchmain is as much a rake; his pretence is to be something else.’

‘Joshua is a man of the world, but he is not a rake. He has discrimination.’

‘In seeking you out, dear lady?’

‘In seeking out a woman who is mature and experienced and with whom he can enjoy life to the full.’

‘As opposed to a girl who is young and naïve, yet sends his heartstrings singing.’

She bit her lip viciously, Moncaster observed with a sly glance. ‘Don’t say, my dear, that you’ve fallen in love with him. Not a good policy, not at all.’

‘Joshua and I understand each other very well.’

‘I wonder.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I wonder how well. After all, you knew nothing of this girl.’

‘That is because he made her acquaintance only yesterday.’

‘And who is this paragon of unsullied innocence?’



‘Her name is Domino de Silva. Domino, what a ridiculous name! Why, what’s the matter?’ The man beside her had stiffened imperceptibly.

‘De Silva, you say?’

‘Yes, do you know her?’

‘Shall we say I have had dealings with her.’ It was Lord Moncaster’s turn to look grim.

‘It sounds as though they were not entirely to your liking.’

‘They were not. I have a score to settle.’

‘I see.’ Charlotte Severn glanced covertly at the polished man accompanying her. He took his time before he spoke again.

‘Are you interested, perhaps? We might work well together.’

‘We might,’ she replied consideringly, ‘but for the moment I prefer to see what I can accomplish alone.’

‘Then let me give you a hint. Gaming.’

‘Gaming? In what way?’

‘A small chink in the armour. It is so fatally easy, is it not, when one is young and inexperienced, to find oneself adrift in a world one does not understand? Fatally easy to lose money, for instance, that one does not have. Then think of the shame, the scandal that would necessitate instant withdrawal from society.’

‘You are a wicked man, Leo.’



‘A practical man, my dear. And practical is what you should be. Marchmain may be the gentleman you profess, but he is a man, and a very attractive one, too. Think of that.’

The duchess did think of it. She hurried away to her chambers, a frown on her otherwise unblemished forehead, and immediately called for paper and pen.

Domino thought little more of Charlotte Severn. If her invitation ever materialised, she was sure she could depend on her father to rescue her. Alfredo was busier than ever and it seemed to Domino that whole days passed when she barely saw him. Looking for occupation, she decided to seek out one of the many art galleries that had sprung up in and around Brighton under the Regent’s patronage. Prince George loved art and so, by default, did his courtiers—or, at least, they maintained the pretence that they did. But rather than attend the Picture Gallery on Grand Parade, which boasted an unrivalled collection of Italian and French art, she chose a newer and much quieter gallery situated to the north of the town. It was an unfashionable area and little visited by the nobility, but Domino had recently seen a flyer advertising the Grove Gallery’s latest exhibition and had been intrigued by the more experimental art it was offering for sale. Mindful of Carmela’s repeated injunctions, she took Flora with her.

It was a beautiful early July morning when they struck inland towards New England farm and the scattering of modern houses that had been built nearby. A delighted Flora chattered incessantly as they walked, for accompanying her mistress was a rare treat and she was determined to provide amusement on the arduous walk uphill. Listening to the unending flow with only one ear, Domino hoped fervently that her maid would run out of words well before they reached their destination.

Thirty minutes walking had brought them to the top of the Dyke Road, the main thoroughfare north out of Brighton, and Flora was still talking. They found the gallery easily enough, the only building apart from a scattering of new villas, set amongst fields where cows were placidly grazing amid the shadows. Not even Carmela could find dangers lurking in such a tranquil setting, Domino thought, and felt justified in asking the garrulous Flora to await for her outside. Gratefully she trod over the threshold and felt the silence fall like a gentle cloak on her shoulders. The interior was bright and airy, a large rectangular space, its walls hung with green baize and its floor covered by a rough drugget. The paintings were displayed seemingly at random, but the brilliant light emanating high up from latticed casements that encircled the entire top of the rectangle illuminated them perfectly. She looked about her with pleasure and began to relax.

The paintings were certainly unusual. She wasn’t at all sure she liked them, though they were for the most part ingeniously executed. But there was one landscape that caught her eye and slowed her steps: the Downs on a tempestuous day, the grass, the bushes, the trees, all bending seawards in the westerly wind, seeming to tumble unstoppably towards the troubled and racing waters in the distance. A glorious sense of freedom, brought to life so strongly in the painting, swept through her. She wanted to awake every morning to that wild landscape, feel its energy and be invigorated. But the price tag was far beyond her means. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, she could return next year when she had inherited the very large fortune that awaited her—but then someone else would hold the purse strings. Perhaps that someone else would have a love of art too, would see how very special this picture was. But no, that was too fanciful. If he took any pleasure in painting, it would not be an English landscape that would hang in his bedroom. Our bedroom, she thought, and quaked at the thought of the intimacies that must be shared with a virtual stranger.

‘Are you going to buy it?’

Joshua Marchmain! The man seemed forever destined to disturb her peace. He had expressed a strong interest in art, but why had he chosen to visit this morning, and this gallery? The latter was soon explained.

‘You would be doing a friend of mine a favour if you did—buy it, I mean.’

His voice was light and amused. She looked at him smiling lazily down at her, a shaft of sunlight pouring through the glass atrium above and reflecting pinpoints of light in the gold of his hair. As always he was immaculately dressed: a perfectly cut coat of dark blue superfine, an embroidered waistcoat of paler blue and close-fitting cream pantaloons. Despite the fashionable dress, he was no dandy. Domino was acutely aware of his body so close, so taut and hard, a body a woman could easily melt against. A wave of desire suddenly knotted her stomach and began its destructive trail through every fibre. She was genuinely shocked at her response and there was an uncomfortable pause before she was able to gather her wits together and wish him a prim good morning.



‘I take it that your friend is the painter and this is his exhibition.’

‘It is, and he is doing the painterly thing and starving in a garret.’

‘Then, surely, you should be helping him.’

‘I am very willing, but he won’t hear of it. He maintains that he must live by his brush and his brush alone, and there are only so many paintings one individual can buy. So you see how important it is that you purchase his most treasured work. It’s a splendid scene, is it not?’

He wondered if she would listen to the alarm bells clanging in her head, murmur something innocuous and move on, but her reply was one of genuine warmth.

‘I think it wonderful—so wild and natural, so full of energy and joy.’

‘Now I wonder why those qualities should appeal to you.’

The familiar flush flamed her cheeks and, seeing it, he made a vow to tread more carefully. He was intrigued by this delightful girl and, if he wanted to know her better, he would have to be sure to confine his remarks to the unexceptional. He offered her his arm.

‘Since we are both here, Miss de Silva, do allow me to escort you around the rest of the exhibition.’

She hesitated for a fraction and he was relieved when good manners triumphed over churlishness. A lace-mittened hand was placed lightly on his arm and they began a stately progress around the gallery. He was hopeful that she would share his enthusiasm for the art and delighted when she willingly joined him in appraising the pictures they viewed, her dark eyes glowing with pleasure.

She was simply dressed in sprig muslin, but its soft folds and pleats revealed an exquisite young figure. From time to time her warm limbs touched his as they walked slowly side by side around the vast space and he felt his body stiffen in response. He wondered what those delightful curves would feel like beneath his hands and how soft that full mouth would be in meeting his.

‘How have you become so knowledgeable, Mr Marchmain?’

Her words cut through this delightful fantasy and he was forced to administer a sharp mental shake before he could reply calmly, ‘I think you might find the experts would quarrel with your use of the word knowledgeable. But I have travelled widely in Europe and have always made a point of seeking out the very best art each city could offer.’

‘And have you kept travelling?’ she asked wonderingly.



His voice when he answered was unusually sombre. ‘There were a few years when I stayed put, years when I rented rooms in a Venetian palazzo. I found that an ideal location for painting.’

‘It must have been. I’ve only ever seen pictures of Venice and I long to visit myself.’

‘Then you must and as soon as possible. I would say that you were made for that city.’

And his gaze swept lingeringly over her: creamy olive skin, upturned nose and sorrowful dark eyes did not make a classical beauty, but something infinitely more charming. She blushed again and he silently chided himself. She was bewitching, that was the problem. She was so serious and yet so full of youthful energy that he wanted to open up the world for her and watch her smile. He was surprised by the force of his feelings.

‘Do you still stay in Venice?’

‘No longer, I fear. I inherited a property in England and it became necessary to return and become a responsible proprietor.’

‘And where is your home now?’

‘I would hardly call it home, but the house is known as Castle March. It’s in Norfolk. Do you know it?’ She shook her head. ‘It is a large estate and needs managing. I ought to spend more time there, but ruralising in the depths of the English countryside is not exactly my forte.’

‘I am sure that country living must have its own attractions.’

‘Possibly—but only, I imagine, if you have someone to share them with.’ Instantly he wished he had remained silent. That was the kind of remark that sent her into retreat. ‘It can be pretty bleak in the fens for much of the year, so company is always welcome,’ he offered, trying to retrieve the situation.

But she had taken alarm and detached herself from his arm. She adjusted the ribbons of her bonnet and thanked him prettily but firmly for his escort. In a moment she had disappeared out of the door and he was left to fume at his clumsiness. For a man of his address, he was managing extremely poorly, he thought. What was it about her that made him as maladroit as some untried adolescent? It could only be the enchantment of youth. For years he had strictly confined his most intimate attentions to experienced women; he had forgotten how utterly disarming innocent beauty could be.

The minute Domino stepped through the front door she saw the letter lying menacingly on the hall table and knew immediately from whom it came. The envelope was of thick cream vellum and bore a ducal crest. Charlotte Severn’s invitation had arrived. The duchess’s words uttered in the heat of the moment had been made good, but Domino had no wish to open the letter. She had taken the woman in dislike; why exactly she was unsure, but her father’s condemnation had served only to underline the distaste she felt.

It was clear that the duchess was a close friend of Joshua Marchmain and he was certain to attend her social events. For that reason alone she would be reluctant to go. She had spent an engaging hour with him this afternoon, but he was a man she needed to avoid. He was dangerous to her peace of mind; the laughing eyes flecked with gold, the languorous gaze, had made her whole body burn in shameful response and promised the kind of pleasure she dared not think of. He was most definitely not a gentleman. He might dress as one and mix with ease in ton society, but he was rash and reckless and constantly put her out of countenance. How very unlike Richard, who was just as handsome but mindful of the proprieties and careful never to overstep the line. Joshua would not even recognise the existence of a line. He was undoubtedly a rake—a charming one, but someone with whom she should have no further commerce.

Her assumption that her father would prevent her attending the entertainment at Steine House proved false. When he walked into the dining room that evening, he was waving the duchess’s card in his hand.

‘The Duchess of Severn.’ Then, seeing his daughter’s long face, he said firmly, ‘I think we must attend, Domino.’

‘Could you not go alone, Papa?’

‘I would prefer to, certainly. I am not at all keen that you further your acquaintance with the lady. But I fear we would give grave offence if you were to refuse.’

‘But I am of no importance,’ she persuaded eagerly. ‘It is your position as ambassador that has prompted her to write.’

‘I think not. The invitation was issued directly to you at the Chapel Royal. And my position, as you put it, means that I dare not offend anyone as influential as the Severns. The duke belongs to the Regent’s inner circle.’

Domino made no reply, but sat erect, hands in her lap, and looked blankly ahead.

‘Will it be such a trial, querida? We will stay no more than a couple of hours, I promise. And you will have me by your side the whole time.’

‘I’m sorry, Papa, I’m being a goose.’ Domino leaned across the table and gave him a loving hug. ‘I had hoped the duchess had forgotten me.’

‘Unfortunately not. I only hope her remembrance does not signify that she wishes “to take you up”, as they say here. Your standing would not be enhanced by her favour.’ Alfredo sighed deeply. ‘Negotiating our way successfully through the English Court was never going to be easy, but I may have underestimated the difficulties.’

A thought struck him and he brightened. ‘Carmela can attend with us, then your being singled out for an invitation will not look so particular.’

Carmela, who had retired from the table and was sitting on the cushioned window seat reading an improving work, put her book down with a sharp slap. Her face glowered.

‘I mean no disrespect to you, cousin, but nothing on earth would induce me to attend that woman’s party.’

‘Carmela, how is this? She may not be precisely to our taste, but she is a great noblewoman,’ Alfredo chided her.

‘Is that what you call it? We have a different word for it in Spain.’

He looked warningly at her and then back to Domino.



‘What is that, Carmela?’ Domino asked innocently.

Her cousin compressed her lips. ‘Suffice to say that she is a married woman, but does not behave as one. She would not be welcome at any house belonging to our family.’

Domino looked shocked. ‘You mean she has lovers?’

Carmela appeared to struggle with herself for a moment, but then decided where her duty lay.

‘I do not generally indulge in idle gossip, as I hope you know,’ she said repressively, ‘but I think it right that you should be on your guard. In the few weeks we have been in Brighton I have heard disquieting things about the Duchess of Severn. I believe that her current lover has followed her here and is even now residing at the Pavilion.’

Domino glanced at her father, urgently seeking his reassurance, but no denial was forthcoming. His face was set and he refused to meet her eyes. Suddenly she understood. Joshua Marchmain was that lover. That was why he had been so irritated at the Chapel Royal. He had not wanted her to make the duchess’s acquaintance, had not wanted her to know the truth of their supposed friendship. She felt herself flushing hotly, embarrassed at having been so naïve. Flushing, too, with a kind of pain. But why on earth did she feel that? Had she been stupid enough to think there was any kind of connection between them?

It was true that he had singled her out at her father’s reception and engaged her in lengthy conversation. He had even talked sensibly and interestingly about art. But that was misleading. She should remember her first encounter with him as she walked by the sea; his conduct had been predatory, light-hearted and amusing, it was true, but nevertheless predatory. Even outside the church on Sunday he had not been able to resist throwing out lures to her. He was a womaniser for whom every female was fair game, even as his mistress was living a mere stone’s throw away. The thought of visiting Steine House was loathsome.

A few days later, an unwelcome message arrived at Marine Parade. Señor de Silva was required to return to London immediately. News had arrived from Spain too confidential to be entrusted to a messenger and it was necessary for the ambassador to post up to Manchester House. He would spend only one night away, but it looked unlikely that he would return to Brighton in time for Charlotte Severn’s soirée.

Alfredo was faced with a quandary. He had no wish to expose his daughter to the malign influence of Steine House without his protection but, at the same time, he knew that it was essential he was represented at what would be a prestigious affair. He would let Domino herself decide.

‘I hardly like to ask this of you, my dear,’ he began tentatively, ‘but would you be willing to go to the duchess’s concert by yourself for a short while? I could no doubt arrange for an older lady to take you under her wing until I return. Once I am back in Brighton, I will make haste to join you at Steine House. Or perhaps Carmela could swallow her misgivings? If she would agree to attend, it would make things a great deal more comfortable.’

The women’s despondent expressions hardly promised comfort. Attending the event without the support of Señor de Silva was the last thing either of them wished to contemplate. But they both found themselves agreeing to his suggestion, Domino because she loved her father dearly and knew that he would not ask this of her unless it was necessary and Carmela because the family’s honour was at stake and that was sufficient to call forth her loyalty.

So it was that at six o’clock on a balmy Friday evening the two of them set off in a hired carriage for Steine House. It had an infamous reputation, for it was the home the Regent had purchased for his long-standing mistress and unofficial wife, Maria Fitzherbert. She still resided there and was hardly ever seen beyond its walls, though the Prince was said even now to visit her frequently, despite a legal marriage and many subsequent lovers. Rumour insisted that a tunnel ran via the adjoining Marlborough House to the basement of the royal palace. The Duke of Severn was an old friend of Mrs Fitzherbert and he and his wife were always made welcome in her home when they visited the town. The duke in particular could not bear to live permanently in the overheated Pavilion and always availed himself of this hospitality.

The whispers that swirled around Steine House could only sharpen the aversion both Domino and her cousin felt at having to enter its portals. But when their carriage stopped outside, they saw only a graceful white stucco building with an Italian-style façade and a trellised verandah and balcony. A balustrade of carved ironwork led up a single flight of steps to a heavily ornamented glass door. Domino pinned on what she hoped was a polite smile and made ready to greet her hosts. She received a courteous welcome, the duke seeming to her young eyes horribly withered and old. No wonder the duchess looked elsewhere, she found herself musing, then promptly castigated herself for such an appalling thought. Steine House was already having a noxious effect. Once inside the main door, they were directed up a bamboo and iron staircase to a salon from which the strains of music could already be heard.

‘This is the staircase Lord Barrymore once rode his horse up for a bet,’ Carmela hissed in her ear.

Domino paused on the staircase, startled for a moment by her staid cousin’s incongruous knowledge of ton gossip. Where on earth did she hear such stories? As she stood balanced on one foot, she caught sight of her reflection in the long pier glass at the top of the stairs. She was pleased with what she saw. The apricot silk she had chosen, trimmed with gold edging and worn with an overdress of cream-coloured gauze, set off the creamy olive of her complexion perfectly. Her glossy ebony curls hung naturally to her neck in ringlets this evening and her eyes were sparkling, if only in apprehension. Carmela leaned forwards and tapped her wrist sharply with her fan, a painful reminder that in her cousin’s book any sign of vanity was sinful.

In a few moments they were in the large salon, a huge scarlet cavern of a room hung with red satin curtains and upholstered in red plush velvet. A uniformed footman ushered them to one of the rows of little gold chairs that had been arranged in the shape of a wide semi-circle. Domino sat down gingerly on one of the tiny chairs.

‘Be careful, Carmela,’ she warned, ‘these chair legs are so thin that one false fidget and the sound of matchwood will drown out the string quartet.’

Carmela permitted herself a slight smile and looked searchingly around the room. ‘I see nobody who came to our reception,’ she remarked disappointedly. ‘How strange when a most famous soprano is to sing.’

‘Evidently they have decided to miss the delights on offer.’ Including Joshua Marchmain, she noted wryly.

She told herself she was glad that at least this evening she would not have to face him. Yet, unaccountably, she felt a pang of disappointment. She had enjoyed her tour of the Grove Gallery. True, she had been put out of countenance once or twice by his infelicitous remarks, but she had spent nigh on an hour in his company discussing nothing more incendiary than art and European travel. He was interesting and intelligent, and though he had visited places she could only dream of, he had not made her feel the gauche girl she knew herself to be.

But rumour had named him the lover of any number of married women, including Charlotte Severn. Could rumour have possibly lied? In her heart she knew it could not. Mr Marchmain was a thorough-going rake and, if the sensations of her own unruly body were anything to judge by, he did not have to work too hard for his success. The shaft of intense desire that had pierced her so suddenly and so unexpectedly signalled clearly that she was in danger of being drawn into a whirlpool of feeling, with him at its centre. It was well for her that he was not here this evening.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the illustrious soprano, Bianca Bonelli.’

The duke led the famous singer, who had journeyed from Milan at his request, to a raised platform, kissing her hand enthusiastically while the string quartet began to play the opening piece of music. Domino set herself to listen with what she hoped was a thoughtful expression.

A late-arriving Joshua, hovering in the doorway, spotted her immediately and almost laughed aloud at her face, screwed up in concentration—or was that pain? If it was, it was a pain he shared. He made a swift escape to the library, where he would not be disturbed, but from where he could still hear the concert’s end.

And end it did, with a great deal of relief on Domino’s part. Carmela wore her usual severe expression but her spontaneous applause made clear her enjoyment. Hardly surprising, Domino thought, for the music had evinced a moral seriousness sufficient even for her cousin. The latter seemed eager to meet the musicians personally and, when the duchess suddenly appeared at their side, Carmela was whisked away for introductions and Domino found herself led by Charlotte into an adjoining salon where liveried footmen were circulating with drinks and canapés.

Her Grace deftly lifted two large flutes of champagne from a passing tray and said with an enticing smile, ‘I am so pleased you were able to come, Miss de Silva, as I collect your father has been forced to post back to London on urgent business.’

‘Indeed, Your Grace. He sends his most sincere apologies and will make every effort to join us this evening.’

‘I understand,’ she cooed, ‘and really it matters not. You are my prize, after all. I was entranced when we met at the Chapel Royal on Sunday and have spent all week wishing to know more of you.’

Domino doubted that very much. The woman’s insincerity was blatant, but she managed a gentle smile in response.

‘Tell me, do,’ the duchess continued, ‘how long are we to have the pleasure of your company in Brighton?’

‘For the Season, ma’am. I have undertaken to stay with my father while the Court is absent from London.’

For a moment the expression on her hostess’s face suggested she was not best pleased by this news, but she rallied immediately.

‘How delightful, for we are also destined to be here until the Prince returns to Carlton House. Let us toast our new acquaintanceship, Miss de Silva. I am sure we will be the best of friends.’

Domino could not think so, but politely raised her glass. Champagne bubbles shot up her nose and she had difficulty in preventing herself sneezing.

‘You see,’ Charlotte continued, ‘one meets so few new people in Brighton, the same dreary crowd year after year. So when a bright new star appears, one is drawn immediately towards them.’

Domino concluded that she must be the bright star, but was at a loss how to answer. She need not have worried, for the duchess was now in full flow.

‘You are so beautiful, my dear, and have such charming manners, that I prophesy prodigious success for you—you will be the toast of the town.’

This was so patently absurd that Domino was hard put not to laugh aloud. She knew herself to be well enough but, against the duchess’s blonde perfection, she was nothing. And she certainly had no ambition to take Brighton by storm. Quite the opposite—she anticipated several agreeable months by the sea, close to her father, before she returned to Spain to make the decision of her life.

The duchess continued to talk while she sipped her champagne. The drink was gradually becoming more acceptable, and when her companion substituted her empty glass for another fizzing to the brim, she hardly noticed. When the older woman took her by the hand, she allowed herself to be expertly steered through the crowd towards a smaller chamber at the far end of the salon.

‘In proof of my friendship, Miss de Silva—but may I call you Domino? Such a sweet and unusual name—I would very much like you to meet some particular friends of mine. Just a few congenial spirits whom I know you will esteem.’

Her head had begun to spin a little, but she retained enough caution to remind her hostess that Carmela should be with them.

‘But naturally, my dear. I shall introduce you to a few dear companions and then collect your cousin and bring her instantly to you.’

They were through the door before Domino could protest further. The room they entered, though smaller than the salon, was still a substantial size, thickly carpeted and curtained, deadening all sound and cutting the space adrift from the outside world. A number of people were gathered around three large tables set at different angles in the room; even in her befuddled state, she knew instantly that this was a gaming room. She pulled back sharply.

‘I am honoured, Your Grace, that you should wish to introduce me to your friends,’ she stumbled, ‘but I do not play cards or any other game of chance.’

‘Allow me to advise you, my dear, since you are still so very young.’ The duchess’s voice was honey. ‘You have undertaken to play the role of hostess for your father. In England, you know, polite society expects always to have the opportunity to indulge in games of chance and a hostess must be as well versed in them as her guests.’

‘I thank you again, Your Grace, but I do not gamble.’

‘Who said anything about gambling? Just a few friendly games, my dear.’

Domino felt deeply uncomfortable. She was finding it very difficult to continue refusing her hostess, but games of chance, whether money passed hands or not, were something she had sworn never again to engage in. She had learned her lesson all too well the last time she was in England. Gambling had a fatal attraction for her and she could not risk getting involved. But she could hardly say this to someone she barely knew, to a woman who occupied such an exalted position. Her head was definitely swimming now and her legs feeling decidedly unsafe. She felt the duchess’s hand on her shoulder and began to sink downwards to the waiting chair. The faces around the table looked up at her expectantly. In the distance other faces at other tables blurred into a misty vision. She longed to get away but she could not, in politeness, leave. Surely just one hand of cards would not matter. She would satisfy the demands of hospitality and then depart straight away. She took hold of the arms of the chair, making ready to sit down, and the support made her feel slightly less shaky. She smiled hazily at the assembled company and then, out of the blur, a face swam into her vision. A dark, wolfish, horribly familiar face. Leo Moncaster!




Chapter Three


She gave a sudden choke, shaken by an irrational panic, and would have collapsed but for a supportive hand at her elbow.

‘Miss de Silva? How nice to see you here,’ Joshua Marchmain was saying smoothly. ‘I hope you found the music to your taste.’

‘Yes, indeed, thank you,’ she stuttered.

He was holding his arm out to her and she took it. Nervously she glanced at the woman who stood at her left side. Charlotte Severn’s eyes were narrowed, but there was no mistaking the daggers she was sending forth.

‘The concert was delightful, was it not? And such a privilege to hear Signora Bonelli. I believe she is judged one of the finest sopranos of our day.’ His voice was unruffled, but even while he spoke he was skilfully extricating the apricot silk from the entanglements of chair and table.

By now the duchess had regained her composure and, in a gesture of seeming warmth, clasped hold of Domino’s other arm.

‘But must you go already?’ she addressed the girl directly, excluding Joshua from the conversation. ‘I am delighted that you enjoyed our small concert, but do stay for the rest of the evening’s entertainments.’

Her head still whirling, Domino was caught between the two and had no idea how to cope with the dreadful situation. It was one scenario that the etiquette books failed to mention.

Joshua locked glances with the duchess. His voice was imperturbable as ever, but there was an edging of steel that Domino had never heard before.

‘It does not seem, Your Grace, that card playing holds much attraction for Miss de Silva, so I will engage to reunite her with her cousin.’

Leaving their hostess stranded with outstretched hand, he propelled Domino firmly towards the door and whisked her through it. Once on the other side he cut a swathe through the milling crowd to arrive unerringly at Carmela’s side. Her cousin wore a worried expression, which rapidly turned to exasperation once she saw Domino safe and well. She nodded curtly to Joshua and grabbed Domino by the arm. Social politeness was brushed aside and, without waiting to bid their hosts goodbye, Carmela made for the bamboo staircase. The carriage had been ordered and was already waiting outside.

Catching her breath at the head of the stairs, Domino had only time to glance briefly over her shoulder. Joshua Marchmain had not spoken a word as they’d threaded their way through the crowded room, but now she saw him in conversation with the duchess, their heads close and talking animatedly together. Her heart lurched as she took in the intimacy of the little tableau. But why did the image cause her such distress? All the while Carmela was bundling her down the stairs and into the coach, she struggled to find an answer. Why on earth should Joshua’s relationship with the duchess matter? She knew them to be lovers—naturally they would have much to say to each other. He would be keen to explain his absence from the concert and to excuse his intervention with Domino, even keener no doubt to make an assignation with his mistress for later that evening. It all made perfect sense, but it only served to intensify her misery.

Unknown to Domino, her departure left the two locked in a furious exchange.

‘What exactly were you thinking of?’ Cold anger permeated Joshua’s voice.

‘I don’t pretend to understand you.’

‘I think you understand me perfectly. Miss de Silva is still a minor and yet you were encouraging her to break the law by gambling.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ The duchess fairly spat the words. ‘I merely suggested to her that she might like to join a select gathering and play a few rounds of loo.’

‘A select gathering—is that what you call it?’ He snorted derisively.

‘I take it that you finally decided to put in an appearance this evening for reasons other than to be unpleasant.’

‘It’s as well I did. It was clear that the girl did not want to stay and just as clear that you were intent on forcing her.’

‘What rubbish. How could I ever force her to do anything she did not wish? If you had not interrupted us in that nonsensical manner, she would be happily playing cards this very moment.’

‘Playing cards, I am sure, but happily I don’t believe.’

‘I say again, how could I make her play cards if she did not wish it?’ The duchess’s expression was scornful.

‘I imagine a few judicious glasses of champagne might help to do the trick, together with pressure from her hostess which she would find difficult to resist.’

‘You talk as though she were an innocent. It won’t have been the first time that she has supped champagne, I’m sure, and from what I hear she has been more than happy in the past to engage in games of chance—even, dare I say, to accrue considerable debts.’

‘How can that be?’

For an instant Joshua appeared less composed and the duchess watched him with a gloating expression. ‘Why don’t you ask her? The two of you seem remarkably thick with each other. And why are you so late? The concert is long finished.’

‘I am devastated to have missed it,’ he said with barely concealed irony, ‘and naturally I apologise. I was visiting—an artist friend—and was unexpectedly detained.’

‘That must have been important,’ came the brittle rejoinder, and she walked away to mingle with her guests in the inner sanctum. Leo Moncaster was waiting for her.

‘I can see why you wanted to handle the matter yourself.’ His smile was sardonic.



‘I was wrong. She was far more stubborn than I gave her credit for. But I think I would have succeeded in the end if Marchmain had not turned up at that moment and spoiled the game.’

‘And you still feel that she is of no interest to him?’

She did not answer him directly, but said slowly and deliberately, ‘I need to get rid of her.’

There was a slight pause before Moncaster said in a heartening voice, ‘Don’t be too discouraged, Charlotte. It would have been difficult to coax her to stay once she saw my face. There must be more subtle ways to catch our little bird.’

‘You have some ideas?’

‘I have some ideas. Shall we now work together?’

Charlotte Severn’s nod was almost imperceptible but Lord Moncaster retired that night a contented man.

Domino slept fitfully and woke unrefreshed to a new day. The events at Steine House still crowded her mind, filling it with jangled impressions only half-understood, but all of them contributing to her despondency. How was she to make sense of such a dreadful evening? The concert had evoked stifled yawns, but at least it had been innocuous. It was the Duchess of Severn herself who had seemed far from innocent. She had appeared to be so friendly, so keen to make Domino’s acquaintance that she should have felt flattered. Despite her dubious reputation, Charlotte Severn was enormously influential and her notice of a mere ambassador’s daughter would for most be a cause of pleasure and gratitude. But Domino had felt neither pleased nor grateful. Instead she had felt manipulated, even coerced. She had not wanted to abandon Carmela, but the Duchess had been insistent. She had not wanted to enter the inner room, yet had found herself propelled through its doors unable to protest. And once there her fears had multiplied. Seeing Leo Moncaster had been the final straw. His malevolent face still lowered in her dreams. Three years ago he had been her undoing and here he was once more, ready to do her harm if he possibly could.

Rescue had come, but at what cost? Just when she’d decided that on no account must she have further dealings with Joshua Marchmain, he had made her beholden. How shameful to be dependent on a rake for rescue! He had said not a word as he’d walked her towards her cousin and sanctuary, but he must have thought her a silly and naïve girl, out of her depth and drowning. It was evident that he had been angry with the duchess—at one point Domino had felt literally pulled between the two of them—and she might have found comfort in that, but for the last glimpse she’d had of the pair.

They had stood as though closeted, their heads so close that his cheek was almost grazing the woman’s hair. Any animosity had vanished. They had been talking easily together and she had a sinking feeling that she had been the main subject of their conversation. Her face burned; they would decide that she was a foolish young girl who had become hysterical when invited to partake in a game of chance. Then a worse thought struck, making her face burn even brighter. What if she really had been that foolish, foolish enough to imagine the whole thing and misinterpret the duchess’s conduct? This high-born lady had gone out of her way to be friendly and her seeming coercion might simply be a desire to encourage a reluctant young guest to enjoy herself. The duchess would not know her unfortunate history with Lord Moncaster; she would be ignorant of the dread he evoked. And how had Domino responded to Charlotte’s overtures? Blind, inexplicable panic and a dreadful lapse of good manners. She and Carmela had left the party without a word of thanks or indeed a word of farewell. It was appalling.

She told herself that she must not dwell on such harrowing thoughts, but dwell on them she did. The evening’s events continued to revolve in her mind until they began to assume hideous proportions. She wished that her mother was by her side to guide her. She knew that she could have told Mama everything—well, nearly everything, she amended inwardly. Her feelings towards Joshua would have remained under wraps. She did not even understand them herself. How could she feel this strong attraction to him when Richard had been the only man she had ever loved?

Remember him, remember him, she told herself fiercely. Richard, the new Lord Veryan, and she a whirling figure in pale blue, dancing with him at Almack’s for the very first time. How wonderful that had been. She hugged the memory, warmed by its still-powerful glow, chasing Joshua and her confusion away. But then another image emerged: Richard dancing that very same night with Christabel, the woman he contended he despised, the woman who had so cruelly jilted him, but the woman he still loved. Domino had known even then, deep in her innermost self, that his feelings for the flame-haired beauty had not died and that he was deceiving himself in thinking he was free of her power. But how resolute she herself had been in refusing to see the truth of the situation, wishing, hoping that he would turn his head and see the girl who was so often by his side through those long summer months, the girl who idolised him. But all he saw was a scrubby schoolgirl, without guile or wisdom, too spontaneous for her own good. Was that what Joshua saw? Was this another situation in which she was blind to the truth?

For much of the day she stayed cloistered in her room, venturing downstairs only at mealtimes, though in truth she had little appetite. At the table Carmela made no mention of yesterday’s tribulations and Domino could only assume that her cousin had vowed herself to silence. Señor de Silva seemed to have taken the same vow. He had arrived from London in the early hours of the morning and Domino had expected to find him eager to hear details of their visit to Steine House. But not one question did he ask. Perhaps Carmela had alerted him to the wretchedness of the evening. Domino had committed a serious impropriety in disappearing for some considerable time without a chaperon, but neither her father nor her cousin appeared to blame her.

Indeed, they both treated her with unaccustomed gentleness and, during the days that followed, were careful never to comment on her fondness for her room and her refusal to venture out for even a short walk.

It was Alfredo who finally broke the impasse on a morning that sparkled with light.

‘The weather is so fine, querida,’ he said heartily, embracing her in one of his bear hugs. ‘Why don’t we walk on the Downs, perhaps even take a picnic?’

Carmela nodded silent approval and he continued persuasively, ‘The breeze will keep us cool and we should easily find sufficient shade to enjoy our meal.’

She said nothing, but her expression was downcast. Her father, though, was not to be defeated. ‘Just you and I,’ he coaxed.

She did not wish to disappoint him, but shrank at the idea of walking on the Downs, or indeed anywhere in the vicinity. What she wanted most was to hide away—from the duchess, from Moncaster and particularly from Joshua Marchmain. Every time she stepped outside the door, she risked meeting with one or other of them. Brighton was not a large town.

‘If that is too far for you, we could take a short walk through the Lanes.’ Alfredo would not be dissuaded, and she saw how concerned he was. ‘It’s not good, Domino, to be confined in these four walls for too long.’

She knew he was right. Eventually she would have to emerge from her refuge and face whatever or whoever came her way. She was compounding her folly at Steine House with even greater folly. And showing a drastic lack of spirit too, she castigated herself. She needed to regain her usual vitality and show the world that she was ashamed of nothing. She could do that, must do that. If she met Charlotte Severn, she would smile and curtsy and leave it to the other woman to set the tone. If she met Lord Moncaster, her father would be there to defend her. And if she met Joshua—but she would not, she was sure. She had been shut away in Marine Parade for nearly a week and had heard nothing of him. He had his own tight little circle and would not have noticed her absence from the social scene.

‘I need to change my books at the library, Papa,’ she offered, ‘and if you are agreeable we could walk there.’

The library she patronised, one of the many that were dotted across Brighton, was in the west of the town and would furnish a satisfying stroll. On the way, there was the distraction of any number of tempting shop windows filled with exquisite silks and laces, almost certainly smuggled from France. She chose her dress with care, searching for as plain a gown as possible, and ended by donning a simple but stylish jaconet muslin. Once out of the house, she kept her eyes lowered beneath the deep brim of her straw bonnet, but she need not have worried, for the ton were out of town that day it seemed, enjoying themselves elsewhere. They walked through near-deserted streets while her father told her of his trip to London and the worrying news from Spain.

‘A change of government usually means a change of everything else,’ he confided to her. ‘I am no longer certain of my position. It could be that I am recalled to Madrid very soon and perhaps reassigned elsewhere. I am sorry, if that happens, querida. Your holiday by the sea will come to an abrupt end.’

She squeezed his arm reassuringly, but felt a tremor of foreboding. Leaving Brighton would mean separation from her father when they had so recently been reunited. It would mean an inevitable return to Spain and the future that awaited her. The life she had agreed upon just a few weeks ago seemed increasingly dreary. Nothing had changed and yet everything seemed different. She was still pondering this paradox when they arrived at the fashionable new subscription library, which fronted the western end of the promenade.

Usually its coffee rooms and lounges were filled with residents and fashionable visitors but, as with the rest of the town today, it was nearly empty. A few ladies were browsing the bookshelves and a small card game was in play at one end of the smallest saloon. Another gentleman was busy sifting through music sheets, evidently keen to find something new for the musical evening he was planning.

‘All at the Race Ground,’ he explained succinctly when Alfredo mentioned the scarcity of people. ‘The Regent’s Cup today, y’ know. Big prize money.’

‘I wish we had known …’ her father turned to Domino ‘… you would have enjoyed the meeting. That’s what comes of staying too close to home.’

She could only feel gratitude that her father had not heard the news. At the race course she would have been sure to see everyone that she most wished to avoid.

Thirty minutes of browsing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves secured a neat pile of small volumes and they made ready to leave. They were almost out of the door when her father spied a tattered poster taped insecurely to the wall.

‘Look, Domino, Henry Angelo has set up a new fencing academy here in Brighton. I was tempted in London to try a lesson or two with him.’

She could not help but smile. Her father’s physique in middle age was hardly conducive to fencing.

‘Why do you smile, little one? You think I couldn’t do it?’

‘No, Papa, I am sure you could, but wouldn’t you prefer to watch rather than participate?’

‘Perhaps you are right, though in my youth I was a match for anyone.’

‘Yes?’

‘I actually beat the legendary Don Roderiguez.’

She looked questioningly.

‘You wouldn’t know of him. It was well before you were born, but he was worshipped in Madrid for his skill. I took him on as a wager and nobody expected me to win, but I did.’

‘And Don Roderiguez?’

‘I have to admit that he was probably not quite himself. I managed to fight him after a particularly boisterous party.’

They both laughed and she said wistfully, ‘Gentlemen are so lucky; they have many channels for their energy. All we have is embroidery or the pianoforte.’

‘I don’t notice either of those featuring heavily in your life, my dear.’

‘Exactly, Papa, that is just what I mean. Fencing would be far more enjoyable.’

And it would get rid of some of my restlessness, she thought, even perhaps beat the blue-devils that have been plaguing me. Yes, men were lucky. A woman had simply to sit, to watch and to wait.

Unbeknown to her, Alfredo had taken note of his daughter’s interest and promptly committed to memory the address of the new fencing school. He would arrange a small treat for her. Lately she had seemed unusually dejected. He knew the evening at Steine House had not gone to plan, but he was in the dark about his daughter’s true state of mind. Anything that would distract her could only be good.

So it was that Henry Angelo had an early morning visitor the next day. The request was unusual and certainly unconventional, but he had a business to establish and an ambassador was too important a personage to offend in these early days. His school had already attracted the attention of those members of the ton spending the summer in Brighton, but Señor de Silva could prove useful in bringing new clients from the diplomatic circles in which he moved.

Summoned to an early breakfast, Domino found her father already at the table, seething with barely suppressed excitement.

‘What have you been doing, Papa?’ she asked guardedly. ‘You look like a naughty schoolboy.’

‘This morning I have important papers to clear, but this afternoon, Domino, we are to play truant together!’

‘And Carmela?’ Her cousin had not yet put in an appearance.

‘Carmela and playing truant are not compatible, I think.’ Señor de Silva smiled happily. ‘This is just for you and me.’

‘Not a picnic on the Downs?’ she asked in some alarm. Despite her resolve to be brave, she still feared places where she risked meeting the world and his wife.

‘No, no picnic. The wind today is far too strong even for the English to eat outdoors.’

Through the windows she saw the grey surf breaking harshly on the sea wall and spilling through the iron railings that defended the promenade. A few hardy souls, determined to complete their daily constitutional, were making their slow progress along the seafront. They were bent nearly double as they headed into the fierce wind, clutching wildly at flying garments.

‘Then indoors somewhere?’

‘Indeed. But you must probe no further. It is to be a great surprise!’

She had hoped to spend the day curled on the sofa reading some of the library’s offerings, but it was evident that Alfredo had made special plans and she was sufficiently intrigued to hurry upstairs after a modest nuncheon and change her dress. Choosing suitable raiment proved difficult, for she had no idea where she was going. Eventually she settled on a primrose sarsenet flounced with French trimmings: modest enough for an informal outing, yet not too plain. She quickly threaded a matching primrose ribbon through a tangle of black curls and joined her father in the hall.

‘We will go by carriage,’ he announced as Marston battled to hold the front door ajar. ‘The weather is far too rough to walk.’

Soon they were bowling past fishermen painting boats that had been pulled high on to the beach, past their women tending the nets and then past Mahomed’s much-patronised Vapour Baths, until they reached the end of East Cliff. The imposing mansions that lined the road gradually became far less in number as they travelled eastwards, but just before they reached open countryside the carriage pulled up at a small establishment tucked between two much larger white-washed dwellings. An arched wooden door painted in luminescent green beckoned a greeting and, even before they had taken a step out of the vehicle, a sprightly, dark-haired man bounded out to greet them.




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