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judge.”
    Eliza smiled at this. “Charlotte has a very equable, tranquil nature.”
    Cold, it might be called, but it would be disloyal to say so. Whereas she, Eliza, was all too impetuous, tumbling into love with Anthony. Just to think his name was to cause a wave of happiness to flow through her.
    â€œWhat are you thinking of, to look like that?” her great-aunt said sharply. “It is that young man, Anthony Diggory, I’ll be bound. Well, I was young once, and inclined to imagine myself in love, and so I can tell you, that kind of fancy soon passes, quick to come, quick to go. Here in London you will meet a great many men, and I assure you, this Anthony will soon appear to you quite ordinary in comparison.”
    How could a woman have lived so long, and know so little?
    â€œI am glad to see that you are not resentful of your sister’s looks and prospects. This one mistake you have made will soon be forgotten, and I am sure you will make the most of your time in London to improve yourself. Shed your hoydenish ways, and learn to control your impulses, and you will grow into a much more contented person.”
    Contented, said Eliza inwardly. Like those cows in the pond at Hampstead. No, thank you.
    Lady Grandpoint held up a card. “You see, here is an invitation from Lady Bellasby. I sent a note to her as soon as we arrived, to tell her that I had brought my goddaughter to London. She is giving a small dance, will be happy for me to bring Charlotte. You do not mind that you are not included in the invitation?”
    â€œNot in the least,” said Eliza, with perfect truth.
    Lady Grandpoint rose, tapping the card against the palm of her hand. “You are a good-natured young woman, indeed. Now, I must leave you, I have a lot to attend to after my absence in Yorkshire. I am heartily glad to be back, the waters at Harrogate did not suit me at all, and I find the provinces bore me more and more. Country houses are one thing, but provincial life has nothing to recommend it.”

Chapter Seven
    The taller of the two fencers parried the thrust from his opponent, then found the tip of the other’s sword held against his chest. He laughed, and held up his hand to acknowledge the hit.
    â€œEnough, Bart,” he said, putting his arm round the other’s shoulders and walking with him across the salle, to where Henry Angelo had been watching them critically.
    â€œLord Rosely,” Angelo said to the tall man, “you lay yourself open, you move quickly with the tierce, and then are too slow in the riposte.” He bowed to Bartholomew Bruton. “I am pleased to welcome you back to these shores, Mr. Bruton. You took lessons in Paris from Manit, I believe?”
    â€œI did indeed. How are you, Angelo? Any new tricks up your sleeve?”
    â€œWe shall have a bout the next time you come, and you may see for yourself,” said the fencing master.
    As the two men left the fencing salon and walked out in Haymarket, Freddie Rosely kept up a flow of inconsequential talk, which made Bartholomew smile. “I am very glad to see you again, Freddie,” he said, when his companion finally paused for breath.
    The best of friends as well as being cousins, the two men were quite unalike. Freddie was tall and fair, Bartholomew dark and half a head shorter with a proud nose and a keen-eyed, expressive face. Their mothers were sisters, they had known each other from the cradle, and although they had grown up in rather different worlds, they had gone to Eton together and then on to Oxford, Freddie to Christ Church and Bartholomew to Magdalen.
    â€œIt is so good to see you, Moneybags,” Freddie said, clapping a hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder. The nickname had no malice in it, not from Freddie, although at school it had been flung at Bartholomew as a term of abuse and contempt. The scion of one of England’s great banking families might be going to inherit a fortune beyond