The room next to the sitting room had been furnished with a daybed, a plusher than plush carpet, an inordinately large number of mirrors, which multiplied one’s reflection at least ten times, depending on where one stood, sat, or lay, and the inevitable cushions and knickknacks.

In Jane’s estimation it had been used either as a private retreat by the duke’s ex-mistresses who enjoyed their own company more than anyone else’s, or as an alternative to the bedchamber. She suspected the latter.

It was a room she had ignored while the two main rooms were being refurbished. But now, at her leisure, she was making it into her own domain. The lavender sitting room was now elegant, but it was not her.

The mirrors and the daybed were banished – she did not care what happened to them. She sent Mr Jacobs out on a special commission to purchase an escritoire and chair and paper, pens, and ink. Mrs Jacobs in the meantime was sent to buy fine linen and an embroidery frame and an assortment of colored silken threads and accessories.

The den, as Jane thought of the room, would become her private writing and sewing room. She would indulge there her passion for embroidery.

She sat stitching in her den, a fire crackling cozily in the hearth, during the evening following the consummation of her liaison. She pictured Jocelyn at a grand dinner party and then moving on to a great squeeze of a ball, and tried not to feel envious. She had never had her come-out Season. There had been the year of mourning for her mother. Then her father had been too ill though he had urged her to accept Lady Webb’s offer to sponsor her. But she had insisted on staying to nurse him. And then there had been his death and her year of mourning. And then the circumstances that had brought her under the new earl’s guardianship.

Would Jocelyn dance tonight? she wondered. Would he waltz?

But she would not indulge in depressing thoughts.

For a moment her heart lifted when she heard a tap on the den door. Had he come back? But then she saw the butler peering around the door, his expression wary.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ Mr Jacobs said, ‘but there are two great boxes just now arrived. What would you like done with them?’

‘Boxes?’ Jane raised her eyebrows and set her embroidery aside.

‘From his grace,’ the butler explained. ‘Almost too heavy to lift.’

‘I am not expecting anything.’ She got to her feet. ‘I had better come and see for myself. You are sure his grace sent them?’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am,’ he assured her. ‘His own servants brought them and explained they were for you.’

Jane was intrigued, especially when she saw two large crates in the middle of the kitchen floor.

‘Please open one of them,’ she said, and Mrs Jacobs fetched a knife and the butler cut the string that held one of the boxes closed.

Jane pushed back the lid, and all the servants – the butler, the housekeeper, the cook, the housemaid, and the footman – leaned forward with her to peer inside.

‘Books!’ The housemaid sounded vastly disappointed.

‘Books!’ Mrs Jacobs sounded surprised. ‘Well. He never sent books here before. I wonder why he sent them now? Do you read, ma’am?’

‘Of course she does,’ Mr Jacobs said sharply. ‘Why else would she want a desk and paper and ink, I ask you?’

‘Books!’ Jane said almost in a reverential whisper, her hands clasped to her bosom.

She could see from the ones on top that they were from his own library. There were a Daniel Defoe, a Walter Scott, a Henry Fielding, and an Alexander Pope visible before she touched a single volume.

‘It seems a funny sort of gift to me,’ the housemaid said, ‘begging your pardon, ma’am. P’raps there’s something better in the other box.’

Jane was biting hard on her upper lip. ‘It is a priceless gift,’ she said. ‘Mr Jacobs, are the boxes too heavy for you and Phillip to carry into the den?’

‘I can carry them on my own, ma’am,’ the young footman said eagerly. ‘Shall I unpack them for you too?’

‘No.’ Jane smiled at him. ‘I shall do that myself, thank you. I want to see all the books one at a time. I want to see what he has chosen for me.’

By happy chance there was a bookcase in the den though it had been covered with tasteless ornaments before Jane had cleared it off.

She spent two hours kneeling beside the boxes, drawing out one book at a time, arranging them pleasingly on the shelves, pondering over which she would read first.

And occasionally blinking her eyes fast and even swiping at them with her handkerchief when she thought of him going home this afternoon and handpicking all these books for her. She knew he had not simply directed Mr Quincy to do the choosing for him. The books included ones she had mentioned as her particular favorites.

If he had sent her some costly piece of jewelry, she would not have been one fraction as well pleased. Such a gift would not even dent his purse. But his books! His own books, not ones he had purchased for her. He had taken them from his own shelves, and among them were his personal favorites too.

Some of the loneliness had gone from the evening. And some of the bewilderment at his leaving so abruptly during the afternoon, without a word of farewell. He must have gone straight home and spent time in his library. Just for her sake.

She must not, Jane told herself firmly, allow herself to fall any deeper in love with him. And she must not – she absolutely must not – let herself love him.

He was a man humoring a new mistress. Nothing more.

But she read happily until midnight.

The next morning the Duke of Tresham rode in Hyde Park at an hour when he often met some of his friends there on Rotten Row. The rain had stopped sometime during the night and the sun shone, making diamonds of the moisture on the grass. Fortunately for his need for distraction, he ran into Sir Conan Brougham and Viscount Kimble almost immediately.

‘Tresh,’ the viscount said by way of greeting as Jocelyn joined the group, ‘we were expecting you at White’s for dinner.’

‘I dined at home,’ Jocelyn told him. And he had. He had been unable to dine with Jane as his feelings had been rubbed raw and he had not wanted her to know it. And although he had dressed to go out, he had not done so. He was not quite sure why.

‘Alone?’ Brougham asked. ‘Without even the delectable Miss Ingleby for company?’

‘She never did dine with me,’ Jocelyn said. ‘She was a servant, if you will remember.’

‘She could be my servant any time,’ Kimble said with a theatrical sigh.

‘And you were not at Lady Halliday’s,’ Brougham observed.

‘I stayed home,’ Jocelyn said.

He was aware of his friends exchanging glances before they broke into merry laughter.

‘Ho, Tresham,’ Brougham said, ‘who is she? Anyone we know?’

‘A fellow cannot claim to have spent an evening at home alone without incurring suspicion?’ Jocelyn spurred his horse into a canter. But his friends, who adjusted the speed of their mounts to match that of his, were not to be deterred. They rode one on either side of him.

‘Someone new if she kept him from dinner at White’s and the card room at Lady Halliday’s, Cone,’ Kimble said.

‘And someone who kept him awake all night if this morning’s ill temper is anything to judge by, Kimble,’ Brougham observed.

They were talking across Jocelyn, both grinning, just as if he were not there.

‘Go to the devil,’ he told them.

But they both greeted his uncharitable invitation with renewed mirth.

It was a relief to see Angeline approaching on foot beyond the fence with Mrs Stebbins, one of her particular friends. They were out for a morning stroll.

‘Provoking man!’ Angeline exclaimed as soon as Jocelyn rode within earshot. ‘Why are you always out when I call, Tresham? I made a particular point of going to Dudley House yesterday afternoon as Heyward informed me you had left White’s before luncheon. I was quite sure you must have gone home.’

Jocelyn fingered the ribbon of his quizzing glass. ‘Were you?’ he said. ‘It would be redundant to inform you that you were wrong. To what, may I ask, did I owe the show of sisterly affection? Good morning, Mrs Stebbins.’ He touched the brim of his hat with his whip and inclined his head.

‘Everyone is talking about it,’ Angeline said while her friend made his grace a deep curtsy. ‘I have heard it three times in the past two days, not to mention Ferdie’s speaking of it when I saw him yesterday. So I daresay you have heard it too. But I must have your assurance that you will do nothing foolish, Tresham, or my nerves will be shattered. And I must have your promise that you will defend the family honor at whatever cost to yourself.’

‘I trust,’ Jocelyn said, ‘you intend sooner or later to enlighten me on the topic of this fascinating conversation, Angeline. Might I suggest sooner as Cavalier is still frisky?’

‘It was being said,’ she explained, ‘that the Forbes brothers fled town in fear of retaliation from you for what they tried to do to Ferdie.’

‘As well they might,’ he commented. ‘They have some modicum of wisdom among the three of them if that was indeed the reason for their disappearance.’

‘But now,’ she said, ‘it is known for absolute certain – is it not, Maria?’ She turned to Mrs Stebbins for confirmation. ‘Mr Hammond mentioned it at Mrs Bury-Haugh’s two days ago and everyone knows that his wife is second cousin to Mrs Wesley Forbes. So it must be true.’

‘Incontrovertibly, I would say,’ Jocelyn agreed dryly, using his quizzing glass to peruse the other walkers beyond the fence and the other riders within.

‘They are not satisfied,’ Angeline announced. ‘Can you imagine the gall of them, Tresham? When Ferdie might have been killed? They are not satisfied because you took the curricle and came to no worse harm than to ruin a pair of leather gloves. They are still vowing vengeance on you! When everyone knows that you are now the one with the grievance. They have gone for reinforcements and are expected back at any moment.’

Jocelyn turned about with a flourish to look at the grassy expanse behind him. ‘But not quite yet, Angeline,’ he said. ‘The reinforcements to which you refer are presumably the Reverend Josiah Forbes and Captain Samuel Forbes?’

‘It will be five against one,’ she declared dramatically. ‘Or five against two if one counts Ferdie as he insists one must. It would be five against three if Heyward would not insist in his odious manner that he will not involve himself in childish capers. I will wheedle a gun out of him and start practicing my marksmanship again. I am a Dudley, after all.’

‘I beg you to desist,’ Jocelyn said firmly. ‘None of us would know which side was in more danger from you if you were to prove as adept at shooting now as you were as a girl.’ He raised his glass again and looked her over from head to ankles. ‘That is a surprisingly elegant bonnet you are wearing,’ he said. ‘But the poppy red flowers are a lamentably poor match for the pink of your walking dress.’

‘Lord Pym met us ten minutes ago,’ she said with a toss of her head, ‘and observed, foolish man, that I look like a particularly delectable meadow in which he could only wish he were strolling alone. Did he not, Maria?’

‘Indeed?’ Jocelyn’s manner became instantly frosty. ‘I trust, Angeline, you reminded Lord Pym that you are the sister of the Duke of Tresham?’

‘I sighed soulfully and then laughed at him,’ she said. ‘It was harmless gallantry, Tresham. Do you believe I would allow any man to take liberties with me? I shall tell Heyward about it and he will toss his glance at the ceiling and then tell me … well.’ She blushed and laughed again, nodded to Kimble and Brougham, took Maria Stebbins’s arm, and resumed her promenade.

‘London needs some new scandal,’ Jocelyn observed as he rode onward with his friends. ‘It seems that no one has anything else to talk about these days except those cowardly scoundrels who claim kinship with Lady Oliver.’

‘They are doubtless shaking in their boots, by Jove,’ Viscount Kimble said, ‘since Joseph Forbes was rash enough to claim responsibility on behalf of all of them for your scraped palms. But they are probably hatching more mischief too – nothing as direct as a challenge, of course.’

‘They may not have a choice – except loss of face and the last vestiges of their honor,’ Jocelyn said. ‘But enough on the subject. I am sick to death of it. Let us enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.’

‘To blow away the cobwebs?’ Brougham asked. He looked beyond Jocelyn to address their other friend again. ‘Did you notice, Kimble, that according to Lady Heyward, Tresham was from home yesterday afternoon? Was he with you?’

‘He was not with me, Cone,’ the viscount replied, all seriousness. ‘Was he with you?’

‘I did not set eyes on him between yesterday morning and this,’ Brougham said. ‘She must be very new and very frisky.’

‘The devil!’ Kimble drew his horse to such an abrupt halt and threw back his head to laugh with such loud merriment that he was almost unseated and had to exercise considerable skill to bring his mount under control again. ‘Right under our noses, Cone,’ he said when he was able. ‘The answer, I mean.’

Conan Brougham’s and Jocelyn’s horses were prancing a little distance away.

‘The delectable Miss Ingleby!’ Kimble announced. ‘You rogue, Tresh. You lied. You do have her in your keeping. And she kept you from your friends and your obligations and your bed – your own bed, that is – most of yesterday and all night. She must have lived up to all the considerable promise she showed.’

‘It has been staring us in the face, has it not?’ Brougham agreed with a grin. ‘You actually danced – waltzed – with her, Tresham. And could not take your eyes off her. But why the secrecy, old chap?’

‘I do believe,’ Kimble said with an exaggerated sigh, ‘I am going to go into mourning. I have been considering hiring a Bow Street Runner to search for her.’

‘You two,’ Jocelyn said with his customary hauteur, ‘may go to the devil with my blessing. Now if you will excuse me, breakfast awaits at Dudley House.’

At first silence and then their laughter followed him as he rode off unhastily in the direction of home.

It was not like that, he kept thinking foolishly. It was not like that.

But if it was not like that – a man with a new mistress enjoying the novelty of a new female body with which to pleasure himself – then what was it like?

He hated the thought of even his closest friends snickering over Jane.

She must have heard him coming. She was standing in the doorway of the sitting room again, wearing primrose yellow today – another new dress of classically simple design. She had perfect taste in clothing, it seemed, once she had been forced out of the cheap gray monstrosities.

He handed his hat and gloves to the butler and moved toward her. She smiled at him with dazzling warmth and held out both hands, completely throwing him off stride. He had been feeling out of charity with the world and even with her and had been irritated with himself for being unable not to come to her again this afternoon.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and squeezed his hands when he gave them to her. ‘How can I ever thank you sufficiently?’

‘For the books?’ He frowned. He had forgotten about the books. He had intended to take her straight up to bed today, to have his brisk pleasure of her before leaving to get on with the rest of his day, undistracted by thoughts of her. He had intended to get this relationship properly on track. At the same time he had hated the thought of Kimble’s or Brougham’s ribald remarks, which he was sure to hear this evening, and his own knowledge that there was truth in them.

‘A mere nothing,’ he said curtly. He freed his hands and motioned for her to precede him into the sitting room.

‘To you, perhaps,’ she said. ‘But to me, everything. You cannot know how I have missed reading since I came here.’

‘Then why the devil,’ he asked her irritably, closing the door and looking about the room, ‘did you not let me take you to the library?’

And why the deuce was she so ashamed to be seen? His other mistresses had never been more happy than when he escorted them somewhere where they would be seen in his company.

She was probably the daughter of a damned clergyman. But he would be double damned before he would start feeling guilt at having had her virtue.

She would not answer his question, of course. She smiled again, tipping her head to one side.

‘You are in a black mood this afternoon,’ she observed. ‘But I am not to be cowed by it. Has something happened that you would like to talk about?’

He almost laughed.

‘The Forbes brothers have slunk off out of town to bring on reinforcements,’ he said. ‘They are afraid to confront me with the odds of three against one. They are planning to increase them to five against one. They will discover that the odds are still in my favor. I derive a certain relish out of dealing with bullies and cowards.’

She sighed. ‘Men and their pride,’ she said. ‘I suppose you will still be brawling when you are eighty, if you should live so long. Will you sit down? Shall I order tea? Or do you wish to go straight upstairs?’

Suddenly, strangely, alarmingly, he did not want her. Not in bed. Not now. It just seemed too – too what? Sordid? He almost laughed again.

‘Where are the books?’ he asked. ‘In the bedchamber? The attic?’

‘In the next room,’ she said. ‘I have converted it for my own use when you are not here. I think of it as my den.’

He hated the sitting room. Even though it was now elegant and tasteful, it still reminded him of a waiting room, an impersonal space in which certain civilities were observed before the inevitable adjournment to the bedchamber. And there were no personal touches here that made it Jane’s sitting room.

‘Take me there,’ he commanded.

He might have guessed that Jane would not simply turn and meekly lead the way.

‘It is my room,’ she said. ‘This is where I entertain you – and occasionally, perhaps, in the dining room. The bedchamber is where I grant you your contractual rights. The rest of the house I consider my personal domain.’

Jocelyn pursed his lips, undecided whether to bark at her for the satisfaction of seeing her jump with alarm or to throw back his head and laugh.

Contractual rights, by thunder!

‘Miss Ingleby.’ He made her his most elegant bow. ‘Would you grant me the privilege of seeing your den?’

She hesitated, bit her lower lip, and then inclined her head.

‘Very well,’ she said, and turned to leave the room ahead of him.

The room was Jane. He felt that as soon as he stepped through the door. He felt as if for the first time he was entering her world. A world that was elegant and genteel on one hand, industrious and cozy on the other.

The fawn-colored carpet and draperies had always made the room look dreary, and all the attempts of her predecessors to brighten the room with cushions and shawls and garish gewgaws had only emphasized the gloom. The mirrors, added by Effie, had merely multiplied the gloom. He had made it a habit never to set foot in here.

Now the fawn colors, which Jane had made no attempt to mask, made the room seem restful. The daybed was gone. So, not surprisingly, were all the mirrors. Some graceful chairs had been added as had a desk and chair, the former strewn sufficiently with papers to indicate that it was not for display purposes only. The bookcase was filled with his books though one lay open on the small table next to a fireside chair. In front of the chair at the other side of the hearth was an embroidery frame over which was stretched a piece of linen. About it were strewn silken threads and scissors and needles.

‘May I sit down?’ he asked.

She indicated the chair by the book.

‘If you wish,’ she said, ‘you may deduct the cost of the desk and chair from my salary since they were purchased for my private use.’

‘I seem to recall,’ he said, ‘that I gave you carte blanche for the house renovations, Jane. Do stop saying ridiculous things and sit down. I am too much the gentleman, you see, to seat myself before you do.’

She felt uncomfortable, he could see. She perched on the edge of a chair some distance away.

‘Jane,’ he said impatiently, ‘sit at your embroidery frame. Let me see you work. I suppose it is another skill you learned at the orphanage?’

‘Yes,’ she said, moving her place and picking up her needle.

He watched her in silence for a while. She was the picture of beauty and grace. A lady born and bred. Fallen indeed on hard times – forced to come to London to search for employment, forced to take work as a milliner’s assistant, forced to become his nurse, forced to become a mistress. No, not forced. He would not take that guilt on himself. He had offered her a magnificent alternative. Raymore would have made her a star.

‘This has always been my vision of domestic bliss,’ he said after a while, surprising himself with the words, which had been spoken without forethought.

She looked up briefly from her work.

‘A woman beside the fire stitching,’ he said. ‘A man at the other side. Peace and calm about them and all well with the world.’

She lowered her head to her work again. ‘It was something you never knew in your boyhood home?’ she asked.

He laughed shortly. ‘I daresay my mother did not know one end of a needle from the other,’ he said, ‘and no one ever told either her or my father that it is possible occasionally to sit around the hearth with one’s family.’

No one had told him those things either. Where were these ideas coming from?

‘Poor little boy,’ she said quietly.

He got abruptly to his feet and crossed to the bookcase.

‘Have you read Mansfield Park?’ he asked her a minute or so later.

‘No.’ She looked up briefly again. ‘But I have read Sense and Sensibility by the same author and enjoyed it immensely.’

He drew the volume from the shelf and resumed his seat.

‘I shall read to you while you work,’ he said.

He could never remember reading aloud, except at his lessons as a boy. He could not remember being read to either until Jane had done it when he was incapacitated. He had found the experience unexpectedly soothing though he had never listened attentively. He opened the book and began reading.

‘“About thirty years ago, Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park …” ’

He read two chapters before stopping and lowering the book to his lap. They sat in silence for a while after that. In a silence that seemed to him thoroughly comfortable. He was sprawled in his chair, he realized. He could nod off to sleep with the greatest ease. He felt … How did he feel? Contented? Certainly. Happy? Happiness was something he had little or no acquaintance with and set no store by.

He felt shut off from the world. Shut off from his usual self. With Jane. Who was certainly shut off from her world and usual self, whatever they might be. Could this be perpetuated? he wondered. Indefinitely? Forever?

Or could it at least become an occasional retreat, this room that was so much Jane and in which he felt comfortable, restful, contented – all alien to his normal way of life?

He should put an end to these foolish, unrealistic, and uncharacteristic dreams without further ado, he thought. He should take his leave – or take her to bed.

‘What is it you are working on?’ he asked her instead.

She smiled without looking up. ‘A tablecloth,’ she said. ‘For the dining room table. I had to find something to make. Embroidery has always been a passion with me.’

He watched her for a while longer from beneath lazy eyelids. The frame was tilted away from him so that he could not see the pattern. But the silks were autumnal colors, all tastefully complementary.

‘Will your hackles rise,’ he asked, ‘if I come and look?’

‘No indeed.’ She looked surprised. ‘But you are under no obligation to be polite, you know. You can have no interest in embroidery.’

He did not deign to answer. He hauled himself out of the deep, comfortable chair, setting his closed book on top of her open one as he did so.

She was working a scene of autumn woods across one corner of the cloth.

‘Where is the pattern from which you work?’ he asked her. He wanted to be able to see the whole picture.

‘In my head,’ she told him.

‘Ah.’ He understood then why it was a passion with her. It was not just that she was skilled with her needle. ‘It is an art with you, then, Jane. You have a fine eye for color and design.’

‘Strangely,’ she said, ‘I have never been able to capture my visions on paper or canvas. But through my needle pictures flow easily from my mind to the fabric.’

‘I was never any good at portraying scenes,’ he said. ‘I always felt that nature did so much better than I could possibly do. Human faces are a different matter. There is so much life and character to capture.’

He could have bitten his tongue as soon as the words were out. He straightened up in some embarrassment.

‘You paint portraits?’ She looked up at him, bright interest in her eyes. ‘I have always thought that must be the most difficult form of art.’

‘I dabble,’ he said stiffly, wandering to the window and gazing out at the small garden, which was looking remarkably well tended, he noticed. Had those roses always been there? ‘Past tense. I dabbled.’

‘I suppose,’ she said quietly, ‘it was not a manly pursuit.’

His father’s language had been far more graphically scathing.

‘I would like to paint you,’ he heard himself saying. ‘There is a great deal in your face even apart from exquisite beauty. It would be an enormous challenge.’

There was silence behind him.

‘Upstairs we will satisfy our sexual passions,’ he said. ‘In here we could indulge all the others, Jane, if you wished it. Away from the prying eyes and sneering lips of the world. This is what you have created in this room, is it not? A den, as you call it, a haven, where you can be yourself, where all the other facts of your life, including being my mistress, can be set aside and you can be – simply Jane.’

He turned his head. She was looking steadily at him, her needle suspended above her work.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘And I am the last person with whom you would wish to share the room.’ He smiled ruefully at her. ‘I will not insist. In future you will entertain me in the sitting room whenever we are not in the bedchamber.’

‘No.’ She let a few moments pass before elaborating. ‘No, I will no longer think of this room as mine but as ours. A place in which our contract and our relative stations in life have no application. A place where you may paint and read, where I may embroider and write, a place where there can be a woman at one side of the hearth and a man at the other. A place of quiet and peace, where all is well with the world. You are invited to make yourself at home here whenever you wish, Jocelyn.’

He gazed at her over his shoulder for a long time without saying anything. What the devil was happening? There could be only one reason, one passion to bring him to this house. He did not want any other reason. He might become dependent upon it – upon her. And yet his heart ached and yearned with hope.

For what?

‘Would you like tea?’ She was threading her needle into the linen and getting to her feet. ‘Shall I ring for the tray?’

‘Yes.’ He clasped his hands at his back. ‘Yes, please.’

He watched her do so.

‘There is plenty of spare room in here,’ he said. ‘I am going to have a pianoforte brought here. May I?’ He could scarcely believe he was actually asking permission.

‘Of course.’ She looked gravely at him. ‘It is our room, Jocelyn. Yours as well as mine.’

He thought for one moment that it might be happiness that rushed to engulf him. But he soon recognized it as an equally unfamiliar emotion.

Terror.