Summary of Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1 – "MASKS AND MIRRORS"

Catherine Berrington's evening unfolds against the bustling backdrop of London's Covent Garden in May of 1812, as she and her parents head to the Theatre Royal. In the carriage, Mrs. Berrington fusses over Catherine's every detail, instructing her to display the newly purchased necklace—an expensive token her father allowed—so that no potential suitor can miss it. Catherine, though appreciative of the upcoming performance of Much Ado About Nothing, feels stifled by her mother's relentless push, suspecting that "theatre nights" serve less as cultural treats and more as strategic arenas for society's marriage market. Inside the grand foyer, chandeliers glitter above fashionable attendees, and Catherine momentarily enjoys the spectacle—until her mother steers her toward Mrs. Clayton and her daughter, Miss Clayton. The Claytons spare no time offering faint praise and then slyly belittle the Berringtons' social standing and finances. Mrs Clayton targets Catherine's gown, but then Catherine's mother retaliates by hinting that Miss Clayton was wearing a dress at another occasion too, hinting that they do not have enough money to have a full wardrobe for their daughter. Though Catherine's cheeks heat with embarrassment, she keeps her composure. Even so, the moment drives home the unspoken class divide and the "power game" that so many young ladies (and their mothers) play. Catherine quietly resolves that, unlike the Claytons, she will not derive superiority from belittling others. Not long after, while Catherine tries to regain her equilibrium, her mother remains vigilant for the next group of acquaintances. At that instant, Catherine's gaze drifts across the crowded hall—and lands on a tall, dark-haired gentleman. A pang of familiarity bolts through her, she knows why. Catherine's mind flickers with a four-year-old memory: a day in Hyde Park when she was about thirteen. She saw a young man—gently feeding ducks and swans alongside a little girl. The man's kindly smile and affectionate manner toward his sister deeply impressed Catherine; his sister shyly shared her bread with her, prompted by him. She had dubbed him her secret "hero." The recollection ends as she admired if this imposing figure at Covent Garden, now grown into a man of imposing presence. Before Catherine can gather her thoughts, Mrs. Berrington performs a near-ambush of the stranger, stopping directly in his path and all but demanding his notice. To Catherine's mortification, he is introduced as Lord Alexander Nevill, the Marquess of Aylesbury—a powerful peer in the ton. Though taken aback by Mrs. Berrington's bluntness, Nevill remains unfailingly polite. Catherine, blushing violently, can barely push out a greeting. Catherine, burning with embarrassment, tries to form coherent responses. Initially, there is no immediate "spark"—the conversation is stilted. Nevill asks polite questions; Catherine answers dutifully. Yet a subtle shift occurs when Catherine, half-nervously, alludes to Much Ado About Nothing and its themes of masks, deception, and vulnerability in society. She remarks that people in these circles often speak in code, never revealing their genuine selves. Nevill, who has grown jaded with endless superficial gatherings, is caught off guard by Catherine's earnestness. This direct mention of "masks" intrigues him: here is a young debutante unafraid to say the sort of truth most politely hide. In a moment of unplanned boldness, she comments on Nevill's decorative lorgnette, subtly implying it is more affectation than necessity. Though this leaves him briefly startled, Catherine refuses to shrink. Something about him—the intangible recollection of Hyde Park, coupled with the unsettling air of superiority—makes her want to stand her ground. She manages to dismiss him first by finishing the exchange, dipping a curtsy, and walking away before he can formally excuse himself. Nevill, left mid-sentence, is left oddly impressed—and a bit frustrated—by this young woman's quiet boldness. As Catherine becomes emboldened by Nevill's attentiveness, a different memory surfaces—one from just a short while ago at Almack's, where Catherine, standing at the edge of the ballroom, overheard this very gentleman complaining to a friend that the evening was dull, the debutantes "simpering" and "uninteresting." Hearing his cynicism had stung her pride, but it also spurred a quiet resolve to never be that mild, meek girl who fades into the background. She was so affronted that she chose to slip away rather than endure his scornful tone, effectively removing herself from his orbit before he could notice. Now, at the theater, Catherine realizes that same dismissive aristocrat stands before her—and yet he seems more receptive than she would have guessed. The next morning, Nevill mentions his interesting conversation to his mother - a lady suggesting that one needs to be brave enough to take their mask off and be ready to be vulnerable if they want to find happiness, which his mother finds interesting and asks for the young lady's name,and Nevill answers, Miss Catherine Berrington.

Your Title

According to Jane Rendell in a Pursuit of Pleasure, the word dandy may have originated from "jack-a-dandy", a Scottish description of a person dressing up at a fair. The word dates back to the late 18th century/early 19th centuries. In the Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, published in 1788, Francis Grose describes the dandy:

Dandy. That's the dandy; i.e. the ton, the clever thing
Dandy. grey Russet. A dirty brown. His coat's dandy grey russet the colour of the Devil's nutting bag.
Dandy. Prat. An insignificant or trifling fellow.

Chapter 2      

Reflections and Revelations

Back at the theatre the previous evening

His lordship graciously shared his family's box at Covent Garden[i] with his esteemed aunt, uncle, and their guests that evening. Upon exchanging greetings and pleasantries, he took his seat and perused the splendid theatre with a leisurely air, drinking in its exquisite beauty. The resplendent chandeliers shone with a brilliance that illuminated the vast space, their lights casting an ethereal glow across the room over the sea of elegantly dressed patrons. The grandeur of the place never failed to amaze him, though he always maintained a composed exterior, concealing the inner awe he felt.

As he observed the bustling activity of the elegantly attired patrons, the familiar scene wrapped around him – he was at home in this world. It was not a love affair, but he had learnt its intricate ways, knew its well-guarded secrets, and mastered the subtle art of navigating its social complexities. He had also learnt how to protect himself from it, he admitted to himself.

The high ceilings echoed with the lively chatter of the upper echelons of society, a constant reminder of the expectations weighing upon him. Each familiar face he passed was a reflection of the roles they all played within this elaborate social performance. The young lady was correct, he thought. Who knows what was behind the many masks of the patrons? He recognised the unspoken rules that dictated their interactions – the subtle nods of acknowledgement, the carefully crafted compliments, and the veiled rivalries.

Yes, he had learnt to navigate these intricate social waters, but dissatisfaction simmered beneath the surface. It was not merely the pressure to secure a prestigious match or uphold his family's reputation that troubled him; it was the relentless performance itself. The ton had crafted an elaborate charade, and he had been a willing participant for too long. Now, the unexpected meeting with Miss Berrington, her candidness sparked something within him – a yearning to reclaim his authenticity, to break free from the stifling expectations of a world that prioritised appearances over substance.

His gaze traversed the theatre and its numerous boxes, alighting momentarily on familiar visages yet lingering on none, although more than one lady would have welcomed his regard. No, his eyes roamed ceaselessly, searching, though he remained unaware that he sought a fresh face amidst the crowd – the face of a young lady. A debutante, he allowed himself a wry smile at the thought. How old could she be? Eighteen, if that. So young. Then, he recalled that his mother was twelve years younger than his father.

There she is! She sat with her family and some other patrons in a box more to the side while his was in the back, offering a clear view of the stage. From his box, he could discreetly observe her without drawing attention to himself, he thought, not that he had any intention of doing so.

As the play started, Miss Berrington became utterly engrossed in the unfolding drama on stage. She laughed at Benedick and Beatrice's banter and even whispered some lines with the actors. She never once glanced in his direction.

As he tried to concentrate on the play, following her example, he instinctively adjusted his lorgnette. Mid-motion, he paused, removed it, and examined the object in hand. She had called him out on using it. The impertinence! The humiliation! He was so shocked at her playful barb that he had no comeback. With a sense of foreboding, it dawned upon him that he had unwittingly embraced this affectation as a means of public display, a folly he had long scorned. Indeed, why did he use it? His vision was perfect; he certainly did not need it. Then why? Why had he succumbed to this pretentious habit? Had he become what he always despised – a slave to societal expectations? Had he abandoned his true self, allowing the ton to dictate his behaviour?

The lorgnette was less a tool for sight than a fashion statement, a superficial symbol of erudition[ii]. The realisation struck him hard: he had no longer examined his motives. This revelation was forced upon him by a mere slip of a girl with integrity that she recognised was worth protecting. His introspection deepened, and with a sense of distaste, he released his lorgnette from its chain. It was as though the object itself had become a symbol of his disillusionment, a mask that he had worn for so long he scarcely remembered who he was without it. He felt a pang of frustration with himself – how long had he allowed the world to dictate his actions? Miss Berrington's words had unsettled him more than he cared to admit, and he found himself questioning everything, from his social persona to his place within the ton.

The offending object weighed heavily in his palm, a stark reminder of his lost self-awareness. He tucked it into his pocket, determined to reclaim his identity, free from the superficialities imposed by high society.

These were heavy thoughts for an evening of comedy but profoundly significant. When he first entered society, he did so with a firm conviction of his self-worth. He laughed at its quirks, despised the immoral tendencies lurking beneath the surface, and criticised its pretensions. However, at almost six and twenty, he found himself having let go of his high standards, at least some. Still new to the ton, Miss Berrington reminded him of what truly mattered.

It irked him to need such a reminder of his principles, yet he could not help but feel a grudging gratitude for her boldness. No one else would have dared to speak to him in such a manner. Her candidness had a way of cutting through the façade he had unwittingly adopted, forcing him to confront the uncomfortable truth about himself. In her youthful integrity, he saw a reflection of the principles he had once held dear and had not noticed that he let go, at least to a certain extent. The encounter left him with a renewed sense of purpose and a determination to reclaim the authenticity he had allowed to slip away.

Catherine remained blissfully unaware of her candid remarks' profound impact on her esteemed lord. She sat in their spacious box, which had cost a full nine schillings, as her mother had emphasised, and immersed herself in one of her favourite plays. To be fair, she had read all of Shakespeare's comedies and loved every one of them. Dutifully, she had also read some of his other, heavier plays, but those felt more like required study rather than genuine pleasure. Her disposition was more inclined toward the ridiculous rather than the tragic, and the light-heartedness of the comedies resonated deeply with her. She revelled in the witty banter and humorous misunderstandings.

This evening, however, part of her remained focused on the fact that she had conversed with her longtime hero, even if his very human attitude at Almack's had somewhat stripped him of that lofty title. She smiled at her youthful folly, having once believed that he existed on a different plane, untouched by society's influences. In reality, he was very much the result of his circumstances and status – a peer moulded by the expectations and pressures of his world.

Catherine lacked much experience with such exalted personages, having mainly observed them occasionally from a distance. On the other hand, she reflected that he must endure many such encounters with enthusiastic mamas introducing their daughters to him, especially considering her mother's persistence in engaging him.

Her mother's relentless ambitions loomed large in her mind, casting a long shadow over her burgeoning identity. She will never seize her meddling, will she? She thought with an internal grimace. Each encounter with a gentleman felt like a performance – a role she was expected to play to perfection.

Her mother aimed high at introducing her to a marquess. Her insistent nudges echoed in her thoughts, reminding her to smile, to charm, and to appear suitably impressed. It was a high task not to adopt her mother's ambitions as her own. However, she had heard enough of marriages of convenience, marriages that served to merge money and power. The gossip columns were full of proof of unhappy marriages in the upper echelons. No, in her eagerness to ensure her daughter would have a better life than herself – Catherine did not think there was anything wrong with her family's status – her mother would never understand that her daughter longed not for a title or a fortune but for genuine regard.

She looked towards her mother, who was only half watching the play as her eyes often wandered to the audience. The play's message would be entirely lost on her while she was the very essence of playing the part.

Her internal conflict grew as she pondered the implications of her mother's aspirations. She yearned to be more than just a vessel for someone else's ambitions. What would it mean to forge her own path in a world that valued conformity over authenticity? Would her mother's dreams suffocate her individuality before she had a chance to truly discover herself?

As she reflected on her encounter with the lord, she felt at least she did not cower but met him on her terms. She felt a sense of triumph that she was able to change his demeanour to slight interest enough so that he did not take his leave when she offered. She had spoken her mind and had not allowed herself to be cowed by the weight of his title or the expectations around them. She had been faithful to herself for once, and it had felt…empowering. It made her wonder: could she continue to navigate this world without compromising who she was? Could she be Catherine Berrington, not just a debutante in a sea of faces? It was a small victory that made her evening even more memorable.

Whence had her impertinence sprung? What fortitude compelled her to voice her unvarnished thoughts so boldly? She had surprised him with her blunt dismissal and then did it again! She reddened anew at the thought of how she had left him just after calling him out on his wearing a silly accessory.

She knew the answer. Closing her eyes, she silently admitted it to herself – she did not want to act like a 'simpering debutante' in his presence. That is why she did not wait to be dismissed, and that is why she did not search for him in the theatre. He must be pursued, and she refused to join the throng of women vying for his attention. She gave him the credit that he would be offended by the open displays of the ladies rather than enjoying it. Just in case he saw her in their box, she did not want him to think she could not take her eyes off him. Instead, she maintained her composure, determined to be different, to stand out not through fawning admiration but through genuine, unvarnished interaction.

Indeed, the gentleman found himself looking her way more than once, especially during the intervals. At first, he had tried to ignore the pull – after all, she was but another debutante. Yet, there was something about her, something that made her stand apart from the others. He could not seem to shake the thought of her.

He did notice that she behaved differently. I must have not made much of an impact, he reflected with annoyance, although he did not understand why it mattered that she ignored him. He consoled himself by observing that she did not look at others either. This constancy intrigued him further, leaving him to wonder why her indifference seemed to sting more than the fawning attention he was accustomed to. Her unique demeanour set her apart, compelling his thoughts to return to her despite his attempts to dismiss her from his mind.

***

The following morning, after breaking his fast with his mother, Lord Nevill closeted himself in the master's study. His father had died of a heart attack about two years previous. His legacy was extensive and a heavy burden for a son yet young. Estate matters, the coordination of investments, and other less essential things must be dealt with. It became the lord's habit to spend the morning hours in discussions with his secretary, a talented fellow from Oxford who needed employment as a second son. He did most of the correspondence, leaving his employer to be able to concentrate on planning, learning about, and managing things.

Today, he dismissed Bertram after an hour as he found he did not have the patience to deal with everyday matters at that moment. His mind was elsewhere, and he felt restless. He called his footman outside his office and asked him to have his horse ready.

Hyde Park[iii], at the edge of London then, was a verdant oasis for the bustling city. Its landscape was meticulously curated with expansive lawns, tree-lined avenues, and the Serpentine – a picturesque, sinuous lake that invited boating and leisurely strolls along its banks. This was the place he had in mind to relax his thoughts. Some private time with his horse would do him good; it always did. Maximus was his favourite horse. He was named so because even as a foil, he was large and earned his name, 'the greatest,' as it grew. He always took him with him if he went anywhere for a more extended period.

One of the park's most notable features was Rotten Row, a long, broad track on the south side, about 1,500 yards[iv], famed for its equestrian activity. Here, London's elite displayed their finest steeds and riding attire. Usually, ladies, perched elegantly atop their horses, exchanged nods and smiles with passing gentlemen, their top hats and tails impeccable, creating a moving tableau of fashion and society. However, the track was now empty, and there were no spectators either. The fashionable hours were around five in the afternoon, so most people missed the sunny morning.

With a strong jawline softened by a hint of a smile, he surveyed the park. Dark eyes, sharp and observant, took in the serenity around him, yet there was a distant quality to his gaze, suggesting thoughts occupied by matters beyond the park. A top hat, tall and elegantly shaped, rested securely atop his head, completing his distinguished look. As his first act of reclaiming himself, he removed the hat and threw it on the grass below a tree. Nevill revelled in the spontaneity he allowed himself. Maximus made a noise at this action as if laughing at him. He patted him. "Yes, my friend. I'm ridiculous. Do I not know it?"

For the first time in many years, he allowed himself to laugh at the absurdity of it all. His world, so tightly controlled and measured, had just been loosened by a simple, spontaneous act. A gentleman would never step outside his hat, and with his defying act, he just told society to step aside – even if there were not many around to judge him. The wind rushed past him, and with it, his mind seemed to clear. In this moment of freedom, riding alongside his loyal steed, he felt something he had not felt in years – alive.

As they moved along Rotten Row, the pair exuded an air of effortless command and mutual respect. The gentleman held the reins lightly, allowing his mount the freedom to move naturally, yet there was an unmistakable connection between them – an understanding borne of countless hours spent together.

As the rider urged his horse into a swift canter, the transformation was immediate and striking. Maximus responded with a burst of energy, his powerful muscles rippling under his gleaming coat, hooves pounding the ground in a rhythmic, thunderous cadence. Now leaning slightly forward, Nevill maintained perfect balance and control, his coat tails and the horse's mane streaming back in the created wind.

Man and horse moved as one with grace and power. Their rapid pace sent a thrilling rush through the park, catching the attention of the few onlookers who paused to admire the display of speed and synergy.

As he galloped, instinctively, he looked beyond the tree line to the walking path, where a flash of colour caught his eye. A figure stopped to watch him. His heart skipped a beat as recognition dawned upon him – the young lady from last night's theatre, the very one who had put him in his place with her sharp wit. She stood poised, her eyes fixed on him with curiosity and something akin to amusement.

His grip on the reins tightened instinctively. The horse, sensing his distraction, maintained its steady gallop, each stride powerful and unerring. The lord's mind raced, replaying their exchange from the previous evening, and he could not help but wonder what she thought of him now, seeing him in this light, commanding and unrestrained – without his hat, he remembered. As he sped past her, their eyes locked for a split second. The moment was electrifying; he knew this unexpected encounter would linger in his thoughts long after the ride.

On his way home, he picked up his hat and, after dusting it, put it back on his head.

***

As Lord Alexander Nevill entered the drawing room, a smile spread across his face at seeing his sister and mother. Suddenly, all was right in the world. "Ellie, Mother, what a delightful surprise to find you both here," he greeted them warmly.

Lady Eloise, his newly married sister, rose to greet him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Alex! I have missed you. I thought I would surprise you with a visit. Mother and I have been catching up on all the latest news." She kissed him on the cheek, her affection evident.

"Indeed," added the Dowager Marchioness with a smile, "Have you enjoyed your ride, my dear?"

His lordship took a seat opposite them. "Yes, thank you, Mother. I needed a good ride. The weather was perfect for it. I will never understand why people wait until the afternoon to come out. Mind you, it was nice to have the track to myself." Miss Berrington's figure intruded on his mind. Was she following me? He could not help thinking, although rationally, he knew it was impossible.

"It is the town hours as well, you know. One who leaves a party in the early hours will not stroll anywhere before noon, Brother."

His lordship was indebted to know that there was another aspect of his life in which he did not succumb to the ton. He hated losing half the day to bed, and it looked like he had that in common with Miss Berrington.

"… Brother, Alex!"

"Hmm, yes?"

"Are you not interested in the latest news?"

"Oh, pray, what is the latest gossip? The two of you always seem to know everything before anyone else."

Lady Eloise's eyes twinkled. "I wish. But if you would hear, I do have some news that I was just about to tell Mother. Well, you know Lady Harrington's eldest daughter, Emily? It appears she has been seen rather frequently in Colonel Weston's company. There is talk of a possible engagement."

Lord Nevill raised an eyebrow. "Colonel Weston, you say? I thought he was quite the confirmed bachelor."

Colonel Weston was a peculiar personage in high society and was greatly admired. Everybody still referred to him as 'Colonel' as he was a second son of an earl and earned this title for his service in the war on the Peninsula; however, not long ago, he inherited the title Earl of Egremont in Sussex and was already known for his philanthropy. He was older than the lord, but Lord Nevill considered him a friend.

"People can change, Alex," his mother interjected, nodding sagely. "Besides, Emily is a charming young woman. I would not have minded if you had shown interest in her. Though, if I may say, it is her dowry that likely caught the colonel's eye."

Lady Eloise laughed lightly. "Or her rather…er…large decolletage[v]."

"Elly, you are incorrigible! But true…"

"Mother! Elly, I will not have you speak thus. It is not appropriate for a lady." His lordship had to bite his tongue not to react otherwise to his sister's comment.

The lady was a lovely young woman with a curvy figure that caught the eye. He believed most men would find her attractive, regardless of the current beauty standards. Who decided about that anyway? He had known the lady, danced with her a few times, and even talked to her at various dinners, but her sweet but cheeky attitude reminded him too much of his sisters.

"You are not to chastise me, Brother. I'm a married woman now," said Lady Eloise, her expression twisting into a defiant grimace.

"You are still my dear sister, and Lady Eloise will not talk of another lady like that. Am I understood?"

She rolled her eyes, but he just looked at her disapprovingly. "Yes, Brother."

"And may I say, Mother, that the new Earl of Egremont is not in need of funds. I dare say if he is in the company of Lady Emily, it is because he likes her for whatever reason."

"It could well be so, I concur. Well, your brother met a young lady who had left a lasting impression last night."

"All right, I think I take my leave of you…" Lord Nevill made a show of standing.

"Brother, you cannot go! At the theatre? Whom did you meet?"

He looked at his mother and sighed, then sat back. "Nobody of import. Her mother introduced us, and we had a short conversation."

"You knew Mrs Berrington?" His mother asked, genuinely surprised.

"Well, no. I do not think…"

"And she still approached you with her daughter? How vulgar! I cannot stand people who do not know their place."

"Mother, you should be more understanding. You have two daughters, do you not? Every mother wants the best for their children. She did mention her son praising me to her." He looked away, realising he was defending Mrs Berrington.

"If you say so. At least she has an eye for the best."

"Mother."

"Don't 'mother' me, Alex. You're one of the best the ton has to offer. I stand by it."

"Enough of this. How did she make a lasting impression? Is she beautiful?"

The question surprised Lord Nevill. When he met her, his frustration had clouded his ability to appreciate anything about her, and later, he was fascinated by her conversation and the fact that she dismissed him, twice. When he observed her in her box, his main target was her behaviour, especially the fact that she did not seem interested in him…better to say, in the other patrons. Was she beautiful? Her face framed by her hat came to mind again. If not beautiful in that classic sense, she was definitely… "Lovely. Lovely is the better word." His chest tightened as he uttered the admission, as though the very word had caught in his throat. He had never thought of her in those terms – 'lovely' – but as the word escaped, it rang truer than anything he had said in a long while. He cleared his throat, trying to brush it off, but the admission had been made, and now it lingered. She had unsettled him, forced him to confront a side of himself he thought he had buried long ago. Catherine Berrington, with her sharp wit and defiance, had awakened something in him – a desire to be better, to be more than the man he had become.

His mother and sister shared a look.

"Everybody looks nice when dressed for the theatre." He said defensively but knew it was too late: his dear female relations were now thoroughly intrigued.

[i]

By Thomas Rowlandson and Auguste Pugin from Microcosm of London, 1808. Collection of Candice Her

[ii] the quality of having or showing great knowledge or learning; scholarship

[iii]

Hyde Park section of "Improved map of London for 1833, from Actual Survey. Engraved by W. Schmollinger, 27 Goswell Terrace"

[iv] 1384 metres

[v] Décolletage is a plunging neckline on a woman's dress. Without decolletage, there would be no cleavage. This French word comes from a verb meaning "expose the neck," and that is exactly what décolletage does: it is a low neckline on a woman's dress or shirt.

Chapter 2

Hyde Park section of "Improved map of London for 1833, from Actual Survey. Engraved by W. Schmollinger, 27 Goswell Terrace"

Chapter 3    Family Ties and Hidden Agendas

Lord Nevill dined at home with his mother that day, an event marked by the recent arrival of his second sister, Martha, nearly sixteen. Martha came from their country estate to join the family in London that afternoon. Given that the family was in town for an extended period during the season, it was important that she spent some time with them to alleviate the lengthy separation.

For Lord Nevill, Martha's presence was a source of great joy. He adored his younger sister, and her being with them completed the familial harmony he cherished so deeply. The bonds between the siblings were especially significant in light of their current family circumstances. Their father had passed away, leaving a void that was keenly felt by all. Eloise, their older sister, had recently married and moved out, further reducing the family's once robust circle to a smaller, more intimate triangle.

This dinner was a special occasion for the three of them – Nevill, his mother, and Martha – to come together and enjoy each other's company after the separation. The family's estate in the country was a beloved home, but the vibrant social life of London during the season offered its own unique opportunities for bonding and shared experiences. Nevill valued these moments, as they provided a sense of continuity and connection amidst the changes and losses they had endured.

As he watched Martha settle into her chair, Nevill's thoughts briefly turned to their father. He had always admired the strength and decisiveness his father had shown, qualities that seemed to have faded with his passing. The weight of that loss lingered with Nevill, especially now that Eloise was no longer at the family home. It was moments like this, with Martha and his mother, that reminded him of what remained – the core of their family, held together through their shared memories.

As the family sat around the dinner table, the warm glow of candlelight casting a cosy ambience, their conversation flowed naturally, punctuated by laughter and fond memories.

"How was your journey from the estate, Dear?" Her ladyship asked. "I hope the carriage ride was not too tiring. Your brother wanted to collect you, but I told him you were in good hands with Mrs Teller and the Johnson brothers."

Martha smiled. "Yes, they took excellent care of me." She turned to her brother. "I was safe with them."

Nevill nodded. Indeed, he had worried about his sister. He had sent the brothers, his most trusted men, to bring her to London. Travelling still could be arduous, especially if some ruffians thought their coach was a good target.

His sister chatted on. "… It was quite pleasant, Mother. The weather was fair, and I had a good book to keep me company. Although I must admit, I was eager to arrive and see both of you."

"We were just as eager to have you here, Martha," Nevill said, a broad grin spreading across his face. "London feels incomplete without your cheerful presence." Nevill observed her sweet face that was no more of a child, yet not womanly either. She is growing up so fast, he thought.

His mind drifted back to the many times they had spent together. He remembered the first time she tasted ices, her eyes lighting up with delight as the cold sweetness melted on her tongue. She giggled at the strange sensation. The next time they had snow one winter, she enthusiastically offered him snow topped with raspberry jam, explaining that it was nature's ices. He remembered their frequent visits to the menagerie, where she was particularly enchanted by the exotic animals, especially the lively chimpanzees. After their initial visit, she had eagerly requested to return at least once each season to see her favourite animals.

As he watched her now, Nevill could not help but wonder if this time would be different. Had she outgrown her fascination with the menagerie and its inhabitants? He pondered whether their cherished walks in the park, where they would spend hours meandering through the paths, had lost their appeal for her. Would she still find joy in their ritual of feeding the birds at the water's edge, tossing crumbs and watching the ducks and swans glide gracefully towards them? Or had these simple pleasures become too childish for her burgeoning sense of maturity?

Nevill sighed softly, a mixture of nostalgia and apprehension washing over him. The bond they shared had always been marked by these special moments, like the annual family picnics in the countryside and these seemingly trivial traditions, such as the daily teatime they never missed, that had woven the fabric of their relationship. He feared the inevitability of change, the possibility that the little girl who once found wonder in every new experience was now stepping into a world where such wonders were left behind.

He realised that, with each passing day, their shared past – those cherished moments of simple fun – was becoming less of a reality and more of a memory. She was growing into a woman with her own sense of self and her own opinions, and Nevill could not help but feel the bittersweet tug of that transition.

Two more years and she would be out, he realised. How would she find society? Would she struggle the same way as Miss Berrington? Would she find her way? The world was preparing to shape her in ways he could neither predict nor protect her from, and Nevill could only hope that she, too, would find a place where her true self could remain unburdened by society's expectations.

His mother's voice brought him out of his reverie.

"It is lovely to see you both together. It reminds me of when your father and I first brought you to London." Lady Agatha's voice was filled with warmth, her eyes growing wistful as she looked at her children.

Martha's smile faltered slightly. "I miss Father. It is strange being here without him."

Nevill reached out to squeeze Martha's hand, his voice gentle. "We all miss him, Maddie. But he is with us in spirit, and we honour his memory by continuing to live and enjoy our lives. We have each other, which is something to be grateful for."

"Well said, Son." She nodded with teary eyes.

"Eloise looks well," Martha commented, wanting to change the subject.

"Yes, she seems content, even happy, in her new role," their mother agreed, a hint of pride in her voice.

"Let us toast to that. Bartholomew is a decent fellow," Nevill said, raising his glass high.

"But with such a name?" Martha complained, wrinkled her nose in playful distaste. "I would not marry anyone with that name – it is just not right."

Their mother chuckled, adding, 'She calls him Barthy."

Nevill groaned. "I wish you had never said that. Now, every time I meet him, I will want to call him Barthy!" he exclaimed, feigning exasperation.

Martha giggled, the sound light and infectious. "Oh, Barthy, kiss me…"

Nevill did not know if he should be laughing or chastising his sister, but she continued before he could say anything. "Alex, you will manage…, but if not, you will have my sympathy," she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Her ladyship smiled warmly at her children, her heart swelling with affection. "It is endearing, really. Barthy suits him in a way. He cannot say no to Eloise."

The two siblings shared a look, and Nevill gave up on being proper. He burst into laughter with his Maddie.

***

The next day, after his hours with his loyal Bertram, he decided to spend some time with his fellow men at White's[i]. He told his coachman to be back in about three hours.

At the club, he was greeted by old Philip, who had been already old when his father first took him to his club. He always felt the old servant deserved more respect than being called by his Christian name, and because he did not know his surname, he simply greeted him with this: "Mr Philip, good to see you. Tell me, how is your wife? Better, I hope."

The servant smiled at the young man. Most people walked past him sometimes without acknowledging him; therefore, he regarded the lord's attention as a great distinction. "Better, milord, better. Thank you for remembering."

"Not at all, Mr Philip. And what is it like inside?"

"Not too busy. Are you dining?"

"Yes, I would like to."

"In that case, let me secure the seat at the bay window; it is not yet taken."

"Thank you." He turned to go, but then he turned back to the old man. "Is a certain Mr Robert Berrington a member?"

It took only a moment for Philip to remember. "Yes, Your Lordship, he is presently inside the dining room."

"Oh, thank you." He took two coins and subtly put them in his hands, which was not only gratitude but with a look, he told him to be discreet about his inquiry.

***

The club's mahogany doors swung open to reveal a spacious, high-ceilinged room bathed in the soft, golden light streaming through large, mullioned windows. The walls were adorned with rich, dark wood panelling and hung with portraits of illustrious members from generations past. The scent of polished wood and the faint aroma of tobacco lingered in the air, mingling with the more immediate and enticing smells wafting from the dining area.

Several men greeted his lordship, and he greeted them in return, but he did not linger long but advanced into the room for diners. The tables there were set with crisp, white linen cloths and gleaming silverware, arranged meticulously by the attentive staff. Fine bone china plates and crystal glasses awaited the arrival of the day's fare. Around these tables, groups of well-dressed gentlemen sat, engaged in animated conversation or quietly perusing the day's newspapers and broadsheets. The murmur of voices blended with the occasional clink of cutlery and the rustle of paper, creating a low, comforting hum.

Lord Nevill looked around. "Mr Berrington?" he asked from the footman at the door, who discreetly showed him the gentleman.

Robert Berrington was seated comfortably in a leather armchair with a glass of brandy.

Nevill approached with a casual air, yet his mind was sharply focused. "Berrington?" he greeted him with a slight bow. "May I sit?"

Robert looked up, surprise flickering across his features before he jumped up. "Ne… Lord Nevill. Of course, please join me," he said, wide-eyed.

Nevill took a seat opposite Robert, signalling to a waiter for a drink. "Remind me, please. How do we know each other?"

Robert felt a flush of embarrassment. Indeed, he knew why he was asking. He was mortified that his mother had used his name to accost his lordship.

"I also went to Cambridge. You were above me. I often admired your achievements… I might have mentioned it to my mother. I – I'm sorry."

Nevill nodded gracefully. "Rest assured, I bear no ill will towards you, Berrington. Mothers are mothers, and they have a job to do. I understand that."

"Thank you, my lord. You are very gracious."

"I believe I recall your skill at fencing, sir. It was most impressive."

"Oh, yes, I enjoy the sport."

'So, how has the season been for you?"

"It – it has been eventful, thank you. And – and yourself?"

"Can't complain," Nevill replied, accepting his drink. "The season has been busy; however, it becomes repetitive toward the end. I usually leave by the middle of June."

"I concur. We will probably stay till July – because of my sister."

"Oh, yes. I hear it is her first year."

"Yes, she has done quite well. She has already attracted some attention."

The waiter brought his order. Nevill nodded in thanks and slowly took a sip of his drink and then put it down, looking at it. "Really? That is interesting. Good to hear. Good to hear."

"I do not really know how I feel about that. A part of me wants to hold time so that she can be my little sister a while longer."

"I know what you mean. I have a sister who is yet to come out. I am dreading it already.

Robert nodded. "Then you understand. It is hard to watch the men flocking around her. Yes, Catherine has certainly turned a few heads. Thankfully, she is not in a hurry to wed."

"How come?" Nevill asked, his voice almost too casual.

"I do not wish to violate her confidence, but I can say that she wishes for attachment. Mother tries to make her give up her 'naïve fancies,' as she calls it."

"Naïve fancies?" Nevill repeated, his expression remained neutral. He waved the waiter over to order another drink for Robert. Then, his voice tightened slightly as he continued. "And yet she is not in a hurry? I take it she does not have a suitor then."

"No, but two gentlemen have started calling on her."

"I see." Nevill's lips grew thin and firm, and his hand clenched around his drink. He forced himself to relax – he leaned back in his chair.

"I pity them – they have a ghost to compete with."

Nevill looked at Berrington with furrowed eyes.

"She had met some gentleman some years ago in Hyde Park, and she has been calling him her 'hero' – cannot recall why. She was fascinated by him. At least partially, he is why Catherine has grown up reading a lot. I bet she has read more books than I."

"Hmm. "She had some interesting insights about the play. She seemed very mature."

"Yes, she is. She saw him one day coming out of a bookshop with several books, so she figured a gentleman like him would want a well-read wife, and she started to read intensely. She had been a curious child before that, and she read books, but after that, even more. She always wanted to know what we study at Cambridge."

Nevill could not help the slight twitch of curiosity that flickered in his eyes. He quickly masked it with a polite smile, forcing himself to appear detached, even though he found the story intriguing. "A hero, you say?"

"I know. Sometimes, I thought it should be me idolised in her mind, you know, as an older brother."

"Indeed. I take it she was very young then?"

"About thirteen. She's not yet eighteen."

"What a lovely story. And who is this paragon of a man?"

'She didn't know, never said. She only kept saying that he was everything a gentleman should be – handsome and kind…and tall." He shook his head with warm remembrance.

Nevill took another sip of his drink. He took his time. His thoughts strayed, and he imagined the young man who had captured Miss Berrington's admiration. A flicker of something stirred within him. He quickly quelled the emotion, pushing it aside with a mental shrug. A child's fascination, he told himself.

Nevill noticed Robert was looking at him quizzically, so he changed the subject after he ordered his meal from the waiter.

"I see," he murmured, his voice almost flat. "What do you make of the assassination[ii]? A shocking event, indeed."

Robert's expression grew serious. "Quite shocking. Some of his decisions were questionable, but we live in challenging times. He was against the slave trade but opposed Catholic emancipation…"

"Indeed," Nevill agreed, his tone thoughtful. "The repercussions are bound to be significant."

Robert nodded. "These political upheavals affect us all."

"Understandably so," Nevill replied. "In uncertain times, family becomes even more important. Speaking of which, I don't know if you know, but my older sister recently married. Last year, I was responsible for ensuring no scoundrel came close to her. Miss Berrington is lucky to have an older brother who can protect her. I know you have your parents, but as a young man, you have more insight into the men of the ton. I did not see you at the theatre; do you accompany her?"

Robert's eyebrow arched as a sign of his surprise at the subtle rebuke. "I – I usually accompany her to balls. She specifically asked that I dance the first dances with her. And I also take her to places my parents do not wish to go." He straightened in his seat. "Tomorrow afternoon, I'm taking her to the Royal Academy. She has been eager to see the new exhibition." His voice carried a hint of pride and anticipation.

"The Royal Academy, you say?" Nevill's interest was piqued. "That sounds delightful… I was considering visiting myself." Nevill nodded thoughtfully. "Why did she ask you to dance the first set with her?"

'Simple. So that she is not obliged to dance it with someone she does not wish, you know how the first dances are considered."

Clever girl, Nevill thought, hiding his intrigue behind a polite smile.

***

Next day

The soft morning light, gentle as a whisper, filtered through the delicate lace curtains of Lord Nevill's drawing room in Aylesbury House, casting intricate patterns on the plush, wine-coloured carpet. The room, a harmonious blend of elegance and comfort, was adorned with tasteful paintings and exquisite furniture, reflecting the refined taste of its occupants.

Lady Agatha, the graceful matron with silver-streaked hair, sat by the window, her needlework poised in her lap. Across from her, Martha, her daughter, occupied herself with a book, though her mind seemed elsewhere. The ladies were anticipating morning calls. Nevill, customarily, was already with Bertram in his study after a satisfying breakfast.

A footman entered the room, his posture stiff with formality. "Lord Morton and Lady Amelia have called, my lady," he announced.

Lady Agatha smiled warmly. 'Show them in, please, and let the Master know that his friend is here." The siblings were well-known to the Nevills as their estate neighboured theirs in Buckinghamshire. The family had held the title of Earl of Buckinghamshire, a relatively new earldom given to the family in the middle of the previous century for their services to the crown.

Moments later, Lord Arthur Morton, a tall and handsome man with a rakish charm, strode into the room, his presence commanding attention. He was followed closely by his sister, Lady Amelia, who glided in with a confident grace. She was a vision of beauty, her eyes sparkling with life. Her soft morning blue gown, a perfect match for her fair complexion, enhanced the delicate blush of her cheeks. Her eyes, like two sapphires, immediately scanned the room, taking in who was present.

"Lord Morton, Lady Amelia, what a delightful surprise," Lady Agatha greeted them, rising to offer her hand.

Lord Morton bowed deeply. "The pleasure is ours, Lady Agatha. We could not resist calling upon you and your lovely family."

Lady Amelia curtsied elegantly. "Indeed, we hoped we might find you all at home. Is Alexander here?"

Her ladyship slightly frowned at Lady Amelia using her son's Christian name to her. It was one thing if he allowed the intimacy, but it was another to use it in company. "Do sit," Lady Agatha gestured to the seats nearby. "As you see, Martha has joined us for a few weeks. We missed her so much."

Martha rose and curtsied politely. "Lord Morton, Lady Amelia."

"Oh, Martha dear, how good it is to see you!" she gushed. "I hope you will have great fun; London is always so exciting."

Martha smiled and sat back on the sofa.

"My brother is taking me to the Royal Exhibition in the afternoon."

"Oh, how lovely! Already making sure you are occupied." She became quiet in thinking.

As they all settled, the conversation flowed easily, touching upon the weather and recent social events.

"Mother, I am home… Ah, Morton…and Lady Amelia," he greeted his friend with a broad smile. He faltered for a second when he saw his sister with him. "What a pleasant surprise."

Nevill had to join at least for a while if he did not want to be rude. Morton was a good enough friend; they had had many a night out after university, but those days were over for him. He had a serious job to do while Morton still lived the idle life of an heir.

Lady Amelia's gaze frequently flickered to Lord Nevill, who looked dashing in his morning coat.

Lord Morton grinned. "Nevill, always a pleasure. We were just catching up with your charming family."

As the conversation continued, Lady Amelia's interest in Lord Nevill became apparent. She leaned in slightly, her voice just the right pitch. "We were discussing the Royal Academy exhibition earlier," she said, appearing nonchalant. "I have heard it is quite the spectacle this year."

Nevill spoke before he realised the possible trap. "Indeed, Lady Amelia. My sister and I were to visit it this afternoon."

Lady Amelia clasped her hands in delight. "Oh, yes, she has told us. How wonderful! I adore the arts. The vibrancy, the creativity… It's all so inspiring."

Lord Morton chimed in. "Amelia is quite passionate about it."

"Perhaps we might accompany you?" Lady Amelia came to the point. She looked at Nevill expectedly. Her eyes sparkled, not with a genuine interest in the exhibition but with an unspoken challenge, as if testing his willingness to indulge her.

There was a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation before Nevill responded. "We would be delighted to have you join us."

Lady Agatha, ever the gracious hostess, smiled. "The more, the merrier."

Lady Amelia leaned back in her seat, and like a satisfied cat, she smiled triumphantly.

The gesture did not go unnoticed by the matron, who then looked at her son. Despite her excellent pedigree, Lady Agatha did not think Lady Amelia and her son would suit. His son would not appreciate a manipulative woman, she thought. And she was not aware how true that was. Nevill had learnt early on that Lady Amelia liked to bend things to her will, to her advantage. He did like to read, and she pretended once to have read the same book. When he wanted to discuss it with her, it soon was apparent that she had fibbed. At the time, he wondered why she would do such a thing. Only later, after several hints, he realised that she was after him. Since then, he had been more careful around her. His mother was right. Her character, scheming, did not sit well with him.

With plans set, the Mortons soon took their leave to prepare for the outing.

As the door closed behind them, Martha's previously composed demeanour faltered. "Mother," she began, a touch of anxiety in her voice, "I believe I would rather not go to the exhibition today."

Lady Agatha looked at her daughter with understanding eyes. "Is this because of Lady Amelia, my dear?"

Martha nodded, her expression troubled. 'She is…quite forward, is she not? I find her presence somewhat overwhelming."

Lord Nevill approached with a comforting smile. "Martha, I understand your feelings. Lady Amelia does have a rather strong personality. But you must not let her deter you from enjoying the exhibition."

Martha sighed softly. "Perhaps you are right, Alex. I just feel…overshadowed. She will take all the attention."

Mother and son exchanged a knowing glance.

"I tell you what. I will take you another day and we make it an occasion and visit Gunter's afterwards."

Martha's now glistening eyes were answer enough for him.

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Thank you, Alex. I would like that very much."

Martha's thoughts lingered momentarily as she realised how quickly the world around her was shifting. She had always been the little sister, content in the protective bubble of her family's care. Yet, as she neared her coming-out season, the reality of her place in society seemed ever more pressing. She was not quite a girl anymore, but not entirely a woman either. She longed for the simplicity of her childhood moments with Alex – before she had to deal with women like Amelia. She had never taken to her.

Lady Agatha patted her daughter's hand gently. "You see, my dear? There is always a solution.

"Are you still going this afternoon?"

"Erm, yes… It would be ill-mannered to decline at this point."

"All right. Now, let us have some more tea and enjoy the morning."

Nevill's mind lingered on the brief exchange with Lady Amelia. He had always found her attempts at charm tiresome, but today, he really could have done without her. Lady Amelia had a way of using others for her gain, and he was no longer willing to be her pawn.

Again, masks and society, he thought bitterly.

***

"That was very well done, Amelia," Morton commented when they returned to their carriage. Morton was a close friend of Nevill as they grew up in neighbouring estates. They also went to the same schools, as his family ensured their offspring would be on good terms with the future marquess. He always admired, with a bit of envy, his friend. He tried to emulate him and his actions down to his investments. His family was only moderately wealthy; their estate was only half the size, and they had no other source of income. He and his father liked spending time at the gambling tables, which did not feed their coffers. He supported his sister's ambition to secure Nevill and subtly tried to elevate her in his eyes. A family connection to a wealthy marquess would elevate their family further. "You will be noticed to be publicly in his company, and my presence will give credit to our welcome of the connection."

"You are right; maybe a well-placed article in a gossip column would nudge him to notice me. Securing the outing was easy enough, thanks to little Martha. Our efforts, on the other hand, don't seem to be sufficient. He does not show any interest in me. We may have to create a situation…" She looked meaningfully at her brother.

Morton uneasily looked out the window.

[i] White's – Illustration from Old and New London by Edward Walford (Cassell, c 1880). In 1811 a bow window was added to the facade. It was in this window that Beau Brummell (see website) sat and held court until his downfall in 1816, passing judgment on passersby, with his inner circle. More on the story website.

[ii] The British Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval, was assassinated on May 11, 1812. He is notable for being the only British Prime Minister to have been assassinated. The murder took place in the lobby of the House of Commons, and the assassin was John Bellingham, a merchant with a personal grievance against the government.

Chapter 3 - White's

White's is a gentlemen's club in St James's, London. Founded in 1693 as a hot chocolate shop in Mayfair, it is London's oldest club[1] and therefore the oldest private members' club in the world. It moved to its current premises on St James's Street in 1778. 

Illustration from Old and New London by Edward Walford (Cassell, c 1880). In 1811 a bow window was added to the facade. It was in this window that Beau Brummell (see website) sat and held court until his downfall in 1816, passing judgment on passersby, with his inner circle.  

The Royal Academy of Arts was founded in 1768 by a group of 40 prominent artists. Its first president was Sir Joshua Reynolds. 

Members were given the chance to make a name for themselves at the annual Summer Exhibition. This juried exhibition (shown in the print above), held each year from May to August, was one of the highlights of the season, and invitations to the Royal Academy dinner before a private viewing were much sought after. Each year, there were more paintings on exhibit, the numbers becoming so great that the pictures were hung from floor to ceiling, with frames bumping up against each other. Artists competed for the best placement of their works, the most coveted positions being "on the line," a molding that ran around the room just above eye level.

"Exhibition Room, Somerset House" by Thomas Rowlandson and Auguste Pugin, from Ackermann's Microcosm of London, 1808. Collection of Candice Hern.

Chapter 17

The barouche had a collapsible hood over the back and was considered a summer vehicle used for driving in the great parks. It was drawn by a pair of high-quality horses to complement the expensive and fashionable vehicle. 

Chapter 20

Tattersall's Repository reigned supreme throughout the Regency period at a time when gentlemen vied with one another in being well mounted, and members of the ton drove in stylish carriages with a pair or four in hand. It was mostly an auction house for everything horse.

Chapter 24
The Tyger

By William Blake

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Copyright Credit: Blake, William. "The Tyger." ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Songs of Experience. ​​​​​​​Facsimile reproduction of the 1794 illuminated manuscript, published by The William Blake Trust and the Tate Gallery, 2009, in ​​​​​​​William Blake: The Complete Illuminated Books.

The gold broch Nevill gives to Catherine in Vauxhall.

Chapter 28

The ruby set lent by Nevill's mother for the ball at Carlton House