James gave his coat another tug. “Very well, I am as ready as I will ever be. Do I take the carriage?”

His manservant allowed himself a small smile. “I believe the established modes of travel in Bath are chair or perambulation.”

“And which do you suggest in the circumstances?”

“I think you should walk, My Lord.”

James raised a dark brow at his manservant. “I think I prefer ‘sir’ just for now. I do not feel like a lord.”

“Very well, sir.”

James went to the door, but paused with his hand on the latch. “Do you think we will find her in Bath? Is she here somewhere?”

“Yes, sir, I am certain of it.”

James nodded, his mouth losing its good humour, his eyes bleak.

“Then if she is here I will find her. I fear I cannot rest, Dunn, until I do.”

Clarinda tried not to fidget. Lady March was leaning heavily on her arm, as if her legs could barely hold her up, and yet when Clarinda suggested they return home the elderly lady had given her a glare that could have curdled cream.

“I am certain the waters will do me good.”

“Oh yes, Clarinda, we must stay!” Lucy piped up. “I see Isabella over there.”

“Quiet, miss,” Lady March said, sharply for one in such a weakened state, “no one asked you.”

Lucy bit her lip, but her sparkling eyes were unrepentant. She was a girl with spirit, and it would take more than her aunt’s crotchets to depress her. She fluttered through life expecting only the best to happen. Clarinda was older and wiser, but it was her dearest wish to see that, for Lucy, all her dreams came true.

Now, with a smile to her sister and her scowling aunt, Lucy hurried across the room to her bosom bow. Clarinda watched her go, aware that most of the gentlemen in the Pump Room were doing the same. Lucy was wearing one of her newer gowns, a pretty muslin with a flounced skirt, her hair was simply dressed, but the sheer simplicity of the young woman’s attire only made one more aware of her beauty.

We were right to come to Bath, Clarinda told herself. Despite what she herself had to endure in payment for their food and lodging, Lucy was far better off here than she would have been, destitute, at home in the country. Here she had a chance to shine.

After their parents had died — victims of a fire that had also rendered their home a blackened ruin — they had been alone and in debt. So when their father’s elder sister, Lady March, heard of the death of her profligate brother and his wife, and wrote offering them a home, Clarinda had jumped at the chance. She had not realized then that taking up that offer would mean a lifetime sentence for herself as unofficial nurse to Lady March’s imaginary illnesses, but even if she had … Well, there was no other option if Lucy was to take her rightful place in the world.

“Lucy is looking very fine.”

With a smile Clarinda turned to find her friend Etta, the doctor’s wife, at her side. “She is, isn’t she?”

“And you are no slouch in that department yourself, my dear,” Etta added, her dark eyes searching Clarinda’s face with sharpened curiosity. “What has happened to give you that sparkle?”

“Nothing. I am the same as always.” And yet Clarinda felt herself blushing, as if Etta knew she had spent the past week dreaming of James Quentin’s warm smile and longing for him to make a reappearance. She’d even gone so far as to send a note to the Good King, when she returned his umbrella, but their servant informed her on his return that Mr Quentin had gone out of Bath on business for a week. The disappointment she felt had been ridiculously excessive, but the week was up and this morning she was hoping to see him in the Pump Room.

“Well, I think you are looking very well, Clarinda.”

Etta was a woman her own age, but sometimes her manner seemed to belong to someone much older. Although Etta said little of her past, Clarinda suspected that her life had not been easy before she married her beloved Dr Moorcroft.

“I know several gentlemen who would be pleased to offer for you, if you were to give them the slightest encouragement,” Etta went on, and then laughed at Clarinda’s shocked expression. “Did you truly not realize that? But then you are always thinking of Lucy’s future and not your own. Clarinda, Lucy would not want you to martyr yourself for her sake.”

“I want her to have the life she deserves. You make me sound like one of those saints with arrows stuck in them and a pious expression. I assure you I am not a martyr, and my life is very comfortable with Aunt March. She cannot help having a taste for the more bizarre forms of illness.”

Etta gave her a look that meant she didn’t believe a word of it.

But Clarinda’s attention was elsewhere. In the entrance to the Pump Room stood a familiar handsome figure. Mr Quentin! She gave a little gasp.

For a moment she was quite dizzy with the confusing rush of emotions sweeping through her: relief and agitation; excitement and impatience; happiness and melancholy. There was no time to examine and understand each of them.

“Good Gad!” Lady March lifted her quizzing glass and ogled the crowd waiting to enter the room. “Who is that intriguingly handsome gentleman, Clarinda?”

Clarinda was not at all surprised that her aunt had noticed him. “I believe he is called James Quentin—” she began, and his name on her lips made them tingle.

“Quentin, Quentin? Never heard of him,” Lady March replied loudly. “I am most impressed with his wheeled chair. I wonder whether I can have one made?”

Clarinda, bewildered, looked again at the group by the entrance and understood that her aunt wasn’t referring to James Quentin after all. She was more interested in a large figure in a chair with wheels, a man with a sun-browned face and a shock of grey hair who was glowering at the occupants of the Pump Room from beneath his thick, black eyebrows.

“I must speak with him,” said Lady March, and made a beeline towards the man in the chair, her steps strong and sure, with no signs of her previous tottering weakness.

“Oh dear,” Clarinda murmured, turning to Etta. To her surprise her friend’s face was quite drained of colour. “Are you feeling faint?” she said, reaching to support her. “Etta, what is it?”

But Etta shook her head. “I must go,” she murmured, and with that she turned and hurried through the crowded room.

Clarinda stared after her, bewildered. If she had not known better, she would have thought Etta was running away from something. Or someone.

Alone now, Clarinda hesitated. She could join any number of groups in the room, where there were acquaintances who would welcome her and chat politely about the weather and her aunt’s health. But suddenly everyone but James Quentin seemed boring and insipid. She turned towards him, and felt a sharp stab of disappointment to see that Mrs Russo — with her five unmarried daughters — had already captured him.

She wavered. It was not in her nature to be forward, to push in, but suddenly she found herself moving towards Mr Quentin with a new determination, and with each step her determination grew.

James was wondering how on earth he could escape the middle-aged woman in her hideous turban and her packet of simpering daughters. At one point he was on the verge of breaking free but she caught hold of his arm and held on to him with strong fingers.

“Mr Quentin?”

The voice was sweet and melodious. He turned, joy in his heart, and saw that it was indeed Miss Clarinda Howitt, rescuer of gentlemen’s hats. She was smiling up at him, a sparkle in her serious blue eyes.

“Miss Howitt,” he said, with every evidence of a long acquaintance, “how marvellous to see you again. You must tell me how your aunt is. Let us go and find some tea, and then we can chat. Do excuse me, Mrs Russo. Eh, Miss Russo and … eh, all the rest of your family.”

He tugged. The fingers on his arm resisted a moment and then he was reluctantly released.

“Thank you, thank you, Miss Howitt,” he said fervently, as they moved away. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I feared I was to be Mrs Russo’s prisoner for life.”

Clarinda bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “Mrs Russo is one of our long time residents, Mr Quentin.”

“Is that what happens to someone who lives here too long?” he demanded, wide-eyed, but with a teasing smile.

This time she did laugh.

“She said I had a smell of London about me, which sounded most unpleasant.”

Miss Howitt gave him a shy smile. She had the sweetest mouth and he wished she would smile more often. If she were his, he would make it his goal to see her smile each and every day.

“I think she meant to imply you had a certain style, sir, that can only be found in London.”

He nodded soberly. “Thank you for explaining that to me, Miss Howitt. I thought she might be insulting me, but I hardly liked to fight a duel with a woman of her age. Indeed with a woman of any age.”

“No, duels are frowned upon in Bath society. Although I believe Mrs Russo is quite an expert with a crossbow.”

Her blue eyes were sparkling delightfully and a frisson ran through him and centred itself on his heart. It was a sensation he had not experienced in a very long time and he could not ignore it, no matter how urgent his current mission.

“Miss Howitt …” he began rashly.

But she was already speaking.

“Mr Quentin.” She took a breath, as if her words were somehow momentous. Did she feel it too? This sense of the meeting of two beings who were destined to meet? He leaned closer and breathed in her scent, drowning in visions of Clarinda lying in his arms quite naked. And then he heard what she was saying.

“I want you to meet my sister, Lucy. She is standing over there, by the vase of flowers. Do you see her? The girl with dark hair?”

Confused, he glanced in the direction she indicated. There were a number of girls gathered in a group, girls who looked as if they were just out of the schoolroom. One of them did seem to have dark hair.

She was watching him with anticipation, and because he didn’t want to disappoint her, he said, “Delightful.”

He was rewarded with a beaming smile, her eyes shining up at him. “Yes, she is delightful. I think, although of course I am biased, she is the loveliest girl in Bath.”

“Indeed your sister is very pretty, Miss Howitt.”

“Come and I will introduce you, Mr Quentin.” She began to make her way towards the group of schoolgirls. He stood a moment, watching her go, absorbed in the graceful perfection of her figure and the elegance of her bearing. Why did no one else in the room realize what a treasure she was? When she glanced back, surprised he was not following, he had to hurry after her.

The introductions were made, although James hardly heard them, but he must have said all the right things for no one gave him a peculiar look. Lucy was indeed an engaging girl, and smiled and chatted about Bath and then laughed when he lamented the weather. And all the time Clarinda beamed upon him like a fairy godmother who had just granted him his dearest wish.

When an older woman in a striped silk gown joined them, she was introduced as Lady March, Clarinda’s aunt. She examined him coldly through her quizzing glass as though seeking fault.

“How do you do, Lady March?” he said politely.

“Particularly ill, sir. My niece misled me as to your identity.”

“Aunt, I’m sorry, I thought you were speaking of Mr Quentin when you—”

“As I recall I said, ‘Who is that handsome gentleman?’ and you told me it was Mr Quentin. In fact it was Mr Collingwood I was referring to.”

“Aunt, please …” Clarinda’s eyes met his and darted away. She flushed scarlet.

“Mr Quentin is handsome enough,” her aunt went on, as if he wasn’t there, “but he is rather too healthy looking for my liking. Mr Collingwood has some very interesting ailments — he quite puts the rest of us invalids in the shade.”

“You are an invalid, Lady March?” James said with an air of surprise, trying not to enjoy the fact that Clarinda thought him the handsomest man in the room. “You disguise your suffering well, I must say.”

She gave him a stoic smile that did not reach her steely eyes. “There is no point in complaining, Mr Quentin. Now, come along, Clarinda. You too, Lucy. I have discovered there is a shop where it is possible to purchase wheeled chairs. We have no time to waste. I really must have one. Mr Collingwood says his sister pushes him everywhere in it,” she added with satisfaction.