Enoch frankly loathed these sorts of events. He saw no advantage to something as trite as gossip - other than its ability to highlight young ladies that were to be avoided, obviously – but he himself was above such base concerns. As such he had only attended this evening’s entertainments because to not be seen there would be worse than to endure a few hours of whatever nonsense this was.

He had been handed a note almost upon arrival and a cursory glance gave him the measure of how the evening was likely to go:

Your fiancé is not all she appears to be.

Enoch rolled his eyes. And then nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice spoke behind him and he whipped round to be greeted with a sight that immediately made the whole evening worth the trouble: Mariana Macnair, quite his favourite of the society women his mother’s age, though one he had always been obliged to admire from a distance given that, to the best of his knowledge, his mother was not especially well acquainted with her.

“I dread to imagine, Mrs Macnair. This one,” he held it out for her to examine. “Is certainly not mine.”

What did hers say, he wondered, offering her a rueful smile in the hope that she would return the favour of revelation.

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