Society's Most Scandalous Rake

So it was that Henry Angelo had an early morning visitor the next day. The request was unusual and certainly unconventional, but he had a business to establish and an ambassador was too important a personage to offend in these early days. His school had already attracted the attention of those members of the ton spending the summer in Brighton, but Señor de Silva could prove useful in bringing new clients from the diplomatic circles in which he moved.

Summoned to an early breakfast, Domino found her father already at the table, seething with barely suppressed excitement.

‘What have you been doing, Papa?’ she asked guardedly. ‘You look like a naughty schoolboy.’

‘This morning I have important papers to clear, but this afternoon, Domino, we are to play truant together!’

‘And Carmela?’ Her cousin had not yet put in an appearance.

‘Carmela and playing truant are not compatible, I think.’ Señor de Silva smiled happily. ‘This is just for you and me.’

‘Not a picnic on the Downs?’ she asked in some alarm. Despite her resolve to be brave, she still feared places where she risked meeting the world and his wife.

‘No, no picnic. The wind today is far too strong even for the English to eat outdoors.’

Through the windows she saw the grey surf breaking harshly on the sea wall and spilling through the iron railings that defended the promenade. A few hardy souls, determined to complete their daily constitutional, were making their slow progress along the seafront. They were bent nearly double as they headed into the fierce wind, clutching wildly at flying garments.

‘Then indoors somewhere?’

‘Indeed. But you must probe no further. It is to be a great surprise!’

She had hoped to spend the day curled on the sofa reading some of the library’s offerings, but it was evident that Alfredo had made special plans and she was sufficiently intrigued to hurry upstairs after a modest nuncheon and change her dress. Choosing suitable raiment proved difficult, for she had no idea where she was going. Eventually she settled on a primrose sarsenet flounced with French trimmings: modest enough for an informal outing, yet not too plain. She quickly threaded a matching primrose ribbon through a tangle of black curls and joined her father in the hall.

‘We will go by carriage,’ he announced as Marston battled to hold the front door ajar. ‘The weather is far too rough to walk.’

Soon they were bowling past fishermen painting boats that had been pulled high on to the beach, past their women tending the nets and then past Mahomed’s much-patronised Vapour Baths, until they reached the end of East Cliff. The imposing mansions that lined the road gradually became far less in number as they travelled eastwards, but just before they reached open countryside the carriage pulled up at a small establishment tucked between two much larger white-washed dwellings. An arched wooden door painted in luminescent green beckoned a greeting and, even before they had taken a step out of the vehicle, a sprightly, dark-haired man bounded out to greet them.

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