raged inside her between shock and anger. Shock that such a thing should have happened to her, and anger against Colonel Fitzwaring for having done it—the most dreadful thing that could happen to an unmarried girl of her class. She froze as the situation and the seriousness crystallised in her mind. It seemed, suddenly, as if all her innocence had vanished. Indeed, there was a fearsome new depth to life that she had never known before.
Delphine was the daughter of Lord John Cameron and his wife, Evangeline, and they lived in one of the elegant houses lining Berkeley Square. Delphine was on the point of letting herself in when, as if on cue, the door was opened by Digby, the butler Delphine had known all her life.
‘Good morning, Digby,’ she said, entering the hall. She had no doubt that, like everyone else in the house, he would be curious to know her reason for remaining out all night—and with not a word to anyone. God help her if the truth came out. ‘Is anyone risen, or are they still abed?’
‘Lady Cameron is in the drawing room. She was most concerned when you failed to come home last night and rose early. She instructed me to tell you to go straight in the moment you arrived.’
Delphine’s heart sank. She had wanted to bathe and change her clothes before she faced her mother’s wrath, but it would seem there was nothing for it.
‘I see. Then I shall go in. In the meantime, have one of the maids prepare me a bath, will you, Digby?’
Delphine’s mother was seated in her favourite chair by the window. Although it was still early, the day promised to be as hot as the one before; the room was already sweltering and her mother was fanning herself. Of medium height and slender, her greying dark hair perfectly arranged, Lady Cameron’s anger was palpable to Delphine the moment she entered the room. With compressed lips the older woman looked her over in a strained, suspicious manner and began wielding her feather fan more swiftly, a sure sign of exasperation. Its quiet swishing in the silence of the room jarred Delphine physically. She crossed the room and clung to the back of a chair to steady herself.
‘Good morning, Mama. I apologise for giving you cause for concern.’
‘Concern?’ she snapped crossly. ‘You knew perfectly well that I wanted you to attend my musical evening last night. Not only did you fail to attend, but you didn’t even bother to send word that you would be out all night! This is most improper. Where have you been? I demand to know. And just look at you. Your clothes look as if they have been slept in.’
‘I—I was at the orphanage until quite late. Two of the children have gone down with something. I stayed to help. By the time I’d finished it was too late for me to get home, so I decided to remain there the night.’
Her mother’s eyes narrowed with angry suspicion. ‘I do not believe a word of it, Delphine. You are lying; I know that for a fact. When you failed to come home I sent a footman to the orphanage to fetch you. He was told that you had already left. I shudder when I think of the type of people you consort with. Celia has a lot to answer for.’
‘It wasn’t Aunt Celia’s fault.’ Having been caught out in a lie, Delphine knew she would have to tell her mother some of the truth. ‘I—I went in search of a child who’d gone missing.’
‘And did you find her?’
Delphine nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘She—she had run away to be with her mother—at Mrs Cox’s bordello, at the other end of Water Lane.’
‘I see. So her mother is a fallen woman. And are you telling me that you actually entered that establishment?’
‘Yes,’ Delphine answered quietly. Her mother was a woman who had led a sheltered life in the exclusive part of Bath until her marriage. Her world consisted of daily promenades around Mayfair, shopping and sipping tea with her friends in the pleasure gardens, her evenings one long round of entertainment. She had never been to places like St Giles or Seven Dials, those stewpots of disease and depravity. She had never seen women like Meg or children like Maisie. She would never understand as Delphine and Aunt Celia did that Meg and women like her were driven to sell themselves on the streets out of desperation. She would never know how those women suffered.
‘The fist attribute of a lady is ladylike conduct, whether in public or in private, and conduct of all kinds must be governed by good manners. You, Delphine, have shown neither. Why do you have to be like this? Why can you not look to your sisters for example?’
‘I am not like my sisters, Mama.’
‘No, you are not. You are too outspoken, too disobedient—too much of everything, and you do things that no respectable young lady would contemplate doing. Courting danger, traipsing about the streets at night with cut-throats and ruffians on the loose and suffering all weathers.’
Delphine’s eyes grew moist with unshed tears. ‘Exposure to the elements is not suffering,’ she replied. ‘It is nothing compared to the pain of rejection. To be rejected by a father and mother for not being the son they had hoped for: that is true suffering.’ The words slipped from her mouth before she could check herself and her mother looked surprised and more than a little discomfited by her perception. Delphine felt as if a part of her had died. Her need to be loved and adored burned as brightly as ever, but her innocence was gone.
Pulling herself together with an effort, she continued. ‘I should not have spoken to you so, but your questioning has drawn from me that which we have never spoken of before. I have always been sensitive to the fact.’
Her mother got to her feet, her body ramrod straight, her head up. Her breathing was fast, her whole face alight with the force of her anger.
‘Your father and I have tried and tried with you, Delphine,’ she said. Her voice was tinged with sadness, but edged with self-righteous complaint. ‘We have done our best for you—given you everything. All you seem to care for is your charity work—there scarcely seems room in your life for anything else. I don’t know where it has come from, this fondness you have for simple folk. It may be counted a credit to your wisdom that you are fair and show consideration to them. Alas, this cannot hold true for those most near and dear to you.’
‘I am sorry, Mama,’ Delphine said awkwardly. ‘I do love you and Papa and all my sisters, but I also enjoy what I do.’
‘Sorry!’ Her mother’s voice was scornful. ‘Perhaps if you had been a dutiful daughter you would not feel so rejected. I am still waiting for you to explain where you have been all night. Am I to suppose that you stayed at that—that bordello?’
Delphine blanched and looked away. Lady Cameron came to stand in front of her and, taking hold of her chin, forced her face back round. Her eyes probed, delved into those of her daughter, trying to read in them the truth. She wrinkled her nose as though she could smell the physical contact. She knew.
‘You did, didn’t you?’ she asked in shocked disbelief. ‘Were you with a man? Answer me!’
With a pain in her heart almost too heavy to bear and tears not far away, Delphine nodded, unable to stop herself from telling her mother every sordid detail of what had happened to her. In the telling, she remembered when Lord Fitzwaring had taken her a second time, how she had stilled, knowing the struggle was over. He was the victor—though against a smaller opponent. She had known the relief of it, and in doing so had become aware of the smooth firmness of his flesh, his perfect body above hers, the strange attraction she felt for him and her own insatiable desire.
The end of tension from the struggle had given her a strange physical thrill. She’d realised with horror that despite her rigid self-control during visits to the bordello, she could fall prey to sensual delight as easily as the woman she had observed making love to a stranger; she had understood in that instant that men and women were drawn to each other for the sensations they could enjoy. If a man or woman found delight in the sensations, this was part of the way they had been created, part of nature’s law, and could not therefore be considered unnatural. But her mother would not see it that way.
Lady