As Lady Letty Stanborough stood in the garden listening to the rustle of silken skirts and the ripple of laughter, she was faintly conscious of the fragrance of the early May evening. The trees were touched with their spring greenery and in the air was the scent of violets. The grounds beyond the house in Dorchester Gardens were filled with guests gathered in honour of the engagement between Lady Letty and Stephen Du Cros, the South African millionaire.
It was a marriage of convenience, of course—everybody recognised that. The Earl, her father, sorely needed money; indeed there were some who said that but for the weight of Du Cros's influence his lordship might have found himself face to face with a judge and jury. It was impossible, too, that Lady Letty should care for her wealthy admirer—that cold, proud beauty seemed to indicate a nature incapable of caring for anything or anybody.