“Entered my bedchamber, bold as you please, pushed me onto the mattress, then… well, I can only describe it as to say she jumped upon me. Completely deflated my lungs and damn near crushed me. As I lie there, immobile with shock, fighting for my very breath, she says in a most impatient tone, ‘Bump your arse a bit.’ Can you imagine such undignified goings-on? Then, just when I thought I couldn’t be more astonished, she demanded to know why I’d never…”

The voice lowered further and Lady Catherine Ashfield, Viscountess Bickley, leaned closer to the Oriental screen that secreted her presence from the gentlemen on the other side.

“… This Charles Brightmore must be stopped,” whispered one of the gentlemen.

“I agree. A disaster of gargantuan proportions, that’s what he’s brought upon us. Why, if my daughter reads that cursed Guide, I’ll never marry off the foolish chit. Independence, indeed. Completely insupportable. This Guide could well prove even worse than the uproar incited by that Wollstonecraft woman’s writings. Nothing but ridiculous reformists’ balderdash.”

Murmurs of agreement followed that pronouncement.

Then the whisperer continued, “And as for the bedchamber, women are demanding enough creatures as it is, always wanting a new gown or earbobs or carriage or the like. ‘Tis outrageous that their expectations should extend to that. Especially a woman of my wife’s age, who is the mother of two grown children. Unseemly, that’s what it is.”

“Couldn’t agree more. Should I ever find myself in the company of this Brightmore bastard, I’ll personally wring his bloody neck. Tarring and feathering is too good for him. Everyone I’ve spoken to feels certain that ‘Charles Brightmore’ is a pseudonym, and coward that he is, he’s refused to step forward and identify himself. The betting book at White’s is a frenzy of wagers on the subject of his identity. Damn it all, what sort of man would think, let alone write, such unseemly ideas?”