Nigella took a deep breath, or tried to, anyway. The corset was laced far too tight for her to do anything other than inhale sharply, as if in a constant state of offence.

Thankfully, the seamstress her brother had procured had been more than happy to attach the materials Nigella had requested, although the overall effect was too flowery for her liking, Nigella was pleased to see she somewhat resembled the jasmine plant she’d spent the last month carefully cultivating.

The dress itself was made from green silk, the ruffles cascading down its front bent to look like the leaves, and the bodice was heavily embroidered with white petals. In her hair, Nigella’s maids had woven real strands of the jasmine plant, their petals precariously pinned in her mass of red curls.

‘Nigella!’ Her brother, Richard, bellowed from the hallway. ‘The carriage is here!’

With an extremely unladylike curse, Nigella picked up her skirts and raced towards the door, patting the halter tightly cinched round her thigh to ensure her equipment was safe. She wouldn’t have a tremendously comfortable sitting experience, but it was better than the house leaving emptyhanded. She didn’t intend to return anytime soon.

She was halfway along the landing before she had to turn back to collect her shoes – damn things. And she promised herself to swap them for a more comfortable pair, like her gardening boots, the second she was free.

‘Nigella!’ Richard’s voice grew more insistent. ‘Please, hurry. The ballet starts in twenty minutes!’

‘I’m coming!’ Nigella replied, teetering in her polished pointy boots towards the staircase, taking the utmost care with her descent. A twisted ankle would do her no good tonight.

‘Finally,’ Richard sighed, raking a panicked hand through his thinning brown hair, ‘I was worried I’d have to send out a search party.’

‘Your concern is noted,’ Nigella scoffed, gripping the banister with maybe more emphasis than was necessary as she navigated the steps.

‘You look lovely, by the way,’ her brother added, ‘don’t you think, lieutenant?’

Nigella risked an upwards glance and was left breathless, but not from her malfunctioning wardrobe.

The smartly-dressed lieutenant stood beside her brother, her deep-brown skin glowing in the lamplight. She carried a pith helmet under her arm, a decorated sword swinging from her belt on the other side. Her hair was pressed a little flat from the helmet, Nigella supposed, but still leapt from her head in two black buns.

‘Please, Mr Enfield,’ the lieutenant said, ‘call me Nahara.’ Then her eyes flickered up to Nigella. ‘You do look beautiful, miss.’

‘It’s Nigella, not miss,’ Nigella stammered, ‘like the plant.’ She felt her cheeks redden.

‘Please excuse my sister,’ Richard chuckled, ‘she’s plant-mad, if you can’t already tell.’

But Nahara didn’t laugh, didn’t even bother looking at Richard as he spoke. Instead she said to Nigella, ‘Are those Nigella plants you’re wearing?’

Nigella brushed one of the petals from her hair. ‘This is jasmine, I’m afraid.’

‘Of course,’ Nahara’s eyes widened in understanding, ‘I see it now. They’re supposed to symbolise victory, are they not?’ She smiled shyly. ‘We have them around the barracks sometimes.’

Nigella beamed brightly. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I’m trying to be optimistic.’ Then she held out the jasmine flower to Nahara. ‘For you.’

Nahara returned her smile, tucking the flower into her lapel. ‘Thank you, mi– Nigella.’

Nigella exhaled slowly.

Yes, tonight she would emerge victorious.