From these materials, a good lean sensation novel might plausibly be constructed, but here they are diluted in a wash of inconsequential trivia about costume and weather, and in imperfectly pitched para-Austen pastiche. Reproduction clutter dominates this overfurnished, underventilated historical thriller. Bloodless and laboured ideas about life, language and customs in Regency England hold the story hostage and straiten the narrative throughout. The result is pure kitsch, studded with howlers. Laura’s journal records her secret hopes and fears, along with purchases of lace, satin, ribbons and muslin, and the muslin seems less flimsy than the psychology. Servants say things like, ‘I not be one for adventurin’’, while a learned lady amazes everyone with ‘a short quotation from Ulysses, in Greek’. ‘Sir Richard jumped up, upsetting a little table. “Oops!” he cried’ – and who could blame him? The Imaginary Gentleman wears the reader down rather than wins her over.