About the Author

ANNE O’BRIEN taught History in the East Riding of Yorkshire before deciding to fulfil an ambition to write historical fiction. She now lives in an eighteenth-century timbered cottage with her husband in the Welsh Marches, a wild, beautiful place renowned for its black-and-white timbered houses, ruined castles and priories and magnificent churches. Steeped in history, famous people and bloody deeds, as well as ghosts and folklore, the Marches provide inspiration for her interest in medieval England.

Visit her at www.anneobrienbooks.com

Also by ANNE O’BRIEN

VIRGIN WIDOW

DEVIL’S CONSORT

Puritan Bride

Anne O’Brien

Chapter One

‘And how long do you expect to be gone?’ Lady Elizabeth Oxenden, seated in the window embrasure of the library at Winteringham Priory, addressed her son.

‘Two weeks. Possibly three.’ Viscount Marlbrooke stood behind the desk, leafing through a sheaf of estate papers. He was dressed for travel, his cloak, gloves and flamboyantly plumed hat cast negligently on the chair by the door. ‘I trust that you will be quite comfortable during my absence. Verzons will see to all your comforts. And there is, of course, Felicity.’

Indeed there was. She did not care to dwell too much on the thought. The grey light that dulled the brocade curtains and barely crept into the distant corners of the room matched her mood perfectly.

‘I beg you will not leave me too long at Felicity’s mercy. I need someone I can talk with, without having to watch my every word in case it offends her sensibilities.’ She deliberately kept the tone light. She would not burden him with a need to dance attendance on his mother.

‘Would I do such a thing?’ He raised his eyes to hers, humour glinting, his expression one of surprised innocence. Studying the slight, pretty woman with sable hair, now heavily streaked with silver, he allowed her to set the tone and direction of the exchange.

‘Quite possibly.’

‘Find her something to do. There must be enough attics to clear out in this place to keep her from under your feet.’

But then I would be lonely. ‘What an excellent suggestion. Felicity excels at organisation. I will tell her you suggested it.’

‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. She would immediately balk at the suggestion.’ They smiled at each other, in perfect understanding.

‘I suppose, Marcus, that you will find the opportunity to visit Whitehall?’ Lady Elizabeth deliberately turned her eyes to the view beyond the window. Although she might wish herself back in London with its distractions and glamour, she found it difficult to hide her censure of some of the more extreme elements of the Restoration Court.

‘Of course. Do I detect a hint of disapproval?’

‘Well …’

Marlbrooke cast the papers on to the desk and moved with agile grace to sit opposite her. ‘You should know, madam, that it pays me to keep my name and person in the King’s mind. Charles is gracious and affable, but notoriously fickle. And since I need his favour yet for the security of my inheritance here at the Priory, I will pay my respects to him with due humility and considerable flattery.’ His black brows rose in faint mockery. ‘I find that I have become adept at it. Do you not approve?’

‘I would—’ she frowned ‘—if our esteemed Sovereign Lord were not such a bad example for any man to follow. There, now! I don’t suppose I should have said that, should I?”

‘Certainly not! Can this be his Majesty King Charles, our beloved monarch, brought back from exile, who has earned your displeasure in three short years? Are such opinions not treasonable?’ The gleam in his eye was most pronounced. Conversations with Elizabeth Oxenden were always stimulating.

‘Most definitely. Rumour says—and I am sure that it is true—that he lost one hundred pounds at cards in one sitting last Twelfth Night.’

‘But, as you should know, I do not gamble. Not unless the cards are definitely stacked in my favour.’

‘And as for that baggage Barbara Villiers …’

Marlbrooke laughed aloud. ‘And what do you know about the Lady Castlemaine? Have you been indulging in scandalous gossip again?’

‘Of course I have. This place may be some miles from London, but I frequently receive interesting news by letter. Some of it I could blush for!”

‘So now you are critical of our new King’s taste in women. Barbara Villiers is a very attractive lady. Ravishing, in fact. A riot of auburn hair, deep blue eyes. And such a figure …’

‘And such a trollop!’

‘The Villiers blood is as good as yours, Mother.’ He grinned his appreciation of her assessment of the lady who had installed herself so effectively as Charles’s current mistress.

‘That may very well be, but she is still—’

‘A trollop. As you said. But she has a passionate nature—and Charles is attracted. The lady has presented his Majesty with two healthy offspring already.’

‘And neither of them legitimate.’ Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘Of what use is that? The man needs a legitimate heir. My heart goes out to poor Queen Catherine—how she tolerates it I know not. I only hope that you do not bring home such an ambitious, self-seeking harpy as your wife.’

‘Mistress Lovell is not an ambitious harpy.’

‘Mistress Lovell?’ Elizabeth’s eyes widened, searching in her mind for the last name to be linked in liaison with that of her son. ‘I thought it was Dorothea Templeton.’

‘No. That was last month.’

‘Oh, Marcus. I wish you would not!’ But she could not prevent a ghost of a smile from warming her expression.

‘I know. But allow me a little freedom and pleasure. I promise that while I am at Whitehall I will neither gamble away my fortune nor bring our name into disrepute. Nor marry a trollop. Does that satisfy?’

‘I suppose it must.’

‘I shall marry soon enough and produce an heir to the estate and grandchildren for you to spoil.’

‘It is time.’ She hesitated and then broached the delicate subject that had been on her mind for some days. ‘You will see Sir Henry Jessop?’

‘Yes. It is my intention to go to Downham Hall.’ The humour immediately vanished from Marlbrooke’s face. ‘It is more than time that the matter was settled.’

‘And so you are fixed on this marriage?’

‘Of course. It is the perfect solution. For both our families.’

‘She may reject you, you realise.’

‘I doubt it.’ His shoulders lifted in the slightest of shrugs. ‘It is as politically advantageous for the Harleys as it is for the Oxendens. Perhaps more so. The girl’s situation is not enviable. Not everyone is as tolerant of erstwhile supporters of Parliament as King Charles. I am sure they will have suffered their share of slanderous gossip and malicious revenge, so I would be amazed if Katherine Harley did not leap at the chance of so advantageous an alliance.’

Elizabeth was compelled by good sense to agree. She looked at her handsome, charming, infuriating son who resembled so closely his father. And remembered the days when, as a young girl, she had been swept off her feet to fall headlong into a love that lasted until death had parted them. What girl in her right mind would reject Marcus Oxenden? Katherine Harley would be either a fool or blind to do so.

‘Would you not consider marrying for love?’ Her suggestion, for once, was tentative. It was not, she knew, a subject open for discussion.

Marlbrooke smiled at her, making no attempt to hide the deep affection between them, understanding her anxieties. He leaned forward to bracelet her wrists in a light clasp. ‘It may not be. I know that you adored my father. And he you. But such a blessing is not for everyone. I do not look for love in marriage. Merely respect, friendship if we are fortunate—tolerance if we are not. I believe that Katherine Harley will be more than suitable as a wife. Now, let that be an end to it. There is no need for your concern.’

Elizabeth sighed, but accepted from experience that there was no good to be had in pursuing the matter further.

‘Be kind to her, Marcus,’ was the only comment she allowed herself to make. ‘Her childhood can not have been quite comfortable. And tell her … tell her that I will welcome her here as my daughter.’

‘I will.’ She instantly knew that she had touched a nerve. His tone took on a sardonic note. ‘Many would tell you that I have no such finer motives, but whatever they might say about my character, it is not my intention to be cruel to her.’

‘I know all about your character! I would not accuse you of such things!’

He showed his teeth at her response. ‘But you are biased, my love.’ Then made her smile again as he raised her hands to his lips and kissed them lavishly.

‘Just try not to overawe the poor child.’

‘It was not my intention.’

‘No. But it would be so very easy for you to do.’

‘I will do my poor best. Nor is it my intention to punish her for past sins. So don’t fret.’

‘Very well.’ And that was as far as Lady Elizabeth dare push the issue. She stood and made her way slowly towards the door, now followed by Marlbrooke.

‘So, madam. What shall I bring you from the flesh pots of London?’

‘Anything?’

‘Anything your heart desires.’

A bride with whom you have fallen hopelessly in love and who will love you in return. ‘Books, if you will. Poetry. Whatever is fashionable.’

‘Whatever I think Felicity will dislike?’

‘You are too astute for your own good.’ Elizabeth chuckled, allowing her hand to rest for a brief moment on her son’s shoulder, smoothing the dense nap of his velvet coat.

‘I will do it, with much pleasure.’ He bent to kiss her cheek.

‘Take care, Marcus.’

‘Of course.’

And he was gone, leaving her to worry over a proposed marriage that had such cold expectations. A suitable wife, indeed! It seemed to her to be damned before it had even begun.

And now, a week after Marlbrooke’s departure, Elizabeth Oxenden made her way slowly and painfully through the Great Hall in the oldest part of Winteringham Priory. She leaned heavily on a cane, her knuckles white with the effort and her lips compressed into a firm line. Today she felt every one of her forty-eight years. It had been a long winter. Every joint and muscle ached with the persistent damp and cold. The flaring agony in her left hip caused her to limp heavily and doubt that she could reach the distant doorway without aid.

How embarrassing! It seemed such a short time ago that she had been able to ride with her husband, to dance until the candles guttered, to play in the Long Gallery with her boisterous son. She paused to rest against the heavy oak table. Her skin was still soft and clear, her eyes arresting with green flecks in their luminous grey depths, all remnants of her earlier beauty. But pain had left its imprint, strain had touched and deepened the lines around mouth and eyes. She felt so tired. Elizabeth sniffed in an instant of weakness and self-pity and tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

But self-pity was not in her nature. She would not call for Felicity. She straightened her spine and continued her clumsy route, surveying the heavy linenfold panelling and oak floorboards that stretched before her. They looked polished and well cared for to her critical eye. She did not to any degree dislike the house. She simply wished that she was not there. She would much rather be in London where her home was familiar, far smaller without the inconvenience of long corridors and vaulted ceilings and so, of course, much easier to heat and eradicate draughts. Where friends came to visit and cheer her through the dark winter days, where there were shops, and companions and entertainments now that the King had come into his own and made it clear that he intended to rejoice in his new powers.

Her own house in the country—not this one, but Glasbury Old Hall—had been destroyed in the war, razed to the ground after a year of bitter and violent siege in 1643. All her furniture gone, her treasures and her comforts, everything but the most personal of possessions, which they had managed to carry away in a night of frenzied packing and flight.

As for this house, Winteringham Priory, her husband had valued it greatly as an object of conquest. He had wrested it from the Harleys and taken it for his own in the same year that they had lost their own home. Sir Thomas Harley had been absent with the Parliamentarian army and his wife Philippa did not possess the backbone to withstand the siege as some beleaguered wives had done. And then Sir Thomas had been killed at Naseby—so young, such a waste … And so Elizabeth had come to live here, comfortably enough, if a little shadowed with guilt. It had seemed like justice, she supposed—if she could close her mind to the fate of Lady Philippa and the baby. But everything had changed so quickly. The house had been confiscated by Parliament under the authority of the Rump after the execution of the old King. And John, her beloved John, was now dead. Memories were too painful and Elizabeth would not willingly have returned to the Priory, no matter how magnificent its rooms, how valuable the estate.

But since King Charles had seen fit to gift the Priory to her son rather than the Harleys, here she was, uprooted from London and restored to this place of edgy memories and icy draughts. She winced and gasped in pain as she had to pull with some force to open the door from the Great Hall to the kitchen regions. It should please her that her son had the ear of the King, she mused as she rested again on a convenient window seat. But she wished he was here with her now, rather than indulging himself in the dubious pleasures of the Royal Court. Not that it was any hardship to him, to immerse himself in Court life, if rumour did not lie. Drink, cards, women, all the delights of the flesh—John would turn in his grave if he knew what Marcus was about. And if she remonstrated with her son, the love of her life, he merely smiled that particularly charming smile, his eyes warming his handsome but frequently unnervingly austere features, assuring her that there was nothing for her to be concerned over.

Raindrops ran down the window with icy monotony, blurring Elizabeth’s view of the formal garden and the distant skyline. She knew the landscape well, of course, had always known it. After all, the outer reaches of the Priory ran with the Old Hall on its western side. Once, before the war, their families had been close neighbours, friends even, enjoying each other’s company in hunting and evenings at home. She remembered Lady Philippa Harley, a gentle girl, perhaps a little weak, always afraid of criticism from those around her and with no real interest in the world-shaking events taking place in London and nearer to home. But pleasant enough for two young women to exchange girlish gossip. So how had it come to this—death and division between neighbours who once bought christening gifts for each other’s children? The War had a lot to answer for, and here they were, back with a King and Parliament, irrespective of the death of John, and of Sir Thomas.

The voice of Felicity interrupted her thoughts as it echoed along one of the corridors above, querulous and harsh in complaint against some hapless servant. Elizabeth struggled to her feet to make good her escape before she could be discovered. Felicity was not the most amenable companion in the world, but without doubt she needed someone. Some days she could hardly lift her arm to brush her own hair. Or even push herself out of bed. The fear of increasing pain, of growing dependence, gripped her with sharp talons. Oh, Marcus! Let me go back to London where it is easier to forget my infirmities, where I am rarely lonely. She knew that she would never say those words to him. He would listen and try to make life more comfortable for her, but he was determined to make his home here at the Priory and she knew better than to voice her dissatisfaction. She understood the loss in his life, the devastation, the driving force within him, and loved him far too much to stand in his way.

She struggled through the doorway to avoid Felicity’s approach, and turned into the passageway to the kitchens. As for this marriage … Elizabeth pursed her lips thoughtfully. She could understand only too well the logic of her son’s decision. Katherine Harley was the true heiress to the property, even if her inheritance had been overlooked in the present political climate. It would certainly consolidate her son’s possession, not that he needed it with the courts and the King’s pleasure behind him. But marriage … How old would she be? About twenty years? Elizabeth vaguely remembered the birth of the baby just before Sir Thomas had died. A babe in arms when Philippa had been driven from the Priory to take refuge with Sir Henry Jessop, her brother over at Downham Manor. What sort of upbringing would the child have had there? Little warmth and pleasure, Elizabeth imagined. Sir Henry had a name for staunch Puritanism, even though he might be a fair man. And Philippa would probably not stand against him in the matter of the upbringing of her child.

But nothing was settled as yet. It was all still in the hands of the lawyers. And what would the girl make of her profligate son? A slow smile eased the tension of Elizabeth’s face at the prospect. Perhaps Katherine Harley would be a true daughter to her, to replace the still-born child she still mourned after all these years. But what if she was a hymn-singing, Bible-reading girl, all duty and service with no love of music and pretty clothes? She shuddered at the prospect. Not all the legal intricacies would make her a suitable wife and daughter, whatever her promise to Marcus.

She hesitated outside the kitchen door and would have retreated if she had not experienced a particularly sharp twinge of pain from her hip to her knee. Did she really want to enter Mistress Neale’s domain? She was pleasant enough, a sturdy, capable body, elderly now but still able to run the household efficiently, but she was an old family retainer of the Harleys who had stayed put through all the upheavals and changes of ownership, like Master Verzons, the steward. Always polite. Always co-operative. But Elizabeth felt that, as a newcomer, a usurper in fact, she was an intruder. They could run the house and did not need or desire orders from her. They smiled. They showed all due respect. But she sometimes caught a gleam in Mistress Neale’s eyes—not unwelcoming, exactly, but assessing, even after all these years.

There was no help for it—she could not stand here for ever in this draughty corridor. She pushed open the kitchen door.

‘Good morning, my lady. Can I be of any help?’ Mistress Neale broke off her conversation with the cook, wiped her hands on her apron and approached with a quick curtsy and a calm welcome. The kitchen was warm, a blessing to Elizabeth’s chilled flesh, and hummed with well-ordered activity. Something fragrant steamed over the fire. Lady Oxenden would have liked nothing better than to sit and exchange news and gossip with her housekeeper.

‘Why, no. I thought …’ Why did she feel so inadequate? ‘I might take a look at the still-room.’ And Felicity will not find me in there! ‘I do not have the key. Perhaps you have it, Mistress Neale?’

‘Indeed, my lady.’ She took a ring of keys from her belt and selected the appropriate one. ‘Was there anything in particular you were needing? I can always send Elspeth.’

‘No, indeed. I am sure you have an inventory, but I would like to see what is still of use. I doubt that anything has been bottled or stored for a good number of years.’

‘No, my lady. It has been sadly neglected since the house has stood empty. My own preserves are kept here in the kitchen larders. Mistress Adams never used the still-room—she thought it too small and inconvenient for the storing and drying of herbs—and she had no interest in preserves.’

‘No. I do not suppose she had.’ Elizabeth sighed and avoided the opportunity to discuss the likes and dislikes of Mistress Gilliver Adams. Some of them were most disturbing and did not bear close contemplation.

She took the key and, since there was no forthcoming invitation to stay in her own kitchen, she closed the door quietly and retreated.

A blind passage led off from the corridor to the still-room. With stiff fingers Elizabeth applied the key and found to her relief that the lock had received some recent care and opened smoothly. The door allowed her entrance to a small room, lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, with a work bench along one wall and an old cabinet fixed to the wall in one corner. The only window was small, mullioned, letting in a poor, grey light. How long since anyone had ventured in here? she wondered. Dust and cobwebs covered and draped from every surface, as did the spiders, and she tried not to notice the mouse droppings along the surface of the bench.

For the most part the shelves were empty, but there were a few jars at one side, some with faded labels, most without. Elizabeth remembered enjoying this little space in happier days to store the products of the kitchen garden and the orchard for the onset of winter. Presumably it had not been made use of any time in the past decade. Above her head hung bunches of herbs, perhaps collected and put there by herself. They were dry and brittle now, too dusty for use, but the scent of sage filled the air as she crumbled a sprig in her hand and allowed the leaves to drift to the floor. She had seen that the herb garden was totally overgrown, but it would be pleasurable to resurrect it on warm afternoons in spring—if she could find it physically possible.

The bottles had dark, sinister contents. Possibly plums … or damsons—she remembered a particularly fine specimen by the wall in the kitchen garden. She would not care to risk sampling them after all these years. Perhaps she could get Felicity to help her take stock and clear out. It would give her something to do other than complain and read pious passages from her limited collection of books. Her eyes closed, the aromas of herbs around her, Lady Elizabeth wished with all her heart that she had her health back.

Finally Elizabeth opened the cabinet. On one shelf was a pestle and mortar. Beside it a sheaf of yellowed pages, perhaps a collection of old recipes, but nothing she remembered. Otherwise there was a general clutter of spoons, dishes and a cracked glass container.

She was about to turn away, somewhat disappointed at the cabinet’s meagre treasure, when it caught her eye, tucked into the bottom corner of the cabinet. It was a handsome pottery jug, quite old, undecorated and cloaked with dust, but with an elegant neck and handle. She had no recollection of this. There was no label that she could see, so she bent carefully to lift it out and place it on the bench. It was well sealed with wax and there were traces of an official seal stamped into it, but it was brittle enough to begin to disintegrate at her touch. She carried it to the window to squint at the imprint. Impossible to tell. She moved to replace it in the cupboard. Perhaps Mistress Neale would know more about it.

Felicity’s voice calling her name from close at hand caught her attention. It was enough to herald disaster. She fumbled, the pottery too smooth in her grasp and her swollen knuckles unable to keep a firm pressure.

She dropped the pot. It shattered on the tiled floor at her feet, sending shards of painted clay in every direction.

Elizabeth groaned in frustration and self-disgust. Now she would have to clear it up, whatever mess it contained—apart from having wilfully destroyed a handsome jug. Relief and some surprise swept through her, however, when she realised that, in spite of the stopper and the seal, the jug was, in fact, empty. All she could see around her feet were broken pieces of pottery.

It took no time for Elizabeth to accept that her hips and knees would not allow her to stoop to the floor to sweep up the pieces, however much she might like to hide the evidence. Never mind, Mistress Neale would see to it. Or even Felicity. After all, it was her fault, calling out in such a fractious voice that Elizabeth had dropped it in the first place. At least the vessel would not have been worth very much. It was not as if it was a family heirloom. Old, yes, but surely not of any great value.

As she closed the cabinet, Elizabeth was touched by a prickle of ice all the way down her spine. She shivered, experiencing a sudden desire to leave the still-room and take refuge in the warmth and familiarity of the kitchen. Nothing tangible. Just a natural discomfort, brought on by the cold and damp. And guilt, probably!

She closed the door, locked it, and retraced her steps to the kitchen—but she was unable to throw off the faint chill of unease. She resisted an urge to look behind her.

Chapter Two

The formal gardens of Downham Hall were awash with spring sunshine, the clipped box hedges spangled with diamond raindrops. An attractive prospect after the gloom of winter months, but the chill wind and threat of further showers was sufficient to deter any but the hardiest of gardeners or the most determined seekers of natural beauty. Or solitude.

The lady, protected by a hooded cloak, was oblivious to the perfect symmetry of neat flower beds or the impressive vista of rolling park land. Her attention was clearly fixed on the man kneeling at her feet.

‘Kate! Will you marry me? You must know that I love you. It cannot be a surprise to you after all these months—years, even.’ The urgency in his tone surprised her: her cousin could usually be relied upon to remain calm and unruffled in any eventuality.

‘I … Oh, Richard! Do get up! If my uncle sees us, it will only make matters far worse than they already are. Besides, you are kneeling in a puddle.’

Richard rose to his feet, but kept a tight clasp of Kate’s hands.

‘Be serious, Kate. Marriage could solve all our problems, whatever Sir Henry believes. Besides, I know that you love me. I am certain that I have not been mistaken in this.’

Releasing her hands abruptly, Richard pushed back her hood so that Kate had no choice but to look at him when she answered. There might have been traces of tears on her cheeks, but she raised her eyes to his with no shadow of uncertainty.

‘You know how I feel, Richard. I have always cared for you. When we were children, you were my magnificent cousin. In recent years … I have come to rely on you far more than I think you realise.’

Richard returned her smile, but grasped her shoulders insistently. Kate became intensely aware of the pressure of his fingers through the worn velvet.

‘Then if that is so, why are you so anxious?’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Why will you not give your consent to wed me? To allow me to approach your uncle?’

Kate sighed and turned away, forcing him to release her. She appeared to survey the distant landscape, but her violet-blue eyes were focused on unseen horizons.

‘You know it is not possible.’ she explained patiently. ‘Come. Let us walk a little. I feel that walls have ears and there are too many people in this house who are willing to carry tales to my uncle. And none of them would wish us well.’

Richard offered his arm with a graceful bow. They crossed the paved terrace and descended the shallow steps to stroll amongst the wintry flower beds. By mutual agreement they came to a halt at the centre. Kate wrapped herself more closely into the heavy folds of her cloak and seated herself on the stone edging of an ornamental fountain.

‘Are we far enough from the house now to be out of earshot? We only have these underclad nymphs for company.’ Richard raised his hand in the direction of the marble mermaids and sea horses, silent witnesses who continued to release sprays of water from their conch shells. There was a teasing note in Richard’s voice, but Kate did not respond to it. Instead there was an unexpected depth of bitterness in her immediate reply.

‘No! We are not! I can never be far enough away. I know that I should be grateful, but gratitude has a finite quality—and I have been everlastingly grateful for twenty years!’

‘Then marry me. That will enable you to live sufficient distance from this house to give you all the freedom and independence you desire.’

Kate shook her head. ‘But don’t you see, Richard? Independence is the crux of the matter. I owe everything to my uncle. So does my mother. Since the day Winteringham Priory was besieged and overrun by the Royalists we have been dependent on Sir Henry for everything. From the food that we eat to the clothes that we stand up in.’ She smoothed her fingers over a worn patch of velvet and pushed a frayed ribbon edging out of sight. ‘How old was I when it happened? Three months? I have no recollection of my own home. My father’s death at Naseby simply complicated an already impossible situation. For twenty years Sir Henry has fed, clothed and housed my mother and myself. His plans for my future can not be lightly disregarded. And then, of course, there is the question of money!’ Kate’s eyes sparkled with anger. ‘And the land settlement!’

‘But surely our marriage would help to smooth over the inheritance problem?’ Richard joined her on the parapet and once more took possession of her cold fingers. ‘You are the direct heir to the estate. We know that a female claim brings its own difficulties but, after my father, I have the most direct male claim. Our marriage would ensure that Winteringham Priory returns to our family where it rightfully belongs. I can not accept that Sir Henry will be so antagonistic to our union. It would also be an excellent opportunity to get you off his hands for good!’

Richard’s persuasive argument did little to calm his companion. ‘Oh, I agree. I know all the arguments. How should I not? I have heard them so often over the past three years since the King returned. But I’m not at all sure that what is legal and rightful will play any part in the final outcome. My uncle certainly does not think so. Oh, Richard! Why does it all have to be so difficult?’

‘Politics, of course. And, as you so rightly said, money.’ In spite of Kate’s obvious distress, Richard rose abruptly and walked away from her. She watched him as he strode to the balustrade which separated them from the sunken garden. He leaned his hands upon it, his back to her. The rigid set of his shoulders spoke of his frustration at his inability to solve the problems of a financially ruined and disgraced Parliamentarian family in this time of revival of Royalist for tunes.

Her heart went out to him. Her own father had declared for Parliament, but his death in battle in 1645 had effectively removed the Harley family from the political scene. Her brother Edward, a baby, had died of the sweating sickness before she was born. Except for local events her uncle, Sir Henry Jessop, had deliberately remained uninvolved throughout the Interregnum. ‘A sensible man stays at home and keeps his head down!’ became his frequently expressed opinion.

Time had proved him to be right. For Richard, of course, it was an entirely different matter. The Hothams had always held to strong views and strong actions, in both politics and religion. Simon, Richard’s father, had a reputation for uncompromising Puritanism and, as a military man, had become a figure of significant importance in Cromwell’s New Model Army. Sir Henry even suspected him of supporting the execution of King Charles back in 1649. The new King would assuredly recognise the name of Hotham as that of a sworn enemy.

And now the Royalists were back in power, which promised little in the way of restoration of wealth or political advancement for any of those who had chosen to stand for Oliver Cromwell. The pardon for all sins committed in the name of Parliament was the most they could hope for.

As if aware of her scrutiny, Richard turned and walked back towards Kate. The fitful sun glinted on his fair hair, which he wore curling on to his shoulders, and highlighted the worn patches on his severe black coat. He no longer wore the distinguishing white collar of his youth, but no one would regard him as any other than an impoverished country gentlemen of a Puritan persuasion. And as such, he could not possibly figure in Sir Henry’s plans for his niece.

Once more standing before her, Richard demanded, ‘What of your mother? Has she no views on your marriage? Has she no influence with her brother?’

Kate’s immediate laugh expressed anything but amusement. ‘How can you ask it? I love my mother dearly, but I can expect no help from that quarter. She is entirely dominated by my uncle. She will go along with exactly what he plans and will be far too timid to voice even the slightest objection. She fears argument and dissension more than anything.’

‘You clearly do not take after her!’ Richard observed with more than a hint of irony.

‘No.’ Kate sighed with a wry smile and tucked her wind-blown curls back into her hood. ‘It might be more comfortable for everyone if I did. I am, my uncle frequently states, a true Harley. All self-will and determination, and a refusal to listen to good advice. He does not, of course, intend it as a compliment.’

‘My lady!’ Richard swept a mock bow with his broad-brimmed hat. ‘I would not love you half so much if you were a meek little mouse. And were you aware that you have the most charming smile?’

‘Thank you, sir!’ Kate stood and swept him a regal curtsy, extending her hand for him to kiss, which he promptly did. Her troubles were momentarily swept away, a smile lighting her face with an inner glow.

‘You shine as the sun in my life, dear Kate.’

‘And you, sir, are a flirt,’ responded Kate with a delightful chuckle. ‘What would your severe parent say if he could hear you?’

‘He would say that it is God’s will that you become my wife and that we restore the Harley fortunes together.’

‘I fear that it will depend more on the influence of Sir Henry than on God in the end!’

‘Katherine! But that’s blasphemy!’ The glint in Richard’s eyes did not quite rob his words of criticism of her flippant attitude. ‘Indeed, my father is very strongly in favour of our marriage. He would welcome you as a daughter-in-law, as would my mother. Let me approach Sir Henry,’ he urged once more. ‘We cannot plan for the future unless we give him the opportunity to accept or reject me.’

‘You are very determined, sir. And persuasive.’ She took his arm and they continued their perambulations, abandoning the nymphs to their watery frolics.

‘Why not? I can see nothing but advantage for us. Do you agree?’

‘I find the idea of marriage to you most acceptable, dear Richard,’ Kate assured him. ‘It’s just that …’ She hesitated, then turned towards him as she made up her mind to speak. ‘If my uncle disapproves, he could rake over all the old bitterness of past years. And he might forbid you the house. How could I exist if I could never see you again? I have no confidence in Sir Henry’s compassion or tolerance.’

Before Richard could respond, they became aware of footsteps crunching on the gravel walk. Swynford, Sir Henry’s steward, approached. He studiously ignored the closeness of the pair and their joined hands. With an impassive countenance, he bowed to Richard and then Kate. His words were for Kate.

‘Forgive me, Mistress Harley. Sir Henry has sent me with a message. He and Lady Philippa desire your presence. In the library.’ He hesitated and then added, ‘Sir Henry would wish to see you immediately.’

‘Thank you, Swynford.’ Kate smiled her gratitude, picking up the note of warning in the steward’s demeanour through long custom. ‘Tell me … is Sir Henry aware that Mr Hotham has called on me … on us?’

‘No, mistress. I believe that he is not aware of this circumstance, although Mr Simon Hotham is with him now. I do not believe,’ he continued imperturbably, ‘that there is any need for his lordship to know.’

‘Thank you, Swynford.’ The steward returned to the terrace and Kate faced Richard for a final farewell.

‘I think that you should not speak with Sir Henry now,’ she stated. ‘I don’t know why he desires my presence so urgently, but I have a premonition that it will not be an agreeable experience. It rarely is! To discuss marriage now would be to stir up a viper’s nest.’

‘So you wish me to leave you to face Sir Henry alone?’

‘Indeed, it would be better.’

Richard was reluctant to release her. ‘Remember that, whatever happens, I love you more than life itself,’ he assured her. ‘I promise that I will always stand by you and protect you.’

The garden was suddenly silent, magnifying the tension between them. Even the blackbirds in the adjacent cherry hedge stopped their scufflings. Whatever encouragement Richard read in her eyes, he drew Kate firmly towards him and kissed her, first on her forehead and then, as he received no rebuff, on her lips. It was a gentle, undemanding kiss, a mere promise of future passion. Her hair, whipped into a tangle of ringlets by the persistent breeze, caressed his face as his arms encircled her waist beneath the folds of her cloak. She felt a flicker of response surge through her body as his hands stroked her sides, her arms and then reached to smooth her hair. It was an intimately possessive gesture, leaving Kate in no doubt about her cousin’s feelings towards her. Then, before she could respond further—and, indeed, she was unsure just how she wished to respond—he let his arms fall from her and stepped back, releasing her, leaving everything between them once more unresolved.

‘Then I will say good day, Mistress Harley.’ Richard had himself firmly under control and spoke formally. ‘Or perhaps I should say adieu.’

He bowed once more with one hand on his heart.

‘Adieu, Mr Hotham,’ Kate whispered in like fashion and held out her hand.

Richard raised her palm to his lips in a final salute, aware of her trembling fingers. ‘I give you my word,’ he affirmed in a low voice, ‘one day you will be my wife. You will belong to me. I will not allow anything or anyone to stand in my way.’

With that, Richard released her, turned on his heel and strode through the flower beds towards the distant stables. Kate was left to follow him with longing in her eyes, her heart beating a shade more quickly than usual. She had never believed Richard to be capable of such intensity, such determination. She traced the outline of her lips with one finger and smiled as she remembered the firm pressure of his mouth on hers. He was so certain. She wished with all her heart that she could be equally so.

Richard’s disappearance through the ornamental gateway recalled Kate to the more immediate situation. A small frown creased her brow. Whatever it was, it had to be faced. With characteristic squaring of the shoulders and not a little forboding, she turned her steps towards the house. It was only then that she noticed how the sun had been obliterated by dark clouds and the first heavy drops of rain were beginning to fall.

‘No!’

The single word hung in the sudden silence. Kate slowly drew in her breath, eyes fixed defiantly on Sir Henry Jessop, and waited for the storm to break. She did not have to wait long. Not even the presence of Simon Hotham, hunched and brooding in a high-backed chair beside the fireplace, could restrain her uncle from expressing his displeasure toward his errant niece.

‘No?’ Sir Henry rose from his chair behind the desk with a distinct air of menace. ‘Perhaps I have misunderstood you, madam?’

Kate bowed her head, but not in submission. She remained straight-backed, alone and defiant in the centre of the room.

‘No,’ she repeated it with commendable calm. ‘There is no misunderstanding. I will not marry Viscount Marlbrooke.’

Sir Henry thrust back his chair, which lurched violently, rounding on his sister who shrank back in alarm.

‘What’s this? Did I not tell you to instruct your daughter in what is expected of her?’

‘Well … of course, Henry, but … I haven’t … that is to say …’

‘I understand only too clearly, madam! I hoped that I could rely on you in matters concerning the welfare of this family. It seems once again that I was wrong. Is it too much to ask?’

‘But indeed, brother—’

Kate intervened to save her mother from any further distress.

‘My mother did not have the opportunity to inform me of your wishes, sir. I have been engaged with the housekeeper this morning.’ She risked a quick glance at her mother to plead her compliance with this obvious lie, but received no recognition. ‘But whether I was aware of your plans or not,’ she continued, ‘I will not comply.’

‘Indeed. It is high time you were married with a husband to teach you obedience and good manners since your lady mother has so clearly failed. You will accept Marlbrooke’s offer or I will have you locked in your room and whipped until you do.’

Kate’s eyes flashed with anger, her usually pale cheeks washed with a delicate colour.

‘How dare you! I have been obedient to your wishes all my life. But this is a different matter. My father fought for Parliament against the King and served the cause loyally.’

‘I am well aware of your father’s unwise commitment.’

But Kate refused to be deflected by the sly slur on her father’s memory. ‘He gave up his life for his beliefs at Naseby. How can I tarnish his memory by marrying a popinjay of a Royalist? A courtier who concerns himself with nothing but pleasure.’

‘You know nothing about him, girl! How should you? As for the rest, it is all history and must be buried with all speed. It will do us no good to hang on to past loyalties.’ Sir Henry might be too well aware of Marlbrooke’s reputation, but he had no intention of acknowledging it before his wilful niece. The less ammunition she had against this marriage, the better.

Kate turned to her mother in despair. ‘My father would not have wanted this. Would he?’ She sank on her knees beside her mother’s chair in a swish of blue velvet skirts. ‘Have you nothing to say to support me in this?’

But Lady Philippa refused to meet her eyes or respond to her daughter’s anguish. She simply sat, continuing to pleat the lace edging of her handkerchief, and ignored Kate’s grasp on her arm. Kate watched her in exasperation, wondering not for the first time how she could have so little in common with this nervous, faded lady who had given her birth. Her face was still unlined and her figure had the trimness of youth, but her soft brown hair, severely confined, and her blue eyes had faded with time as if she might slowly disappear from view. Even her grey damask gown added to the illusion that it was her wish to become invisible, to merge with the furniture and hangings. Widowhood had not treated her kindly. She needed love and support to bolster her self-esteem: her brother’s blustering spirit caused her to wince and cower. Even now she turned her face away from the intense emotions expressed around her.

‘Your father is dead,’ continued Sir Henry as if Kate had not interrupted him. ‘As your uncle, your marriage is now my affair. The war and your father’s death ruined us. We must restore our fortunes—and this is the obvious opportunity.’

Kate rose to her feet and swept round to face her uncle, seizing the obvious weapon for attack, to Sir Henry’s dismay. ‘I have been told of the state of our family fortunes since childhood. Surely the chief cause of our ruin was Viscount Marlbrooke himself? And now you wish to marry me into the Oxenden family. His son, I presume? I find the logic of this beyond belief and it smacks to me of hypocrisy.’ The sarcasm was heavy on her tongue and her direct gaze issued a challenge to Sir Henry. He picked up the challenge immediately.

‘Your memory is perfectly sound. Marlbrooke took possession of Winteringham Priory in 1643 and—’

‘I know it! Mother, how can you countenance this match? Surely the events of the past were too painful for you to lay aside now without comment? Driven from your home by the direct orders of Viscount Marlbrooke, unable to make contact with your husband, your baby son dead and myself only a few months old—how can you tolerate this?’

Lady Philippa raised her handkerchief to catch the tears that had begun to flow down her cheeks. ‘Indeed, my love. It is all true. But …’ she sniffed and blew her nose ‘… your uncle believes that this marriage will be for the best and will secure the Priory for our family. I don’t quite understand … but pray listen to him, my love. He is thinking of your comfort as well as the restitution of the family.’ She began to sob in earnest to Sir Henry’s evident disgust. He cast his eyes to heaven.

‘So how can my marriage to Viscount Marlbrooke be in any way advantageous?’ Kate demanded of her uncle as she abandoned any hope of a sensible response from her mother.

‘Your niece has the truth of it. I am unable to support you in this proposal, Sir Henry.’ The words dropped into the heated atmosphere with the sizzle of hailstones into a dish of mulled ale.

Simon Hotham had remained silent, his crippled fingers, talon-like, resting awkwardly on the oak carving of his chair. His pale grey eyes settled on his brother by marriage, fierce and uncompromising with a depth of contempt for the argument developing round him. Once he had had an enviable reputation as a soldier in Cromwell’s Army. But that was before the destruction of Republicanism and Puritanism, the two great causes of his life, and, after taking a bullet wound in his thigh in the Battle of Worcester, the destruction of his health. Now his once tall, well-muscled body, used to a life of action and authority, was bent and wasted, his face lined with pain. Now he found difficulty in walking even the shortest distance without the aid of sticks and rarely travelled far from home. Bitter disillusion, a dark cloud, now cloaked his every move and thought, his driving ambition being to restore the power and authority of the Hotham family, through his son Richard. Richard, his first born and light of his life. Simon’s fair hair was lank and thinning, his lips pressed into a thin line of austerity, his cheeks hollowed. Yet Kate saw Richard in his face and build and smiled her gratitude for his championship of her cause. She was surprised to receive help from this quarter.

‘I find that I must agree with Mistress Katherine,’ Mr Hotham continued, ignoring Kate and addressing his remarks to Sir Henry. ‘I cannot believe that you would even consider marriage to an Oxenden. It brands you a traitor to the name of Harley and negates everything that your sister suffered in her exile from her home.’

‘Forgive me, Simon—’ a nerve twitched in Sir Henry’s jaw as he strove to control his anger at this unwarranted interruption ‘—but this is not your concern. And even you must see that the marriage would guarantee to restore the Priory to us and our descendants.’

‘Perhaps.’ Hotham’s lips curled sardonically. ‘But would it not be better to fight for the inheritance through the Courts? Do you really wish to be beholden to the family of Oxenden, who despoiled the Priory in the first place?’

‘I do not see that we have any choice.’

‘You do. You know it. Let Katherine marry Richard. It is a union made before God. He is the direct heir to the property after Katherine—and marriage will provide a male claimant. That would sit strongly with the Courts. And it would unite and strengthen the family. I can think of no better means.’

‘I will not countenance that marriage.’ Sir Henry shook his head impatiently, but refused to meet Simon’s jaundiced eye. ‘I have no criticism of your son. Indeed, Richard is as fine a gentleman as I could wish to meet. If my own son had lived … But that is irrelevant. Such an alliance would not be of advantage to the family and nothing you say will persuade me differently.’

‘I would still say that Katherine has the matter correctly,’ Simon continued to develop his argument, ‘however much I might disapprove of her manner of saying it—such forwardness in a young woman is to be regretted. And I would hope that in marriage to my son she would learn to conduct herself with more seemly dignity and respect for those who know what is best for her.’ He ignored the flash of anger in Kate’s eyes as she strove to remain silent, but kept his own cold gaze fixed on her uncle. ‘But I agree with her that to unite with this Royalist family in the circumstances is despicable. I would have thought better of your sense of loyalty to the cause, Sir Henry. Do reconsider before it is too late.’

‘I will not.’ Sir Henry was not to be moved from a decision that had lost him some little sleep.

‘Then I have nothing further to say on this topic.’ Simon all but spat the words. ‘It is beyond my comprehension that … But it is not my wish to quarrel with you, Sir Henry, so I will take my leave. If you would arrange for my carriage … I find it difficult to express my displeasure in mild words.’

He struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain that attacked his twisted limbs, Lady Philippa hurrying to retrieve his sticks from beside the chair. He took them from her without comment and sketched a clumsy bow before hobbling from the room, his rigid shoulders expressing his intense disapproval.

Sir Henry sat silently for a long moment, contemplating his clasped hands, and then with the slightest of shrugs continued where he had left off before Simon Hotham’s departure. ‘It is a matter of inheritance and politics.’ He fixed Kate with a stern stare. ‘The future of Winteringham Priory is still in doubt. If your father had been more aware of his domestic duties and had been present to fight off the attack in 1643, this would never have occurred.’

‘But we did not give up our land willingly. No one could ever say that. Why should it not be restored to us now? Who can possibly have a better claim than I have?’

‘I am sympathetic to your family pride, Katherine, but we have to face the realities of the situation.’

‘Surely the reality is that the house was snatched from us: we were driven out with Royalist cavalry at our backs.’

‘Very true, my dear. And it became to all intents and purposes a Royalist estate, used by Viscount Marlbrooke to aid the King and his cause. Where do you think the rents went in the years before Charles was defeated? Why do you think there is no trace of the family silver? Sold! Or melted down! The result is the same.’ Sir Henry shrugged, extracted a document from a pile before him and held it out to Kate. ‘Here is the latest intelligence from London concerning the settlement of claims. If you can understand the legalities!’

Kate carried the letter to the window to struggle through the legalistic words and phrasing. The implications were only too clear.

‘I understand,’ she finally admitted with a sigh. ‘It seems that my inheritance will be given to whoever has the largest purse or the loudest voice at Court.’

‘Exactly. It will not be the Harley family, I fear.’ Sir Henry retrieved the document from his niece with a slight shrug. ‘A female claim is always unsatisfactory. And, of course, your father left no will, presuming that the entail would stand. If the land had been willed to you, it might have been different. But as it stands, there is little hope.’

‘What about Richard?’ Lady Philippa had recovered from her bout of tears and had followed enough of the discussion to see the possibilities for her favourite nephew. ‘Is he not the male heir to the Priory?’

‘Never! A foolish suggestion, which would be a disaster for the family. Besides, his claim is also through a female line, through his mother. But it is beside the point.’ Sir Henry threw back his head in an impatient gesture. ‘Marlbrooke is rich. He has the ear of the King. He has submitted his claim to the Priory and the Courts are likely to uphold it against us.’ He slammed his hands down on to the desk, sending up a cloud of dust motes to dance in the slanting sunshine. ‘It appears to be a hopeless case.’

‘Would the new King really be so unfair?’ Kate’s voice registered shocked surprise.

‘Ha!’ Sir Henry’s bitterness was clear. ‘Is it unfair to reward your own followers at the expense of those who took the sword against you? I think not. That, Katherine, is what I meant when I spoke of realities.’

He crossed the room towards her. He was still tall and upright in spite of advancing years, his hair showing only the faintest sprinkle of grey. His objective was now clearly to make amends and apologise for his earlier harsh approach to the problem. He stretched out a hand in supplication.

‘I’m sorry, Kate. I have fought hard for your rights. Not simply for the family, but because you have been the daughter I never had. It would have pleased me to see you re-established at the Priory in your own right. But we must now of necessity revise our plans to match present circumstances.’

‘I can see why you wish me to marry Viscount Marlbrooke.’ Kate’s tone indicated a dull acceptance of the inevitable.

‘Of course you do! You’re an intelligent girl. So come, let us work for a propitious outcome. What better way to restore out fortunes and mend our relations with the Royal Court than through this one marriage?’

‘I understand. Might I ask what Viscount Marlbrooke’s feelings are?’

‘That is immaterial. He has made an offer. It provides an excellent settlement and I will not allow you to throw it away. It is a political marriage and you should not look for emotional involvement. You will grow to like him well enough, I expect, and if you don’t—well, it will still have served its purpose and your children will give you plenty to occupy your time!’

Kate took another deep breath and threw caution to the winds. There was little point in doing otherwise. ‘I feel that I should tell you …’ she was angry to note the uncertainty in her voice but ploughed on ‘… I wish to marry Richard. I love him. And I know that he wishes to marry me.’

Any sympathy that Sir Henry might have felt came to an abrupt end as he swept aside her admission with an impatient gesture and returned to his chair behind the desk to take up his habitual position of authority.

‘Forget your cousin. And any of those ridiculous notions expressed by Simon Hotham. Richard has no claim on you.’ He began to shuffle the documents before him into a neat pile as if Kate’s announcement was of supreme unimportance.

‘But I love him,’ she whispered, struggling to prevent tears from gathering as she realised the strength of her uncle’s will.

‘Marriage to a Parliamentarian traitor would be less than advantageous to us at a time like this.’

‘Surely Richard’s family were no more traitors than we were,’ Kate pleaded in despair. ‘We have all been pardoned. How can you condemn him like this? Please let him speak to you.’

‘It is not the same at all. Simon was too close to those who signed King Charles’s death warrant for my liking. I would hesitate to discuss this in his presence—but it is none the less true. If there is a renewed demand from the Anglican Church to pursue a policy of revenge against those still alive, Simon Hotham’s name might just head the list. And where would that leave us, if you were married to Richard? It is not a situation I am willing to risk.’

Kate, acknowledging the truth of Sir Henry’s reading of the situation, found that there was nothing she could say. Sir Henry, sensing her hopelessness, tried for a more conciliatory tone, hoping to win her acceptance of a marriage that he had always known would be distasteful.

‘Come, my dear. You will do well to put Richard out of your mind. Look at the advantages in marriage to Marlbrooke. Wealth. Status. Recognition from the new King and a position at Court. You will be able to return to the Priory as your rightful home. You are twenty years old. It is high time you were married, you know.’

Kate shook her head, anything but co-operative. ‘I will not marry Viscount Marlbrooke!’

‘Then I have no alternative—’ Sir Henry was interrupted by the quiet opening of the library door. Swynford entered with some reluctance.

‘Well? I thought I gave orders we should not be disturbed.’

Swynford inclined his head respectfully, well used to his lordship’s peremptory tones. ‘Indeed you did, my lord. But a visitor has arrived. And I believed it best to inform you immediately.’

‘Well?’

‘Viscount Marlbrooke, my lord.’ Swynford opened the library door wider to admit the unexpected guest. Three pairs of eyes were riveted on the figure in the doorway. The unexpected visitor paused, supremely aware of his audience.

Kate received an instant impression of wealth and elegance—and of confidence. Marcus Oxenden, Viscount Marlbrooke, only son of the villain of her childhood and her proposed future husband, made a worthy entrance in the deliberate magnificence of full Court dress. Unfashionable as it might be, he wore his own hair, black and dense as midnight, fashioned to fall elaborately in ordered waves and curls to his shoulders. Otherwise he wore the latest Court fashion: a black velvet, knee-length coat and waistcoat, heavily decorated with silver embroidery and ribbon loops at the shoulder. Kate’s lips took on a derisory twist at the obvious French influence. His white shirt, visible below the wide cuffs of his elbow-length sleeves, was of the finest silk, as were his stockings. He had obviously made no concessions to the dusty journey from London. His shoes, flamboyant with black rosettes and crimson heels, merely added to his height and consequence. Light glinted on the jewels in his cravat; priceless lace cascaded over his hands. It was an impressive entrance and, Kate suspected, had been deliberately stage-managed to achieve maximum effect.

Cold grey eyes, at present watchful and perhaps a little judgmental, swept the room, hardly touching on Kate. He was younger than she had expected, perhaps around thirty years, but the fine lines around his unsmiling mouth betrayed a worldly cynicism. Kate swallowed as the pulse in her throat increased its pace, and as she realised that Viscount Marlbrooke was everything a bride could have dreamed of in the secrecy of her heart. He was tall, taller than Richard, broad shouldered with the muscle development fitting for a soldier and swordsman, and, of course, with the superb control and elegance essential for a courtier. His face commanded immediate attention in its austere beauty, not only the clear grey eyes but the planes and angles of cheekbone and jaw. As his hair, his brows were dark, his nose straight and masterful.

Viscount Marlbrooke, apparently unaware of the critical assessment from the lady of his choice, swept off his plumed hat and bowed with exaggerated, polished grace to the assembled company. He was, without doubt, the most handsome man Kate had ever seen. She sighed in disgust that this man who had dared to petition for her hand should be so outrageously attractive.

‘A painted popinjay!’ she repeated it, not quite below her breath, watching him bow towards her uncle. As he rose to his full height with a flourish of an elegant, long-fingered hand, he gave no sign that he had heard her opinion but instinctively, perhaps by the slight stiffening of his shoulders, she knew that he had and wondered momentarily at her temerity in antagonising this palpably dangerous man. All in all, it seemed of little importance that she hated him on sight.

Kate was immediately conscious of her dishevelled appearance. Her assignation in the windswept garden had done her no favours and had whipped her ringlets into a riot of curls. She feared that there were obvious smears of mud and dust along the hem of her skirts. As for any remaining tear stains on her cheeks … Kate fumed inwardly that he should have caught her at such a disadvantage on their first meeting, especially as, she surmised, his only reason for travelling such a distance from London was to look her over and assess whether she was worthy of marriage to a royal favourite! And no one, as she continued to view him with hostility, could believe that he had travelled any distance at all. Certainly not in that impeccable outfit. How dare he put her at such a disadvantage!

‘My lord!’ Kate was silently amused to realise that her uncle was flustered by the sudden appearance of their previous topic of conversation. ‘Please forgive our lack of welcome. We were not expecting you. Well, certainly not today.’ Not only flustered, but over-conciliatory. Kate set her teeth as she listened to her uncle’s determined attempts to secure this marriage at all costs. He returned Marlbrooke’s bow and then approached down the length of the library to extend his hand in a polite gesture of greeting.

‘I understood that you were expecting me.’ Marlbrooke’s response was bored, languid. It seemed that it could not have mattered less. ‘We have a matter of business to arrange. But, indeed, I should not need to encroach too far on your time or privacy.’

So, thought Kate. At least I know where I stand. A matter of business indeed! She caught her mother’s vague gaze across the room and was surprised by the sympathy for her plight that she read there. But sympathy would not bring her the means of escape. Kate smiled reassuringly, even though it was a mere tightening of her lips, and then returned her attention to the central tableau.

‘Permit me,’ her uncle was saying, ‘to present you to my sister, Lady Philippa Harley … Viscount Marlbrooke.’ Lady Philippa smiled nervously at her brother and the Viscount and extended her hand. The Viscount bowed low and touched his lips to her fingers. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Philippa. I believe that you were acquainted with my mother, Lady Elizabeth.’

‘Why, yes.’ Lady Philippa looked startled. ‘I had forgotten … It was many years ago, of course.’

‘My mother remembers your friendship with pleasure.’

‘Why … of course.’ She became even more flustered, casting a glance towards her brother, seeking approval for this friendly overture. She did not receive it and promptly lapsed into embarrassed silence.

‘And this,’ Sir Henry intervened impatiently and turned to Kate, ‘is my niece, Mistress Katherine Harley. She, of course, is the sole heir of Sir Thomas Harley, late owner of Winteringham Priory.’

Kate found herself, for the first time, being observed in such an impersonal manner that she felt a need to repress a shiver that ran down her spine.

‘Of course.’ Marlbrooke bowed again and Kate responded with the slightest of curtsies within the bounds of good manners. ‘Mistress Harley. I have heard much of your beauty. Allow me to tell you that it was accurate in every detail.’ No trace of emotion crossed the smooth features, no hint of a smile touched the firm mouth and his glance in her direction was cursory in the extreme.

And who could possibly have told you anything about my appearance? questioned Kate silently. He was certainly adept in the art of flattery, even if he hardly looked at her. She determined to give him no pleasure in her reply.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Her dark brows arched to express utter surprise. She ignored a warning glance from Sir Henry.

Marlbrooke appeared to be unconcerned with her cool response, but accepted Sir Henry’s invitation to sit, taking the chair beside the fireplace recently vacated by Simon Hotham and crossing one well-shaped leg over the other. Swynford was despatched to bring refreshment for the guest.

‘We were, of course, expecting a visit from your lordship,’ Sir Henry explained, ‘but hardly so soon. It has not been clement weather for travel.’

‘I stayed last night at the house of a family acquaintance, only a little distance from here.’ He shook out the lace at his wrists with a politely distant smile. ‘It was an engagement of long standing. It seemed to be too good an opportunity to miss.’ Kate’s raised brows once again registered his lack of enthusiasm.

‘Indeed, indeed.’

Swynford returned with pewter tankards of ale.

‘Let us hope that we shall be able to drink to the successful outcome of this matter,’ stated Sir Henry. Marlbrooke inclined his head in agreement as he accepted the tankard.

‘It seems to me a simple matter.’ The Viscount’s gaze swept the three players in the game. ‘Let us be honest about the possible outcome of the settlement of Winteringham Priory. We have both put forward a claim. It is most unlikely that the Commission will look with any sympathy on yours, given the history of recent loyalties and involvement in the War.’

Sir Henry knew that he was fighting a last-ditch stand, but rallied valiantly. ‘The estate belongs by right to the Harley family. It was not sold, but wrested from them forcibly—by your father, my lord. My niece has the legal right to the land. You cannot refute it.’

‘Possibly not.’ Marlbrooke remained calm and relaxed, sure of his ground. He could afford to be generous in victory. ‘The estate was sequestered from my father by the county committee in 1651. If you had made a push for the title then, it might have been a different story. As it is, my father compounded for the estate: indeed, he paid a far greater fine than the land was worth.’

Marlbrooke raised the tankard to his lips, drank, then continued. ‘For the past decade we have been excluded from politics and government until the happy restoration of our King. We devoted out energies to developing our assets. With considerable success, I might add.’ He smiled without humour. ‘I am in a far better position to bribe the Commission judges than you are, you understand.’

Sir Henry raised his hands, palm upwards, in defeat. ‘So. I have no choice but to accept the situation. I presume that you have not come here merely to gloat? What is your offer?’

‘All I ask is that Mistress Harley do me the honour of becoming my wife. I would not be so discourteous as to gloat,’ he reproved gently. ‘That will produce an immediate and satisfactory solution to any inheritance problem. She …’ he bowed his head slightly in Kate’s direction ‘… has the claim de jure, I have the estate de facto. What better solution? It is a valuable estate. We should not allow it to be harmed by interminable legal wrangling.’

Sir Henry looked with distaste at the composed and arrogant courtier before him. It was all too true, but it stuck in his gullet to accept it. ‘Very well,’ he stated, breaking the short silence. ‘Your offer has my consent. Katherine?’ He turned towards his niece who had remained silent and motionless throughout the negotiation, which had apparently settled her future without any reference to her own feelings in the matter. ‘You understand the situation. What is your reply?’ His fierce expression dared her to refuse the offer.

Kate continued to remain silent. What could she say? Her brain seemed to have frozen and she had lost the power of speech.

‘Katherine?’

Before the hiatus could become totally embarrassing, it was broken by Marlbrooke.

‘Perhaps I might be allowed to have a private word with Mistress Harley? I would not wish her to feel pressurised into this marriage against her will.’

A range of emotions flitted crossed Sir Henry’s face, not least the hope, quickly suppressed, that this arrogant young man would be refused out of turn by his volatile niece. Since the upstart Royalist was so confident, let him try!

‘Certainly, my lord. With pleasure. Perhaps, Katherine, you would care to show his lordship into the parlour.’

There was little point in arguing. Kate stalked out of the library, defiance writ clear in the erect spine, the proud carriage of her head, and into the pleasant panelled sitting room, which overlooked the front drive. She walked to the window where she turned to face her suitor, her back to the light so that it would be almost impossible for him to read her expression. Marlbrooke followed her more slowly, closing the door gently behind him.

The room echoed with a silence that neither party seemed to be in any hurry to break.

Kate stood motionless, acutely aware of her nerves stretching to breaking point, when Marlbrooke spoke. ‘So, Mistress Harley. You have had nothing to say so far about this transaction. I would be pleased to know your sentiments.’ His voice was soft but firm and Kate heard in it a command. She found her voice at last and was grateful that her anxiety was not evident.

‘Do you expect me to welcome this marriage?’

‘Hardly!’ He laughed gently. ‘But I do not desire a totally reluctant bride. That would lead to a most … uncomfortable relationship, would it not?’

‘So it would matter to you if I was pushed into this by family dictates?’ The surprise in her voice was clear.

‘Of course it would. I am no monster, in spite of any rumours to the contrary.’ Marlbrooke smiled slightly, a wry curl of his lips. ‘If you refused, if you could not possibly tolerate my person, I would accept your refusal.’

‘That’s all very well, my lord, but my uncle would not be so understanding!’ Kate was horrified to feel tears begin to sting her eyes and admonished herself at this emotional response to a practical matter. She swallowed and looked down, hiding her imminent distress with a sweep of dark lashes. ‘You are very kind,’ she managed in a low voice.

‘Is your heart perhaps given elsewhere?’

Richard! Oh, Richard! She shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered, acknowledging the guilt of betrayal. She could not tell him. She could not allow him any knowledge that might give him a hold over her. She dare not trust his sympathy.

‘Your mother appears to see no objection.’

‘She wouldn’t, of course.’ Her tone was bleak.

‘I see. So, do you accept my offer, madam?’

It is like negotiating a good price for a beast at market, thought Kate wildly, swept by a sudden desire to laugh hysterically. Finally she raised her eyes to his across the growing shadows in the room.

‘My lord, I cannot refuse your offer.’

‘Then let us be practical.’ Perhaps he had heard the vestiges of panic in her voice, seen the ivory whiteness of her clasped fingers. ‘The marriage will bring you benefits. I am sufficiently wealthy to provide you with all the comforts of life that you could wish for. If it is your ambition to experience Court life, then so be it. Most importantly, you can return to your family home and be mistress of it. You must have affectionate memories of it.’

‘I have no memories of it!’ she was driven to reply bitterly. ‘I was only a few weeks old when we were cast out. How can I see it as my home?’

‘Then perhaps it will become so with custom. Come, Mistress Harley. These are the obvious advantages. What is your answer? You cannot put the blame on my shoulders for events that happened before I attained my majority. I would make recompense if possible.’

‘What do you gain from this?’ Kate’s bald enquiry appeared to take him as much by surprise it did her. It prompted him to hold out his hand. ‘Come here,’ he ordered. Kate found herself compelled by an overwhelming force to cross the polished expanse of floor between them and place her hand in his. He raised it and formally pressed her fingers to his lips. She was instantly reminded of a fair head rather than the dark one before her before she closed her mind to such painful comparisons.

Marlbrooke raised his head, continuing to hold her fingers lightly and at last replied to her question. ‘Since we are beginning this relationship on a point of honesty, madam, I will tell you what I will gain. I will gain security of tenure of the Winteringham estate. No descendants of yours will make a counterclaim against my inheritance at any future date. Your descendants will, of course, be my heirs. Furthermore, the King believes that it would be an excellent ploy to recompense my family whilst at the same time making clear his concern for those of his subjects who had, unfortunately, committed themselves to treasonable acts against the Crown.’

So there it was. Kate felt the blood run cold in her veins. A business deal expressed in a voice totally devoid of emotion. But what else had she expected? She snatched her hand away from the Viscount’s light control.

‘How fortunate that such intricate matters can be settled so easily.’ She failed to control the scorn in her voice. ‘If it is also the King’s wish, then how can I possibly refuse? I should certainly never receive another such flattering offer. I perceive that I should be honoured that anyone of your standing should wish to enter into an alliance with my family in the present political climate.’

‘Indeed, madam. After all,’ he reminded her in the smoothest of tones, ‘your uncle was one of Cromwell’s closest henchmen. Hardly the best qualification for advancement in the circumstances.’

Kate accepted the implied rebuke—indeed, she had no choice. ‘Very well. You have persuaded me where my family could not. I accused my uncle of misreading the situation. He obviously had not.’

‘I am afraid not. So? Your decision?’

Again she turned her face away. And then, ‘I accept your offer, my lord. I will agree to the marriage. I must thank you for your … condescension.’

Marlbrooke ignored the barb and bowed slightly. ‘I am most gratified. Perhaps I should have added that I shall also acquire a most beautiful wife?’

Kate looked up. In the evening light his face was still clear. She searched his eyes and fine-featured face. And such splendid eyes, she thought inconsequentially, dark grey and thickly fringed with black lashes. But there was no warmth or encouragement here for her in her distress, merely a cold, calculating strength of will.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ She could think of nothing else to say. She kept her voice as colourless as his. ‘I hope that I shall prove to be a conformable wife.’

‘I am relieved to hear it.’ Did she detect a flicker of amusement for the first time, the slightest twitch of his lips? But then it was gone, to be replaced by dry cynicism. ‘I am certain that we shall deal well together, madam. I will inform Sir Henry of your compliance. I believe that he will be greatly relieved. I will also inform you of the necessary arrangements in due course when the legalities are complete.’

He turned on his heel and walked to the door, halting to look back once more to where Kate stood motionless before the leaded window. The evening sun gave her dark curls a halo of gold, but left her face in shadow. Marlbrooke hesitated, his hand on the latch, appeared to change his mind and calmly, deliberately, retraced his steps until he was standing close before her. Kate’s immediate reaction was to retreat, but before she could do so she found herself held fast by the Viscount’s arm around her waist. She caught her breath in utmost surprise and was considering the most effective way to regain her freedom when his free hand wound itself into her tangled hair to pull her even closer.

‘Look at me,’ he demanded and when she automatically obeyed, his lips sought hers. It was a brief, cool caress, a fleeting touch of mouth against mouth, as insubstantial as a butterfly’s wing, but when Marlbrooke lifted his head his expression was not one of total disinterest. Kate could not read the fleeting emotion in his eyes, but was aware that his grasp showed no evidence of loosening.

‘Well, Mistress Harley? Nothing to say?’

‘No. I …’

‘Despite my admittedly short acquaintance with your delightful self, I would wager that you are rarely lost for words. Am I correct?’

A flare of anger lit Kate’s eyes. ‘I can think of any number of things to say, my lord. But good manners prevent me from expressing them.’ How dare he mock me!

Her confusion obviously amused Marlbrooke for he laughed, a gleam of white teeth in the dusk, tightened his hold further and bent his head to kiss her once more. But this was different. His mouth was demanding and urgent, melting the ice in Kate’s blood whether she wished it or no. It was as if he was determined to extract some reaction from her beyond her previous resentment and reluctant acceptance—and she was horrified at his success. Her instinct was to resist him with all her strength, but she was far too aware of the lean hardness of his body against hers beneath its velvet and lacing. His hands caressed her hair, her shoulders, sweeping down her back to her waist, but all the time holding her captive.

Her mouth opened beneath the insistent pressure of his and she found herself responding to a surge of emotion that spread through every limb as he used the tip of his tongue with devastating effect to trace the outline of her lips. A strange fire threatened to engulf her, at odds with her inner fury at so intimate an invasion. In the ensuing war between mind and senses, Kate was horrified that her senses should be so easily victorious. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord to grasp his shoulders more tightly, to savour their strength … when suddenly she was free. As quickly as Marlbrooke had taken possession of her, he released her and stepped back. Kate found herself standing alone, her breath tight within her laced bodice, the only certain thought in her mind that this experience bore no resemblance to the one in the garden in Richard’s arms.

Ultimately the decision of what to say, of what to do next, was made for her. Marlbrooke executed a perfect Court bow with impeccable elegance and grace and a flourish of his plumed hat which he had recovered from the oak side table. ‘Adieu, Mistress Kate,’ he said. ‘Until our marriage.’ Then he walked towards the door, giving Kate the opportunity to recover sufficient dignity to respond with a deep curtsy and an echo of the ‘adieu.’

‘I had almost forgot,’ said Marlbrooke suddenly from the doorway. He halted and turned in one fluent movement, the folds of his velvet coat gleaming softly in the dying light. He watched her where she stood in the shadows and was surprised by the shadow of guilt that touched his heart. Hers was indeed an unenviable position after all, as his mother had intimated. She was very young and would be a mere pawn in the vicious game of politics and power being played out in this time of transition from one regime to another. And he was as much to blame for her present predicament as was her uncle. But he had to admire her spirit. He suppressed a smile as he remembered her defiance towards her family and himself. And remembered with pleasure the softness of her mouth beneath his when she had recovered from the initial shock of his touch, the clear translucence of her skin under his fingers. The memory of the scent of her damp hair, the sweetness of lavender with the sharper overtones of rosemary, tugged at his senses, surprising him with a tightening of his muscles in thighs and belly. He frowned a little at the unexpected response. Perhaps their marriage need not be as bleak and fraught with tensions as he had feared. Beneath the solemn exterior he might discover a bride of surprising qualities. If only he could make her laugh a little.

From the pocket of his velvet coat he produced a small package, wrapped in linen. ‘I had brought you this, to seal our bargain. Perhaps you would like to unwrap it when I have gone. I hope that you will like it. It belonged to my mother, you see, and she considered it to be suitable for a young bride. She treasured it when she was a girl, but sadly she can no longer wear it.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘I believe that she will like you.’

He bowed again with a final flourish of lace at his cuffs.

‘The stones will, I believe, compliment your eyes.’ His mouth curved with genuine humour. ‘A gift from the painted popinjay! Your servant, Mistress Harley.’

Upon which, he opened the door and left the room. She heard his footsteps die away in the direction of the library. As in a dream, she listened to the distant ebb and flow of a conversation, but remained where he had left her. Finally she heard more footsteps, then the slam of the front door followed by the beat of a horse’s hooves on the gravel drive. She stood at the window to watch the powerful figure of her future husband spur the gleaming bay thoroughbred into a controlled canter towards the gate. She watched until he had disappeared into the dusk and the sound of the hooves lapsed into silence.

Only then did Kate walk slowly to the table. She picked up the package and unwrapped the linen to disclose a small velvet box. Opening it, she studied the enclosed jewel—a ring, a fragile flower of tiny sapphires and pearls mounted on a gold band. She caressed the delightful ornament with one finger. It was beautiful. But then Kate shut the box with a snap. She had had quite enough of love and emotion and romantic gestures for one day. Perhaps Viscount Marlbrooke’s mother was a romantic lady, but she had certainly misread this planned union between her son and the enemy. And yet he had said that Lady Elizabeth Oxenden would like her. He had given her much to think about.

On impulse, Kate reopened the box and pushed the pretty ring defiantly on to her finger, watching the sapphires as they caught the final gleams of the day. You have committed yourself to this marriage, she told herself sternly. You will wear the ring. You will forget Richard and become a loyal wife. But you would be wise not to lower your guard before Viscount Marlbrooke. She closed her mind to the sudden vivid memory that rose, unbidden, of the possessive touch of his hands on her arms and shoulders, the imprint of his lips on hers.

She took a deep breath against the ripple of reaction that feathered over her skin. Choking down the sob that rose in her throat, she left the silent privacy of the parlour and prepared to accept the felicitations of her family on her good fortune.

Chapter Three

The coach shuddered, jerked, stopped. The moon, bright in a clear, frosty sky, illuminated the coat of arms on the door panel. Three silver falcons, more grey than silver in the refining light, wings spread in flight on a sable field. A device instantly recognisable in the vicinity as that of the Royalist family, the Oxendens. Then the coach lurched forward again at a faster pace than was sensible for the icy conditions, only to be hauled once more to a precarious standstill. The voice of Jenks, the coachman, could be heard bellowing instructions, spewing out curses and oaths as Viscount Marlbrooke leaned from the window. The horses were plunging, snorting, eyes wild, manes tossing, a danger to themselves and anyone who might venture near. Jenks hauled on the reins, uncomfortably aware of their volatile temper.

Foot pads?

Marlbrooke could see no one in the fitful moonlight, but it was always possible. Thieves and robbers, quick to prey on unwary travellers, had spread in the lawless months between the death of the Lord Protector and the return of the King, months when local government had lost its grip in many local areas and it was taking time to rid the countryside of this scourge. But he could see no one in the deep shadows cast by the stand of trees or on the open road before them.

‘What’s amiss, Jenks?’

‘Can’t rightly say, my lord. But something spooked ‘em for sure.’ Jenks was too preoccupied for long explanations. ‘God preserve us! Don’t just sit there, Tom. Get down! But watch that devil at the front. He’s got one of his forelegs over the traces. If you don’t hold him, he’ll have ‘em all down—and then where’ll we all be?’

He pulled hard on the reins, bracing his feet, but the horses continued to sidle and plunge on a knife edge of control.

Viscount Marlbrooke sighed, removed his gloves and shrugged off his heavy cloak and coat in anticipation of some intense physical action. Shirtsleeves would freeze him to the marrow, but they would be far more serviceable than braided velvet. It had been a long day of travel over poor roads and ice-edged ruts, but now he was almost home and he had been anticipating a warm fire and hot food, allowing his thoughts to wander. The moon had enabled him to recognise some of the local landmarks: a small copse, the old oak by the bridge, now missing many of its branches, the Wyvern brook. Soon they would reach the crossroads. If they turned left, Marlbrooke knew that Glasbury Old Hall was within an hour’s journey. But now there was no reason to travel in that direction. Nothing of value or comfort remained there. He had brooded in silence, eyes veiled by heavy lids, wedged into a corner of the coach. If they turned right, as they would, he would be at the Priory within fifteen minutes. Only Winteringham Common to cover with the village in the distance and he would be home. It was still difficult to think of the Priory as home. But he would work on it. The coach had slowed even more as it began its descent of a small hill to the parting of the ways. Marlbrooke had stretched his limbs in impatience to reach the end of the journey. Perhaps his mother would still be awake, certainly if the pain was bad. She would be keen to know of his visit to Downham Hall. To hear of his assessment of his prospective bride. What would he tell her? As little as possible other than that she was young and not totally unwilling. Indeed, there was little more that he could tell her, other than that the lady had dark hair. And a somewhat confrontational manner. And any number of decided opinions, one of them a devastatingly cynical view of the motive behind his offer of marriage! He had smiled a little at the vivid picture that came to mind, sighed and stretched again in growing discomfort.

Then he had been shocked into alert wakefulness.

Now as he watched Tom leap to obey Jenks’s orders, the Viscount jumped from the carriage to help the young groom.

‘What in hell’s name got them in this state?’ he shouted up to Jenks, who still wrestled with the reins. He grabbed hold of the head of one of the lead pair, preventing it from snatching at the bit.

‘Couldn’t make it out, my lord. Somethin’ over there, at the edge of the trees. One minute we was travellin’ sweetly enough—next, two dark shapes bolted across the road under our very noses, and then all ‘ell broke loose as if the devil ‘imself was after us. Begging your pardon, my lord.’

The horses began to quieten, enough for Marlbrooke to give his attention to the young lad—Jed, he thought—sitting next to Jenks on the box. His face was bone white in the moonlight, his eyes glazed, wide with shock, and his mouth dropped open. He was paying no heed to the crisis at hand, but had his gaze fixed on the group of elms next to the signpost. In his rigid fingers he grasped an old pistol, which Jenks had ordered him to take up at the first sign of trouble. His whole body was paralysed with terror.

‘What is it, lad?’ Marlbrooke shouted. ‘What did you see?’

The lad shook his head, witless, unable to speak beyond a croak. When the moon suddenly disappeared behind a rogue cloud, plunging them all into black darkness, it was too much. Jed shrieked and raised the pistol in a wild swing, causing Jenks to haul heavily on the reins, jabbing at the horses’ mouths.

The lead horse began to plunge again, pulling its harness out of Marlbrooke’s grasp. He cursed and momentarily stepped aside out of the range of the flailing hooves, dragged Tom to his feet away from any obvious danger.

‘Put the gun down, lad,’ Marlbrooke ordered, but was given no time to see the result of his command. The horse trembled beneath his calming hands and sidled in a frenzy of panic. The Viscount braced his legs, clenched his hands, now slippery with sweat, on the loose reins and hung on. There was nothing here of the effete courtier who had earned Mistress Harley’s censure at Downham Hall. The muscles in his shoulders and thighs strained as Tom risked life and limb to untangle the traces from beneath the deadly hooves. Sinews corded in his forearms and sweat broke out on his forehead as he fought to prevent them making a dash for freedom. Jenks continued to handle the reins with all the skill born of thirty years’ experience. Then their combined efforts prevailed. The horses steadied. Marlbrooke focused again on the source of Jed’s terror.

‘What did you see?’

‘Take no heed of the boy, m’lord. His granddad’s been telling him the tale of the highwayman, Black Tom, hung in chains at this very crossroads twenty years ago—until his eyes was pecked out by the crows and his flesh rotted on his bones. Jed thinks that he’s still hanging there, creaking and rattling. Or his ghost is lurking in the bushes.’ Jenks clipped Jed on the back of the head with a large hand and ignored the squawk of pained surprise. ‘And his granddad’s a fool for filling his head with such stuff.’

Marlbrooke released the lead horse with a final gentling caress down a sweat-slicked shoulder.

‘Ghosts and skeletons, is it? Now. Hand me down a lantern and let’s see what the problem is.’

‘Take care, m’lord.’

He took the lantern handed down by Jenks, lit it, and went towards the shadowed verge. He would wager he would find no footpads lying in wait. Or decomposing skeletons. And it was as he thought. He returned to the coach, handing back the lantern.

‘Nothing to alarm you, Jed. Just a night kill. A young deer who did not run fast enough. And the shadows you saw under the horses’ feet would be foxes, I expect, as we interrupted their feast. The horses would have smelt the fresh blood and panicked. Far more prosaic than a chained skeleton, I’m afraid. Take us home, Jenks.’

Just as he made to swing up into the coach again his attention was caught by a distant sound, carrying clearly in the frosty air.

‘Horseman approaching fast, my lord,’ Jenks confirmed. ‘From the south.’

‘And travelling too fast for such conditions,’ the Viscount agreed grimly. ‘We had better stay and warn him.’

They waited as the rattle of hooves drew nearer, saw a dark shape emerge from the darker surroundings and Jenks called out, either a greeting or a warning. The rider reacted and began to rein to a halt beside the coach. No one could have foreseen the outcome as the moon emerged once more to bathe the road in its stark and unforgiving light. Disturbed by the commotion, a hunting barn owl lifted from its perch in the elms to glide across the road, large and shadowless, its white shape and soundlessly flapping wings ghostly in the moon’s illumination. In a return of mindless terror, without waiting for any orders, Jed raised and fired the pistol.

Chaos erupted around them once again. The ridden horse shied, reared, plunging as its feet came into contact with an icy patch on the road’s surface. Caught without warning, the rider cried out and was instantly flung to the ground with bone-shattering force. The horse made off, maddened, coat flecked with foam, the moon glinting on the whites of its eyes as it determined on putting distance between itself and the source of its terror, but the rider remained slumped on the floor, a dark shadow, motionless. Jenks once again, with renewed oaths, became engaged in a struggle for control of his restless team as they reacted to the sharp crack of the pistol above their heads, ordering Tom to look lively whilst berating Jed in colourful terms for his gormless stupidity.

This left Marlbrooke, the horses once again manageable, if it was possible to ignore their bloodshot eyes and fiery nostrils, to approach the still figure on the road. He crouched beside it. A young man, perhaps little more than a youth, as far as he could see. It was too dark to assess any real damage, but he ran gentle hands over the prone limbs to determine any obvious injuries. There seemed to be none, although one arm felt to be swelling under his searching fingers. Probably a blow to the head had caused the unconsciousness, he presumed. He pushed aside the rider’s hat and gently turned the pale waxen features to the searching moonlight. His hand came away dark with blood and there were clear signs of bruising on the temple and above the eye. Marlbrooke grimaced. If the wound had been caused by the horse’s hoof, then matters might indeed be serious. But however dangerous or life threatening the injuries, they could do nothing for the rider here.

Tom was hovering at his shoulder and moved to kneel beside the still figure. ‘Mr Jenks says we should get out of ‘ere, my lord, as soon as may be. While the horses are quiet. They’re still spooky.’

‘Very well, Tom. You’ve done well tonight. You’ll have to help me here.’ Marlbrooke rose to his feet and gave the young groom an encouraging grasp of his shoulder. ‘I think he’s sound enough apart from a bang on the head, although his arm might be broken. Help me get him into the coach as gently as we can. I doubt he’ll weigh much. We’ll deal with this at the Priory.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tom stood tall under the praise, swallowing his nerves.

They wrapped the still figure in Marlbrooke’s cloak to cushion the limbs against any further blows. Then between them they manoeuvred him into the coach where they wedged him onto the seat.

‘Right, Jenks.’ The Viscount nodded to his coachman as he pulled on his coat and gloves once more and Tom swung back into his seat on the coach. ‘Let’s get to the Priory before our young man dies on us. It’s been a long day.’ He moved to grasp the open coach door and then turned back. ‘On second thoughts—’ he held out an imperative hand ‘—give me that pistol, Jed. On balance you’re more of a danger than any ghostly highwayman or passing footpad.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir’ The moonlight failed to hide Jed’s blushes or his sheepish smile as Tom nudged him and Jenks guffawed. The tale would not lose in its retelling in the stables over the coming months.

Marlbrooke dropped the pistol into his pocket with an answering grin. ‘The Priory, then!’

Master Oliver Verzons, steward of Winteringham Priory for as far back as any of the local families could remember, swung open the great oak door at the sound of the approaching coach. He was a stern, austere figure, clad in unrelieved black, his dignity a testimony to his position of trust and responsibility. His white collar and cuffs, seemly and precise with no hint of decoration, were as immaculate as when first donned that morning, despite the late hour.

‘Good evening, my lord. Can I be of any assistance?’ He stood back into the entrance hall as Viscount Marlbrooke carried the inert cloaked form up the shallow flight of steps.

‘Verzons!’ Marlbrooke conserved his breath until he had lowered the young man to the high-backed oak settle beside the door. He flexed the taut muscles in his back and arms with a grimace before turning to his steward, struck anew by the incongruity of the situation. Why Verzons would have been prepared to remain in service at the Priory under Royalist authority was beyond his understanding, unless loyalty to the estate took precedence over loyalty to family. Or perhaps he hoped and prayed that God would deal out justice with a fair hand and one day a Harley would return and oust the hated Oxendens. Meanwhile, he would keep faith and oversee the estate to the best of his ability, which was considerable. Whatever the reason, he had proved to be an excellent steward and Marlbrooke could see no need to trouble himself further over any dubious motives that Verzons might secretly nurture. As ever, he rose to the occasion, no matter how unusual the circumstances.

‘Is the young man badly injured? I can fetch Elspeth from the kitchen if you deem it necessary.’ Verzons bent over the settle with some concern.

‘No. I think not.’ Marlbrooke stripped off his gloves and shrugged out of his coat for the second time that night and handed them to his steward. ‘He fell from his horse at the Common crossroads and hit his head. There is no need, I think, to disturb the rest of the household at this hour. I’ll carry him up to one of the bedrooms if you would send some cloths and warm water, and some wine—for me, if not for him.’

‘Certainly, my lord. And there is food prepared when you are ready.’

Marlbrooke nodded. ‘Is my mother still awaiting me?’

‘No, my lord. Lady Elizabeth retired some little time ago. I believe she has not been well today. Mistress Felicity is, I understand, still in the parlour.’

The Viscount grimaced in recognition of his steward’s bland expression. ‘We will not disturb her!’

‘Certainly not, my lord. It will not be necessary.’ Verzons bowed his understanding and vanished into the shadowy fastness of the house.

Groaning at the strain on his tired muscles, the Viscount bent and lifted the youth, climbed steadily up the main staircase and shouldered his way into the first unoccupied bedroom on the first floor. The lad might not be heavy, but the events of the night were beginning to take their toll. The room was cold and barely furnished, not from neglect rather than simply long unoccupancy, but the bed had fresh linen and newly laundered curtains and a fire had been thoughtfully laid in the hearth. The panelled walls had been recently polished, as had the floor. There was a pleasant pervading scent of beeswax and herbs. As he thankfully deposited his burden on the bed, a servant arrived with candles.

‘Robert!’ Marlbrooke smiled his thanks. ‘Perhaps you would light the fire. Even the mice could die of cold in here.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Robert grinned as he knelt to comply. ‘Master Verzons asked if he should send up food?’

‘No. Not yet. Let’s see how much damage the lad has done to himself.’

He took a candle and placed it by the bed as he freed the youth from his enveloping cloak. He had been correct in his first assessment. He was indeed young with a light frame and slender build. His face was ashen, waxy in texture, which roused Marlbrooke’s immediate fears, but his fingers were able to detect a faint but steady pulse beneath his jawline. The short dark hair was matted with blood from a deep gash to the skull. Marlbrooke investigated with gentle fingers. It had bled copiously, as did all head wounds, but was now beginning to clot. A deep bruise was developing on the forehead and temple where the stony surface of the road had made hard contact and removed a layer of skin in a deep graze. The collar and sleeve of his jacket, as well as the sleeveless jerkin worn over it, were soaked with blood, but hopefully from the head wound only. He appeared to be otherwise unharmed, but the shallow breathing worried Marlbrooke—a blow to the head from a horse’s hoof could be fatal, but there was nothing to be done in the short term but clean the wound and wait for time and nature to take its course.

But who was he? His clothes were of good quality, if plain and serviceable. Most likely from a local gentry family—of Puritan inclination, since there was none of the lace and ribbons adopted by Royalists. The jacket was buttoned to the neck over the now bloodstained linen shirt. His leather boots were worn, but soft and well made. No clues here. The pockets of his coat, quickly searched, yielded nothing to identify the traveller.

With deft movements, as gently as possible, Marlbrooke manoeuvred the boy’s arms out of his coat. No signs of further wounds were apparent apart from an angry swollen wrist that was probably nothing more than a bad sprain. Elspeth could dress it on the morrow. He pulled off and discarded the boots. No sprains or broken bones. He ripped open the ties at the neck of the stained linen shirt, hoping that the blood here was merely from the head wound and nothing more sinister.

And his fingers froze.

Exposed before him in the flickering light from the candle were the unmistakable delicate bones and obvious form of a young girl. He took a deep breath and expelled the air slowly as realisation hit him. Small firm breasts with exquisite pink nipples. Sharp collar bones. Fragile shoulders. A tapering waist, the ribcage visible under the skin. Skin as pale and silken as any that could fill a man’s dreams or fantasies. He drew a fingertip along one delicate collarbone in a whisper-soft caress. She reminded him for all the world of a fledgling tipped from its nest by some malignant force. He sighed, touched by compassion, before drawing together the edges of the shirt with great care and respect for her modesty.

The Viscount lifted the candle to give his attention to her face. With knowledge it was distinctly feminine. It was an arresting face, cast into clear relief by the short revealing hair, which, with hindsight, showed signs of being inexpertly hacked off at back and sides with a less than sharp blade. Long dark lashes, well marked brows, a straight nose. Her face was relaxed, but shadows marked the fragile skin beneath her eyes and the bruising on her temple was outrageous. As he pushed her hair gently back from her temples he noted its tendency to curl round his fingers. Her hands, which he lifted and turned over in his own, were fine boned, long fingered and clearly those of a well-born lady. This was not a girl who had worked for her living on the land or in the kitchen. As he released them he felt a strange tug at his senses. She was beautiful. How could he possibly have thought that she was a boy? He touched her cheek, so pale, so soft, with the back of his hand.

The girl opened her eyes. They were a deep blue, the colour of delphiniums, and now almost indigo with pain and confusion. They were blurred, uncomprehending, as they moved searchingly over her line of vision. Then her gaze stopped and focused on his face. Suddenly they were filled with fear, a nameless terror. Tears gathered and began to trickle down her cheeks into the pillow and her ravaged hair. She said nothing.

He was caught in that blue gaze for the length of a slow heartbeat, trapped in their sapphire depths, unable to do anything but wipe away the spangled drops from her cheeks.

‘Don’t cry,’ he murmured. ‘You are quite safe here. There is no one to hurt you here.’ What terrible circumstance could have driven her to cut her hair and ride the perilous roads at the dead of night dressed as a boy?

The girl gave no recognition that she had heard him. She closed her eyes as if to shut out a world that threatened to engulf her in nameless horrors.

Marlbrooke swallowed and rose to his feet from his seat on the edge of the bed. He turned to the hovering servant, who was as yet unaware of the deception unfolding in the quiet room.

‘Has he come round, my lord? Doesn’t look too good, does he?’

‘No, Robert. He does not. If you would rouse Mistress Neale with my apologies, ask her to come with all speed. It would seem that I need help here.’

The Viscount lifted and spread the embroidered bedcover over the still figure and stood, hands on hips, looking down on her. Then he moved to the chair by the struggling fire to wait. But he could not take his eyes from her.

Chapter Four

‘Good morning, madam. You look well. And remarkably fetching in rose silk. Is it new? Ah, Felicity … I have brought you the books you requested. I believe that Verzons will have taken them from Jenks last night and have them in his keeping. And these—’ holding out a number of slim volumes to Lady Elizabeth with guileless grace ‘—should keep you entertained and make your heart beat a little faster, my lady.’

The ladies were seated in the magnificent library at Winteringham Priory. Chairs had been placed for them in the window embrasure where the light was good and a fire crackled beside them in the hearth. Warmth and light glowed on the leather-and-gold volumes and reflected softly from the polished oak table on which lay a quantity of embroidery silks and pieces of tapestry.

‘I see you have not lost your capacity to charm in your absence,’ Elizabeth responded in dry tones, but smiled with quiet pleasure as she returned his light kiss on her cheek. ‘Did the delicious Mistress Lovell not attempt to detain you at Court?’

‘Why, no. Your gossip is distinctly out of date, my dear.’ The Viscount’s eyes, so like his mother’s, held a decided twinkle. ‘The delicious Mistress Lovell has decided to cast her eyes and fortunes higher than a mere Viscount. She was fluttering her remarkable eyelashes in the King’s direction when I made my departure. And he was showing a distinct and lamentable tendency to engage her in conversation whenever their paths crossed. Which was frequently. Lady Castlemaine is even now sharpening her claws.’

‘I hope that she will not live to regret it! Or perhaps I do. Such a rapacious female in spite of her undeniable beauty.’

‘I doubt that Charles will notice her avarice as long as he has access to her equally desirable physical charms. I do not believe that she will have to wait long for him to accept her offers.’

‘How demeaning for you, dear Marcus …’ Elizabeth chuckled ‘… to be thrown over for the King!’

Felicity sniffed, lips downturned in disapproval. ‘Really, Marcus. Such disloyalty to your King!’ She frowned at Elizabeth, but directed her censorious gaze at the Viscount. ‘We have been expecting your return any time this past fortnight, have we not, dearest Elizabeth? Your long absence has been a severe trial to your mother—and a source of grave concern. We hear such tales of footpads and robbers, as Elizabeth will tell you. Could you not have sent us word of your safety and intentions? Then your mother’s mind would have been put at rest—you must agree, dearest Elizabeth!’

Elizabeth Oxenden suppressed a sigh, refusing to comply with her cousin. She shook her head slightly to deflect any sharp remark that Marlbrooke might be tempted to make in reply, a rueful smile touching her lips as she met her son’s sardonic gaze. Secretly Elizabeth was delighted that Marlbrooke had returned home and even more so that he should have noticed her extra care with her appearance that morning. Crippled she might be, but she retained a young woman’s interest in fashion and the latest styles at Court. Living in London had some distinct advantages. The deep rose of her full skirts and boned bodice compensated for the lack of colour in her cheeks. The lace edge at collar and cuffs was truly exquisite, if a trifle expensive. It was no good Felicity lecturing her on the sin of vanity. She enjoyed fashion and would do so until the day she died! If Felicity would only take more interest in her own appearance, she might be far more content with life. How could anyone be other than sour dressed in a gown of such unfashionable dark-green watered silk, and at least twenty years old? And with only the minimum of decoration. Felicity, an angular lady of more advanced years and thin features, grey hair scraped unbecomingly beneath a lace cap, managed a tight smile and dropped a small curtsy as the Viscount bowed politely to her and took the time and courtesy to salute her hand.

‘So what have you been doing in my absence? Nothing scandalous, I presume, or Verzons would have informed me on my arrival.’ He picked up a length of tapestry that had slipped to the floor. ‘More bed hangings? You could soon furnish Hampton Court! Have you been well?’

Lady Elizabeth could not prevent her lips curving in a smile.

‘I find the cold weather attacks my fingers—’ she hid her swollen joints from his hawk-like gaze in her lap ‘—but I shall come about with the warmer days.’ She deliberately kept her voice light. How could she tell him of the pain that kept her awake and prevented her from doing all the things she had loved to do in the past? Her embroidery was a nightmare of perseverance and she dare no longer approach the spinet. The snowdrops and daffodils in the gardens bloomed without her care.

But, indeed, she did not need to tell him. He had already discerned the fine lines around her eyes—were they perhaps deeper than when he had left?—and the haunted glaze of pain in her eyes.

‘I know you would wish to return to London, ma’am.’ He was as forthright as ever in his dealings with her. ‘I think you are lonely here and would far rather enjoy the visits of friends and the Court gossip. But if you could agree to remain here at the Priory until arrangements for my marriage are finalised and the bride has arrived, then I would willingly transport you back to town again. Can you bear it for a little longer?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled as he bent to brush her fingers with his lips. She could not hide the obvious signs of suffering any longer and did not attempt to. She adored her handsome son, and, even if not blind to his faults, she was aware of his love and concern for her well-being. But if she was unwilling to tell him of the pain, how could she possibly explain to him her growing discomfort in this house, a house which he prized above all things? She had not felt it when she had first arrived—of that she was certain. But it had developed gradually in recent days. The sensation that her footsteps were being watched, if not actually followed, by a silent presence—a presence that chilled the air with the keen edge of winter frost. And brought with it such a sense of despair, of utter misery, enough to touch her own emotions in reluctant sympathy, almost to reduce her to tears. The word haunted did not seem too extreme. She could not, would not, admit that her sleep was disturbed not only by physical discomfort, but by a fear of what might lurk in the shadows in the corner of her room. Of every room. He would think she was fanciful in the extreme and merely making excuses to escape back to the city.

‘Well, tell me.’ She mentally admonished herself and turned the conversation into happier channels. ‘Tell me what she is like. Katherine Harley. Will I like her?’

‘I expect so. You are predisposed to like everyone!’

‘That makes me sound witless!’ she complained with a wry twist of her lips and not a little impatience. ‘Is she pretty?’

‘I don’t really know,’ he answered with a slight frown, surprising her. ‘I only saw her once and she looked dishevelled, as if she had come in out of a rainstorm. And she scowled at me for most of the interview.’

‘Oh, dear! Were you not made welcome? Surely Sir Henry was expecting you!’

‘I suppose the answer has to be no and no.’ Marlbrooke’s expression and voice had a derisive edge as he remembered the reaction of the household at Downham Hall. ‘Sir Henry was discomfited and flustered at having to enter into such close dealings with a Royalist. Lady Philippa withdrew into nervous silence and flinched every time I looked in her direction. My prospective bride could in all truth be described as hostile and likened me in a most uncomplimentary way to a frippery bird, without pretence to style or elegance! And they would all have willingly consigned me to the devil.’

‘So?’ Elizabeth failed to suppress a smile at the picture, wilfully ignoring Felicity’s snort of disapproval at the whole distasteful situation. ‘Do you then still intend to pursue the match? Apart from the hostility, was Katherine pretty enough to tempt you into the married state?’

‘I have to admit that the lack of candles—in the interest of economy, I presume—and the growing dusk made it difficult to pick out anything but a general impression. But she has a good figure and holds herself well. And she has a cloud of dark hair. I told her she was pretty, at any event. I am not sure that she believed me. Her opinion of me did not appear to be overly complimentary!’ He grinned at the memory of Mistress Harley’s barbed comments.

‘Oh, Marcus! You are very like your father.’

‘But is that for better or worse, my lady?’

‘I will leave that decision to you! And did you overawe the poor girl, in spite of my excellent advice, with full Court rig—nothing less than lace, velvets and those appalling shoes with red heels?’ She cast an appreciative eye over his more restrained jacket and breeches, more suitable to a country gentleman than the excesses of French fashion. The shoes in question had been abandoned for serviceable black boots.

‘My dear Mother, you could not expect me to pay my respects to my future wife in anything less.’

‘And will you go ahead with the marriage, now that you have seen Sir Henry?’

‘Why not? He is willing enough, no matter Mistress Harley’s sentiments. It brings my claim all the advantages of legitimacy. And she did not seem totally unwilling.’ He did not seem too convinced, but shrugged his shoulders. ‘I expect we shall brush along fairly well.’

Elizabeth chose not to comment, once again effectively hiding her concern on this sensitive subject. She changed tack again as Felicity, unbidden and always solicitous, poured and served small ale in pewter goblets. It sounded a bleak prospect, although Marlbrooke, lounging in an armchair before the fire, boots propped comfortably on a fire dog, appeared to be unaware.

‘Mistress Neale has told me of the occurrence last night. About the young girl you found on the road.’

Marlbrooke looked up from his contemplation of the flames. ‘Of course. I had momentarily forgotten. I am sure Mistress Neale has furnished you with all the details. You had retired when I arrived home. When I realised that she was a girl and not the young man she wished to be taken for, I asked for Mistress Neale’s help.’

‘That was very considerate of you! I believe that many would not expect it, Marcus, if gossip speaks true.’ There was a degree of disapproval in her voice.

‘My delicacy and thoughtfulness can be relied upon on such occasions.’ The gleam in his eye held a degree of cynicism not lost on his mother.

‘You could have fetched me, dear Marcus,’ Felicity interrupted with a fluttering of hands and an avid gleam in her eyes, always receptive of gossip and intrigue. ‘I believe that I was still sorting dearest Elizabeth’s embroidery silks in the small parlour. I could have come to your aid.’ Her voice was as thin and dry as her appearance. ‘There was no need for you to be concerned with some runaway girl—so indelicate, do you not think?’

‘Thank you, Felicity. I know. I suppose I did not think of it.’ And I certainly did not want you prosing in my ear about the morality of modern youth.

‘A most unsavoury circumstance, I am sure. Doubtless the girl will be recovered and well enough to leave today.’

‘Mistress Neale suggested that her head wound was quite unpleasant. And a damaged wrist, I think.’ Elizabeth closed her mind to her cousin’s perpetually querulous voice, sipped her ale thoughtfully, and directed her comment towards her son.

‘I suggest it was merely a ruse to get herself into this house,’ Felicity continued, impervious to the lack of response. ‘That type of female might sink to any level to gain the interest of her betters.’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘Are you suggesting that we should lock up the silver? I think not. If you please, Felicity, I find it rather cool in this room. Please would you be so good as to fetch me my quilted wrap from my bedchamber? I am sorry to put you out.’

‘Of course, dear Elizabeth. It is always my pleasure to be of service to you.’

‘She is so judgmental!’ Elizabeth regarded the retreating figure with disfavour. ‘And always so obsequious towards me. Sometimes I find myself wishing that she would curse me so that I could curse her back! But she never would, of course. She is far too grateful.’

‘I do not know how you tolerate her day after day. All her petty criticisms and ill wishes. Does she ever say anything pleasant about anyone?’

‘Rarely! But she helps me with all the intimate tasks that I can no longer do for myself! So I have to be grateful and tolerant.’ There was an astringent quality to her reply that her son could not ignore.

‘I know. Forgive me for my lamentable insensitivity.’

‘Besides, she has nowhere else to live. I try not to pity her or patronise her.’

‘You have more goodness than I have.’

‘So, what of the girl?’ Elizabeth asked somewhat impatiently. ‘Could she have come from the village?’

‘I think not. My impression is that she is of good family—her clothes, if a little unconventional, her hands, her features, all speak of money and breeding.’

‘Is she seriously injured?’

‘It was difficult to tell when I left her in Mistress Neale’s capable hands. She was comfortable enough and Mistress Neale had bathed and cleaned the head wound but it was deep and her face is badly bruised. We must wait. She had hacked off all her hair,’ he added inconsequentially.

Elizabeth raised her fine brows. ‘Then she won’t be pretty enough for you to flirt with!’

‘Never fear! I am now betrothed to be married and so beyond the levities of youth. And, as you know, I never flirt!’

‘Well …!’ Lady Elizabeth’s views on handsome young men who were ruthless and arrogant enough to use flattery to gain their own ends would never be known for they were interrupted by a quiet knock quickly followed by the opening of the library door. Mistress Neale entered in her usual calm fashion, hands clasped before her over her enveloping apron, the jangle of keys at her waist marking her every step. She stopped inside the door.

‘Excuse me, my lord, my lady. I have brought the young lady. She says she is recovered sufficiently to rise from her bed—although I did tell her you would understand if she rested today, in the circumstances. In my opinion, she is far from well.’

Lady Elizabeth registered the faint expression—of what, anxiety or disapproval?—on her housekeeper’s homely features, but with a mental shrug presumed that it was merely concern for the health of their unexpected guest.

‘But yes, Mistress Neale. Please come in. Is she with you now?’

Mistress Neale turned, beckoned and ushered in the young woman who had been standing in the shadows in the hall. She paused, framed by the doorway, her own ruined and unsuitable clothing discarded, now clad in ill-fitting skirt and bodice, borrowed from Elspeth, tied and tucked to take into account her slender figure. Her harshly cropped hair was uncovered. The extensive bruising down one side of her face was shocking to see, but the wound in her hair, covered by some neat bandaging, appeared to be giving her few ill effects. She held one firmly bandaged wrist awkwardly at her side. Exhaustion was printed on her face, the pallor highlighted by the plain white collar, and there was a faint frown between her brows, but she waited with apparent composure for her hostess to make the first move.

‘Come in, my poor child. What an ordeal you have been through. Come and sit with me.’ Lady Elizabeth stretched out her hand in instant compassion.

Mistress Neale curtsied and left. The lady remained standing in the doorway as if she had not heard the invitation. Viscount Marlbrooke saw the instant bewilderment in her expression and so rose and walked across the room, to take her hand. It was icy cold. She did not resist as he led her further into the room but neither did she respond to her new surroundings. His eyes searched her face, but he could detect no emotion. Perhaps she was unaware that she grasped his hand hard as he led her into the room. He felt compelled by he knew not what impulse to raise her hand and brush his lips over her rigid fingers in a formal salute.

‘There is no need to be anxious,’ he reassured her in a gentle voice as he applied a comforting pressure to her fingers. ‘I was at the crossroads and brought you here last night after the accident with your horse. I am Marcus Oxenden. This is my mother, Lady Elizabeth. You are at Winteringham Priory. Perhaps you know of it?’

Her eyes flashed to his face as she shook her head, wincing at the sudden lance of pain. If anything she became even paler, the blood draining from beneath her skin.

‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ Her voice was clear and steady but toneless as if her mind was engaged elsewhere.

‘Forgive me that I do not rise.’ Elizabeth held out her hand and smiled in welcome. ‘I find the cold weather difficult. You must tell me where you were going. I am sure that we can help you reach your destination. You must have a family—and friends—who will be concerned for you, to whom we should send a message. What is your name, my dear girl?’

The result of the concerned enquiry was devastating. It was not composure that held the girl in its rigid grasp but naked fear born out of blind panic. She pulled her hand from Marlbrooke’s light clasp to cover her face, to suppress a sob of anguish.

‘But what is wrong?’ Elizabeth struggled to gain her feet, ignoring the discomfort, moved immeasurably by the plight before her. ‘I am sure that whatever distresses you so can soon be put right.’

‘No!’

‘But what is it that causes you such despair?’ Marlbrooke raised his brows, glancing hopefully towards Lady Elizabeth, but she merely shook her head. ‘Surely it can be remedied?’

The eyes that the lady raised to Marlbrooke’s face were wide, stark with terror. ‘I don’t know where I was going,’ she explained, her voice breaking on a sob. ‘I do not know who I am. I cannot even remember my own name!’

‘I cannot remember my name,’ the lady repeated the statement in barely a whisper. ‘I don’t remember anything before I opened my eyes here this morning.’

She looked at the two strangers before her, panic turning her blood to ice, freezing her ability to assess her position with any clarity. The lady with her faded beauty, kind smile but awkward limbs. The gentleman, eyes intent, dark haired, with a distinct air of authority. Both offering compassion and support, but both total strangers. How could she be so dependent on them? She shook her head, wincing again at the sharp consequence, unable to take in her surroundings or the enormity of her predicament. In response to the mute appeal in the girl’s face, her pale lips and cheeks, Elizabeth put a gentle arm around her shoulders and steered her towards the fire. She was trembling, but obeyed as in a trance and sank to the cushioned settle. Elizabeth sat beside her, keeping possession of her hand, stroking the soft skin in comfort.

‘You must not worry so. You have had the most traumatic of experiences. You must know that you were struck on the head when you fell from your horse. I am sure your loss of memory will be temporary and you will soon remember everything quite clearly.’

The lady looked into Elizabeth’s calm grey eyes, clinging to sanity as she clung to her hand. ‘But what am I doing here? Please tell me what happened last night.’

The Viscount had come to stand before the fireplace, leaning his arm along the heavily carved mantel, pushing the smouldering logs with his booted foot until sparks showered onto the hearth.

‘I am afraid that I can tell you very little. You were riding from the south, but from where exactly, I know not. You arrived at the crossroads on Winteringham Common at the time when my coach had stopped because of an incident. We waited to warn you of possible danger on the icy road. You were travelling fast.’ He frowned, watching her closely to see if there was any hint of recognition of the subsequent events. There was none. ‘When you came abreast of us, your horse shied badly on a stretch of ice and you fell, hitting your head on the road. I brought you here. And that is all I know.’

She nodded in thoughtful acceptance, head bent as she contemplated his answer and the blank spaces in her memory, which his explanation did nothing to restore.

‘Do I know you?’ The lady raised her eyes to the Viscount’s face, but without hope.

‘No, my dear.’ Elizabeth sighed in answer and shook her head sadly. ‘We can be of no help to you in that quarter. I do not think you live in the vicinity, although we have only just returned to the area ourselves after some years’ absence. We can make enquiries, do you not think, Marcus?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did I have any possessions with me? Nothing to tell who I am?’

‘No.’ The Viscount had moved silently to a side table to pour a glass of wine. He handed it to the lady, who took it and sipped absently. ‘Your horse may have had saddle-bags, but it bolted out of sight. I have sent out word to recover it if it is found on the estate or in the village. I expect it will—horses rarely stray far, even when frightened.’

‘I … I understand from Mistress Neale that I was dressed as a boy.’ She lowered her eyes in some confusion as a faint flush stained her pale cheeks. ‘And I have cut my hair.’ She lifted her hand to touch in shock and disbelief the shorn strands that lay against her neck. ‘I think I had long hair. I do not understand any of it!’

‘Indeed.’ Elizabeth squeezed the cold hands. There was little she could say to comfort her. ‘You must have had a good reason for doing so.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

The door to the library opened to admit Felicity, who had completed her task and returned carrying the shawl. Her pursed lips and the closed expression on her narrow face indicated that she had, in her absence, made it her business to become well informed of events by Mistress Neale and did not approve.

‘Here is Mistress Felicity, my cousin.’ Elizabeth made the introduction, her heart sinking as she read the condemnation in her companion’s stiff shoulders and tightlipped mouth. Uncomfortable at the best of times, Felicity could be a damning influence when her sense of morality was outraged. ‘This is …?’ She looked at the lady beside her in sudden consternation.

The fear had deepened in the lady’s eyes as her lack of identity had immediately presented its own problems.

‘We must decide what to call you, my dear child, until your memory returns.’ Elizabeth smiled and tried to keep her tone light.

‘Why, I … I don’t know.’

‘I do.’ The Viscount had been watching intently and now surveyed the delicate features and deep blue eyes with a light curve of his lips. ‘You are Viola, for sure. Master Shakespeare had the right of it in naming his masquerading heroine. We will borrow it for you, if it pleases you, if only for the short term.’ The smile that accompanied his words held great warmth and charm, guaranteed to put the lady at her ease. He reached down for her hand and bowed elegantly over it. ‘Welcome to Winteringham Priory, Mistress Viola.’

She tried for a smile, but it was a poor attempt, and pulled her hand away as if his touch embarrassed her even more. A shiver ran through her slight frame in spite of the burning logs. Seeing it, Marcus took the shawl from the fussing Felicity and placed it round her shoulders.

‘Thank you. I cannot express how grateful I am for your kindness.’

‘Well, of course …’ he grinned ‘… we had planned to throw you out into the cold and wet to find your own salvation. We always treat our guests with such lack of consideration! Particularly when they are in distress.’

‘Enough, Marcus.’ Lady Elizabeth frowned at his levity. ‘Take no heed of him, my dear. Be assured you are welcome to stay here until we know what is best for you.’

The girl smiled at last with genuine warmth but Marcus had seen the flash of real fear and tried to remedy the effect of his light jest.

‘Indeed, Mistress Viola, there is no cause for concern. I have known cases such as yours before—in the war. A severe blow to the head can bring temporary loss of memory. It returns, sometimes gradually in increasing flashes of realisation, sometimes in one blinding revelation.’ And occasionally leaves the sufferer in devastating limbo for ever! ‘You need to rest. You will stay here as long as you need. Meanwhile, as my mother suggested, we will put out the word.’

‘I cannot express my thanks.’ She placed the almost untouched glass carefully on the table at her elbow. ‘I have a headache a little. Perhaps, if you will excuse me, I will go and rest.’

‘Of course.’ Elizabeth saw the distress and weariness in the young face and understood the need for privacy. ‘Mistress Neale will provide everything you need. Perhaps, Felicity, you will show Mistress Viola to her bedchamber, until she becomes more accustomed to the house.’

Felicity moved to comply with bad grace and a sharp inclination of her head, leading the way from the room, leaving Elizabeth alone with her son.

‘Well, Marcus? She is so young and defenceless to be put in such a position.’

He shrugged as he returned from the door to pour out two more glasses of wine, handing one to his mother before stretching his limbs again with casual grace in the chair opposite her.

‘It is as I said. Her memory will probably return in its own good time. But what can have frightened her to such an extent that she would cut her hair, dress as a man and ride through the night with no companion or protection?’ He frowned down into the blood-red liquid as he swirled it in the glass, the light catching in the faceted stem. ‘Perhaps her fears are more deep rooted than from mere loss of memory. We must be circumspect in our enquiries. It may be that she does not wish to be found.’

‘I agree.’ Felicity stalked back into the room in time to hear the final comment. ‘A girl who is prepared to dress in such an unseemly manner and take such precipitate action might have all manner of things to hide. I believe that you are too trusting, my dear Elizabeth. We do not know what she might be guilty of.’

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and caught the fierce challenge in her son’s eyes as he prepared to deliver a stinging rebuke. Felicity would only sulk and that would make everyone uncomfortable. She took up the challenge before he could speak.

‘Your lack of charity in the circumstances is unfortunate and does you no favours, Felicity,’ she chided in a mild tone, but leaving her cousin in no doubt of her sentiments. ‘I expect you to treat Mistress Viola with all consideration and compassion until we know for sure who or what she is! I would not like to hear that she has been open to insult in my home.’

Felicity pressed her lips into an even firmer line, if that were possible, and sniffed.

Chapter Five

Viola awoke next morning to the same complete absence of knowledge of her previous existence as when she had taken to her bed. She struggled to quell the all-embracing fear as she became aware of a maid who bustled about the room and drew back her curtains. You must be calm. You have to accept. You will remember as your head heals. At least the headache had gone. She smiled uncertainly at the maid, a young smiling person with quick, deft hands, and felt an immediate lift in her spirits as the pale spring sunshine flooded the room. Of course things would soon be back to normal and she would be able to complete her journey—wherever that was. Was someone, somewhere, concerned for her safety? She shook her head as the maid approached the bed.

‘Her ladyship has sent you this, mistress. To replace Elspeth’s bodice and skirt which you wore yesterday. She thinks it will be a little large, but the length should be good—if we lace it tightly it should do well enough. Her ladyship no longer wears it. And it is too pretty to be packed away for the moths.’

‘How kind everyone is. It is beautiful.’

She scrambled from the bed to don shift and petticoats and the gown that the maid held and laced for her.

‘There, now.’ Bessie tied and twitched with experienced fingers and she was dressed. The deep-blue damask bodice, boned and laced, fit, if not as if made for her, at least adequately, emphasising her small waist and the swell of her breasts. The full overskirt was of the same deep colour, looped up to show a delicate cream underskirt, embroidered with flowers and leaves around the hem. The low neckline, which might have made Viola blush, was made more suitable for day wear by a fine linen-and-lace collar that matched the lace falling from elbow-length sleeves. Viola sighed at the sheer delight of it against her skin.

She stood before the looking glass, letting her fingers smooth down the figured brocade of the skirts. The reflected image shocked her. The dress looked well—indeed, she had the faintest suspicion, hovering on the edge of memory, that she had never worn anything as fine in her life—but she had no recognition of the lady wearing it. It was as if she were looking at a stranger. Then she gasped as she took in the short hair, roughly cropped—hacked, rather!—and unflattering in the extreme to her critical eyes. It seemed to her that in the past she had had hair that curled in ringlets to her shoulders, not this stark crop which threw her face into cruel relief. For there was the matter of the large purpling bruise that disfigured her temple—and would for many days yet.

Her eyes met those of the maid and she flinched inwardly at the depth of pity she saw there. ‘I look terrible,’ Viola whispered.

‘That you don’t, mistress. You look so much better than yesterday—what with the colour in your cheeks an’ all. Your hair will soon grow. It is very pretty and, now that you have taken off your bandage, you look well.’

‘I suppose I do. At least it takes little time to run a comb through it.’ She grimaced as she did so, mindful of the tender wound on her skull. What terrible need had made her cut it so drastically? There was no point in idle speculation. She must be practical. Viola squared her shoulders and looked again at the maid.

‘Would you do something for me …?’

‘I am Bessie. Her ladyship says for me to take care of you. What would you wish for me to do for you, mistress?’

‘Thank you, Bessie. Would you trim my hair—to cut away the worst of the stray bits?’

‘My pleasure, miss. I will fetch the shears from Mistress Neale!’

* * *

Half an hour later Viola risked a second look in the mirror. Her hair now lay neatly against her neck and curled on to her cheeks and forehead in feathery wisps. She sighed. It was the best she could hope for. ‘Thank you, Bessie. I suppose it is some improvement!’ She smiled wryly as she swept herself a regal curtsy. ‘Do you suppose it will ever look passably attractive?’

‘That it will, Mistress Viola. And when the bruise fades you will feel more the thing.’

‘You are very good for my spirits, Bessie.’ They smiled at their achievements with the shears. ‘Now, where will I find Lady Elizabeth at this time in the morning? I must speak to her—thank her for all her kindness and this beautiful dress.’

‘She usually sits in the panelled parlour at the front of the house in the morning. The sun makes it warm and comfortable for her—with the pains in her limbs an’ all. I will take you there when you are ready.’

Lady Elizabeth sat in the wash of sunlight in the small parlour with a neglected piece of tapestry on her lap as Bessie ushered in Viola. Felicity sat beside her, head bent industriously over a similar pattern intended to cover a chair seat. Elizabeth’s face was solemn and pensive as she gazed out over the gardens, but brightened immediately with a welcoming smile as she stretched out her hand in greeting.

‘Well, Mistress Viola. You look charming this morning. I knew the dress would suit. Turn round for me.’

Viola did as she was bid, enjoying the swish of damask skirts against the polished oak boards.

‘I do not know what to say. You have given me more than I deserve.’

Felicity’s curled lips suggested that she might agree, but said nothing and continued to ply her needle with little vicious stabs at the tapestry.

‘Nonsense, dear girl. Come and sit and entertain me a little.’

Viola did as she was bid and bent to admire Elizabeth’s embroidery. ‘Your tapestry is beautiful. The stitches are so even.’

‘I could do better.’ Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in self-disgust. ‘My fingers are so swollen and painful. Can you do tapestry work?’

‘Yes, of course. I remember …’ She stopped in some consternation.

‘There now. I knew your memory would return when you stopped trying so hard. I expect your mother taught you.’

‘Perhaps. I certainly know that I have worked tapestry—and needlework—and I remember patterns. One very similar to Mistress Felicity’s cover with flowers and leaves, but in darker greens. But I am not sure that I enjoyed it.’ Her lips were touched by a faint smile. ‘I feel that I applied myself reluctantly and only because I must.’

‘It is indeed amazing how your memory is beginning to return.’ The sour note in Felicity’s voice was unmistakable.

There was a silence in the room for a long moment. And then, ‘It is not a situation that I would wish on anyone, Mistress Felicity,’ Viola replied in a quiet voice.

So she has spirit. It pleased Elizabeth to hear her young guest stand up for herself against Felicity’s unkind sniping.

‘Perhaps you would fetch us some wine, Felicity?’

‘Of course, dear Elizabeth.’ Felicity simpered in Elizabeth’s direction, but with a scowl for Viola as she flounced through the door.

‘You said, my lady, that you had recently returned to live here.’ It seemed to Viola an innocuous subject that would not require any reminiscences on her part.

‘It is a complicated story,’ explained Elizabeth, willing enough to find a neutral topic. ‘We used to live at Glasbury Old Hall—you probably do not know it, but it is only a few miles from here. I went there as a young bride. But it was damaged beyond repair in the war—and then we came here.’

‘Do you never go back?’

‘Too sad. Too many memories of what might have been.’

‘But why did you come here in the first place—and then not remain here?’

‘I warned you it had its complications. The Priory became ours after a siege and the original family fled. So we moved here when our own house was destroyed. But then we were on the wrong side after 1649 and the King dead, so it was confiscated by Parliament and the rents used for their own policies. In effect, we lost both houses—I think it helped to bring about my husband’s intense melancholy and ultimate death. We went to a property in London, which I had brought to the marriage in my jointure—and this place stood more or less empty except for a strange lady from the original family who stayed on as a sort of guardian, with our steward, Master Verzons, and Mistress Neale. When King Charles was restored, my son petitioned for the return of the Priory—and the King granted it back to him. So we returned. Not an edifying story!’

‘And the lady—the guardian? What happened to her?’

‘She would not stay. I cannot blame her. She was very angry.’

Felicity returned, followed by Verzons bearing a tray. He poured the wine, handed the glasses to the ladies and arranged a small table conveniently beside Elizabeth. As he presented Viola with her wine, she looked up at him in thanks to surprise an intent look on his face as he studied her. He immediately dropped his gaze and became once again the self-effacing steward, but it left Viola uncomfortable. It was not a casual look at all.

As Elizabeth reached to put down the glass, she caught the stem with a clumsy hand and the glass fell to the floor, smashing the fragile vessel and spilling the wine in a spreading puddle. She cried out in distress as Felicity leaped to her feet to mop up the mess. ‘I am so clumsy,’ she fretted. ‘Some days it is insupportable.’

Viola was horrified to see tears gather in Lady Elizabeth’s eyes and only sheer effort of will prevent them from spilling over down her cheeks.

‘Is it …?’ She hesitated, unsure of such a personal enquiry. ‘Is it the rheumatic disease that causes your suffering, my lady?’

‘Yes. So painful! For some little time now—and the cold and damp aggravates it.’

‘I believe I can make things easier for you if you would allow me.’

‘I doubt anyone can,’ Felicity intervened, still on her knees where she dealt with the spilled wine and glass. ‘Lady Elizabeth has suffered from such pains for many years and nothing helps. We must pray for deliverance.’

‘But I know how to ease the pain.’

‘Do you really?’ The spark of hope in Elizabeth’s eyes and voice touched Viola’s heart.

Yes, because …’ She hesitated, frowning, as if the reason had slipped away from her grasp. ‘I do not know why I know,’ she continued, ‘but I know that I have the skill and knowledge to ease the pain and reduce the swelling. Someone must have taught me. I remember a number of potions and balms, and a pain-relieving draught, that would be of use.’ Viola took a deep breath, eyes closed in frustration. ‘Why can I remember such trivial details and yet not know my own name?’

‘I know not. But you could make such a potion for me? You could make the pain go away?’

‘I believe I can ease it. Do you wish for me to try?’

‘If only you would.’ Hope illuminated Elizabeth’s face. ‘What would you use?’

‘Herbs and hedgerow plants. Dried leaves mostly at this time of the year when little is growing. It is not difficult to prepare something that should give you relief.’

‘But what if her memory is wrong, dear Elizabeth?’ Felicity came to stand protectively beside her cousin, one hand on her shoulder as if in warning. ‘Her so-called remedies could have disastrous consequences. You could be poisoned and we would not know what to do for you. I advise very strongly against it.’ Her eyes, fixed on Viola, were cold and full of implacable hatred.

‘Felicity—’ Elizabeth’s voice was weary in the extreme, but she recognised the jealousy that afflicted her companion and understood it even as she would have condemned it ‘—I appreciate your concern—and your motives—but some days I would accept a remedy from the devil himself if I thought there was only the smallest chance of success.’

‘I never thought to hear such blasphemy from you, dearest cousin!’

‘It is not blasphemy.’ Elizabeth remained calm, although her eyes snapped with temper. ‘It is desperation. Nothing else has any effect. Perhaps Viola is an answer to our prayers.’

‘As to that, I know not. But I will use the skill I have. Do you have a still-room?’ Viola enquired, rising to her feet. ‘And I presume there is a herb garden.’

‘Yes. Sadly unkempt, but I make you free of it.’ Lady Elizabeth looked at her hands with swollen joints and ugly reddened knuckles, and clenched them in her skirts to hide them from view, even from herself. ‘If you could take away only a little of the pain I would be everlastingly grateful. And vanity would hope that you could improve this unsightliness.’ Her smile was a little twisted. ‘I used to have fine hands once.’

Some time later, Viscount Marlbrooke followed directions from his mother to find Viola ensconced in the dust-shrouded still-room, her slight figure with its fashionable gown wrapped in one of Mrs Neale’s large white aprons to protect the delicate material. The streaked glass in the small window was pushed wide to allow in as much light as possible and a fire burned on the hearth. Various pots, spoons and dishes, borrowed from the kitchen, littered the bench and a pot bubbled over the fire. Viola wielded a pestle and mortar clumsily with her bound wrist, the small dish clasped by her arm against her body, but none the less effectively.

He stood in the open doorway to watch her concentration and neat movements. She was unaware of his presence, but hummed softly, almost under her breath. It made a pleasant domestic scene if it were not for the disfiguring bruise. His memory of his first knowledge of her swept back, surprising him with its intensity. He remembered her fragility, her total vulnerability, aware of the tightening of the muscles in his gut and thighs in response. And yet here she was, wielding pestle and mortar, unconcerned with the painful sprain, in his still-room. His mouth curled a little in admiration of her, content to stand and watch.

He knew the moment she became aware of him. She stiffened slightly, halted in her ministrations and turned her head to glance nervously in his direction. The flash of tension in her face vanished almost immediately when she recognised him.

‘I’m sorry, my lord. I was only—’

‘Why should you apologise? I had not intended to distress you.’ He strolled forward into the room.

‘No. I had thought there was someone behind me. On a few occasions I have felt … But perhaps it is simply the close confines of the room. That is why I had left the door ajar.’

‘Perhaps.’ He picked up a bunch of herbs from the bench and sniffed the pungent aroma. ‘Do you realise that you are giving my mother hope for the first time in months—years, even? Will it work?’

‘Yes.’

‘It would be a relief, for her and for myself.’ He frowned unseeingly at the empty dust-covered shelves before him. ‘She believes that she is a burden to me, you see. And I cannot make her accept otherwise. If she were free from pain, could rest well at night and take up her previous interests, she would regain her old spirits. Nor does she enjoy being dependent on Felicity.’

‘I can assure you the relief from pain will be effective.’ Viola smiled a little nervously, flustered by his close proximity in the small room. But Marlbrooke did not appear to be aware, for which she was grateful.

‘You are very confident. What is it?’

‘Willow bark. It was easy to collect from the grounds—Mistress Neale sent one of the lads from the stables. If you make an infusion with boiling water, strain it and drink … but I doubt you want to know all the details,’ she finished as she caught the guarded expression on his face. She laughed. He was instantly transfixed by the sparkle in her violet eyes and the faint flush the heat in the still-room had brought to her fair skin. And a lightening of mood from the fact that, for a short time, she had forgotten the weight of uncertainty surrounding her existence in this house. He would have liked to touch her short hair where it curled on to her cheek in front of her ear.

He pushed his hands firmly into his pockets.

‘There. This is done.’ She lifted the pot from the flames with a cloth in her good hand. ‘Would you like to take it to her, my lord? If she would drink a little now, it will begin to give relief.’

‘Yes. With pleasure. What are you doing now?’

‘Making a liniment to rub into sore joints. I cannot make the most effective—it is not the season for many of the best plants, such as angelica or meadowsweet—but thyme is an excellent remedy, readily obtainable. Your herb garden is in a dreadful state and much overgrown, but it contains all the most useful and sweet-scented herbs.’

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