‘Miss Venables!’ Maitland exclaimed, standing stock-still in the doorway. ‘I beg your pardon. I had no idea that there was anyone here.’

‘I fear that you have found me out, Mr Maitland,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘I had a sudden urge to get away from all the hullabaloo for a few moments’ peace and quiet on my own.’

‘And here I am, depriving you of your well-earned rest!’ Maitland grimaced, turning to go.

‘No, please don’t go, sir!’ begged Georgianne, leaping to her feet. ‘There is more than enough room for the two of us here.’

‘Your hair appears to have come somewhat adrift, Miss Venables,’ he pointed out softly, lifting up his hand in an attempt to tuck one of the curling wisps back behind her ear.

Almost as if she had been stung, Georgianne started back in alarm. ‘Yes, I know,’ she acknowledged breathlessly. ‘I had intended to deal with it before going back to the house.’

‘Pity,’ he drawled, her sudden reticence not having escaped his attention. ‘It suits you much better that way.’

Dorothy Elbury lives in a quiet Lincolnshire village—an ideal atmosphere for writing her historical novels. She has been married to her husband for fifty years (it was love at first sight, of course!), and they have three children and four grandchildren. Her hobbies include visiting museums and historic houses, and handicrafts of various kinds.

Recent novels by the same author:

A HASTY BETROTHAL

THE VISCOUNT’S SECRET

THE OFFICER AND THE LADY

AN UNCONVENTIONAL MISS

THE MAJOR
AND THE
COUNTRY MISS

Dorothy Elbury

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

‘The vultures are gathered, I perceive!’ wheezed Roger Billingham, momentarily raising his consumptive body from his pillows, only to fall back in weary resignation as he gave way to another helpless fit of coughing.

‘Try not to distress yourself, Roger,’ his sister Eleanor beseeched him, motioning to the elderly manservant to mop the beads of perspiration from his master’s brow. ‘I have merely followed Hornsey’s instructions—only those he named have been summoned—my son Jeremy, Jane’s sister Marion and her son…’

She stopped as the old man struggled once more to rise.

‘Young Maitland’s here?’ His bleared eyes eagerly raked the group at the foot of his bed.

‘I’m here, Uncle.’

Will Maitland stepped forwards, his tanned and pleasant face full of concern as he bent over Billingham’s bed.

‘Got back without a scratch then, I see?’ croaked his uncle, with a twisted grin, putting out his hand and gripping the younger man’s. ‘Ye’ll do something for me, lad?’

‘Of course, sir, if I can,’ replied Maitland instantly and, without removing his hand, he lowered himself into a bedside chair. ‘What is it that you require of me?’

Billingham flicked a glance at the listening group before carefully studying his nephew’s open countenance. ‘I have to put right a terrible wrong I’ve committed,’ he cried, gasping for every breath. ‘Otherwise there will be no peace for me beyond the grave! But answer me this, lad—are you prepared to forfeit your inheritance?’

Will Maitland frowned. ‘I’m not after your money, Uncle Roger,’ he said stiffly, his colour rising. ‘Aunt Jane would have wished us to come—and you did have Hornsey send for us,’ he gently reminded the old man. ‘Now, what is it that you would have me do?’

As Billingham struggled to speak, he broke into another paroxysm of coughing. Just then another figure stepped forwards from the group.

‘You may be assured that I, too, would be most happy to be of service to you, Uncle Roger.’

The Honourable Jeremy Fenton approached Billingham’s bed, his handsome features carefully concealing the fastidious distaste he was feeling as he contemplated his uncle’s death throes. He remained standing, his tall, rather too-slim figure meticulously attired in the current fashion, albeit that the calves within his buff-coloured pantaloons had been assisted with a little padding, as had the shoulders of his exquisitely cut, blue kerseymere jacket. Nervously fingering his intricately arranged neckcloth, he feigned a sympathetic smile at his dying relative.

Billingham took a sip from the glass that Maitland was holding to his lips and eyed his eldest nephew with undisguised contempt.

‘Needn’t tell me why you’re here,’ he snorted. ‘In Queer Street again, shouldn’t wonder—well, you’re not getting at it without a bit of effort…’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Uncle,’ said Fenton, with a pained expression on his face. ‘Mother considered it my duty to attend—as your eldest heir…’

‘Idle wastrel!’ The old man struggled to rise, brushing away Maitland’s attempts to pacify him. ‘Already planning how to fritter away my hard-earned cash, are you? Well, let me tell you, you’re in for a shock—all of you!’

He glared at the assembled company, then, twisting himself to face Maitland, he entreated him in urgent tones.

‘Find the boy—please, Will—find Melandra’s brat—if he lived! Help me make proper restitution for my sin—do this for me, lad—I know I can rely on you!’

At his nephew’s puzzled but quite distinct nod, the old man’s face contorted as he gave a little whimper and, breathing his last, he slumped back heavily on to his pillows.

Maitland laid his fingers over his uncle’s face, gently closing the eyelids over the now sightless eyes before bowing his head in silent prayer. He then rose swiftly to his feet as Marion Maitland approached her brother-in-law’s bedside. She stroked back the white, unkempt hair before bending to press her lips upon his brow.

‘Poor Roger,’ she said sadly. ‘At peace, finally.’

‘I’m somewhat confused, Mother,’ frowned Maitland, standing back as one by one the rest of the little group came to pay their last respects to their dead relative. ‘What is it Uncle Roger wants me to do? He mentioned Cousin Melandra—but she died over twenty years ago, surely? I can barely remember her.’

‘Mr Hornsey will doubtless explain,’ said Mrs Maitland. ‘We are to attend him in the drawing-room—Eleanor tells me that Roger had instructed him to provide us with whatever information is available.’

They watched in silence as Ralph Sadler, the attendant physician, finally drew the sheet over Billingham’s face and, at Lady Fenton’s nod, Maitland turned to escort his mother from the room, followed by the small retinue of assorted cousins and elderly retainers who had also been present.

Jeremy Fenton caught up with them as they reached the door to the drawing-room and, grabbing his cousin by the arm, he said urgently, ‘Got some bee in his bonnet, hadn’t he—brain probably gave up at the end, shouldn’t wonder. Think he’s really changed his will, coz?’

Maitland shrugged. ‘It’s of very little interest to me what he’s chosen to do with his money, Jerry—but no doubt you’ll hear soon enough if you care to curb your impatience.’

‘Yes, you can mock,’ Fenton exclaimed hotly. ‘Always the blue-eyed boy! Sucking up to him all these years…!’

‘Allow me to remind you that I’ve been out of the country for the past five years,’ returned Maitland drily, handing his mother into a seat. ‘I haven’t laid eyes on Uncle Roger since Aunt Jane died—so I’d say you’ve had a pretty clear field, if you’d a mind to curry favour. And, in case you had not noticed, I hasten to draw your attention to the fact that, unlike your own azure orbs, dear coz, my eyes are merely a nondescript shade of grey.’

‘But I’m the eldest, by God!’ Fenton scowled. ‘My mother is the last of the Billinghams—this lot—’ he gestured to the rest of the group behind them ‘—they’re only distantly related through marriage.’

‘As I, myself, am,’ Maitland pointed out, with a grin. ‘Aunt Jane having been my mother’s sister.’

‘Precisely!’ returned Fenton triumphantly. ‘Nary a blood relative present, apart from Mama and me—surely the old skinflint won’t have left it out of the family?’

‘Let’s hear what Hornsey has to say, shall we? He seems very eager to begin.’

Fenton swivelled round to fix his eyes on the elderly man of law, who was purposefully shuffling a sheaf of papers in his hands, apparently waiting for the subdued hum of conversation to cease.

‘Well, get on with it, man!’ he snapped, flinging himself into a chair. ‘Are you going to sit there all day?’

Mr Hornsey eyed the heir-presumptive sourly, experiencing at the same time a feeling of unholy joy at the prospect of bringing the arrogant young dandy to his knees.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said primly, adjusting his half-spectacles. ‘I shall endeavour not to detain you any longer than necessary.’

Then, having declaimed that the document he held was, indeed, the last and completely valid testament of one Roger Billingham, Esquire, he proceeded to disburse generous annuities to Billingham’s long-time servants and assorted bequests to the parcel of distantly related cousins who were also in attendance.

‘—to my sister Baroness Eleanor Fenton, I leave our family home, Fetterfield, to dispose of as she sees fit, and to my sister-in-law Mrs Marion Maitland I pass on all of her sister Jane’s jewellery, in grateful thanks for the loving care she devoted to my dear wife during her final illness.’

Here the lawyer paused and, after clearing his throat, he laid the set of papers down on the desk and looked over the top of his spectacles at the still expectant faces in front of him.

‘At this point I am required to clear the room of all persons present, apart from the following…’

Then, in clear and precise tones, he proceeded to name Lady Fenton and her son Jeremy, followed by Marion and William Maitland. Then, having waited patiently until the last member of the departing group had vacated the room, he once again picked up his papers.

No one had spoken during this interval, Maitland merely raising his eyebrows questioningly at his mother, only to receive a puzzled shake of her head in return. Fenton, rapt in his own deep study, stared moodily about the room, impervious to the concerned expression on Lady Fenton’s face as she attempted to catch her son’s eye.

‘This part of the proceedings becomes somewhat unusual,’ Hornsey then continued. ‘Mr Billingham has put me in possession of certain facts, which he wishes to be kept within this small family circle. It concerns the rather delicate matter of his niece and ward, Melandra Billingham, now deceased, and the possible survival of the young lady’s child.’

‘Dear God!’

Lady Fenton let out a gasp and Hornsey’s professionally impassive face suddenly became the focus of attention of four pairs of astonished eyes.

‘Mr Billingham has required me to set in motion a thorough search to establish this child’s existence. He apparently felt himself responsible for having abandoned it at birth and has left instructions that the bulk of his wealth shall be passed to this child should it prove to have survived…’

‘No! No! I will not permit it!’

Fenton had risen to his feet, his face ashen.

‘I shall contest it! The old man must have been insane!’ Thrusting off his mother’s attempts to restrain him, he strode forwards and tried to wrench the paper from Hornsey’s hands.

‘It is quite legal, I assure you, sir,’ said Hornsey, savouring the moment. ‘My client was perfectly sane—his own physician has borne witness. Do you wish me to continue?’

Fenton threw himself down on to his chair and glared at the lawyer.

‘What does it matter—if we’re not to inherit!’

‘There are certain conditions, which may well affect you,’ Hornsey was quick to point out. ‘If the child is not discovered within a twelvemonth of today’s date, the money is to be divided equally between yourself and Mr William Maitland.’

‘And otherwise the damned brat gets the lot!’

‘Not at all. He will receive, as I said, the bulk of the fortune—which I believe now stands in the region of some £500,000, not including the revenues from the plantations—but if you are prepared to make yourself instrumental in the search for the child’s recovery you are to be awarded a one fourth share, as will your cousin Major Maitland, who, I understand, has already given his promise to assist in the search.’

He bowed his head towards Maitland, who smilingly nodded his acquiescence.

Fenton’s eyes narrowed as he considered the lawyer’s words.

‘What you are saying, then,’ he finally managed, ‘is that I stand to get a quarter if this bastard is found now and a half if he isn’t—but for that I will have to wait a whole year—is that it?’

‘That is more or less correct, sir,’ Hornsey said, enjoying this fleeting sensation of power. ‘I believe Mr Billingham was anxious to atone for his having abandoned his young ward in her—how shall I put it—hour of need.’

‘Never mind about that!’ interrupted Fenton. ‘Where is this child now? Good God—hardly a child—it’s over twenty years since Melly ran off with that French tutor chap! D’you mean to tell us that he’d put her in the family way?’

‘Since we’re discussing the possible existence of a son, that would seem to be a fairly obvious conclusion,’ his cousin pointed out, good-humouredly. ‘However, I, for one, would be most interested to hear something of the story—if you could just forbear from interrupting at every turn, Jerry!’

He motioned Hornsey to continue, but the lawyer shook his head dolefully and indicated the single sheet of paper in front of him.

‘Sadly, there is very little known of Miss Billingham’s movements after she absconded with her tutor—Mr Billingham apparently received a plea for assistance some months later. I understand he would have ignored this had it not been for his late wife’s insistence…?’

Seeing both Lady Fenton and Marion Maitland nodding at one another at this point, he invited her ladyship to elucidate.

‘Both Roger and Jane adored Melly,’ she said, ‘not having children of their own. They had brought the girl up since Henry—our older brother—and his wife Patricia were killed in that dreadful carriage accident, along with their two little boys.’

‘They spoilt her dreadfully,’ put in Maitland’s mother, ‘but Jane would have it that the child had, after all, lost her whole family and they were only trying to make up for that—but she became very headstrong, I remember.’

‘She was rather lovely, though,’ recalled Maitland, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes in reminiscence. ‘I can remember when she was about to make her come-out—her first drawing-room appearance, I believe, and Uncle Roger had invited us all to see her in her finery before they left. She looked like a princess in a fairytale—with her beautifully powdered hair, that white-and-silver crinoline and all those diamonds—I swear I fell in love with her on the spot!’

‘You were only six years old,’ his mother laughingly reminded him, ‘but it’s true, she was an exceedingly lovely girl. Unfortunately, she knew it and was terribly flirtatious, too. It’s always been my belief that Étienne never really stood a chance after he set eyes on her, poor man. I am convinced that their elopement must have been Melly’s idea—he wasn’t at all the sort of young man to suggest such a thing.’

‘He was only a miserable tutor,’ said Fenton scornfully. ‘Hardly top-drawer and not a penny to his name—his cuffs were always frayed, as I recall.’

He viewed his own pristine cuffs with pride and flicked a non-existent fleck from his coat sleeve.

‘No, Jeremy, you’re quite wrong there,’ said Mrs Maitland, shaking her head. ‘He came from a most aristocratic family. They had fled the Terrors, of course, and he was forced to make his own way in the world. I always found him to be a perfect gentleman and I was very surprised to learn that he had abandoned Melly.’

Jeremy Fenton leaned forwards impatiently.

‘Let’s get back to that,’ he said. ‘Uncle Roger presumably answered her cry for help?’

His mother nodded. ‘He went off into the wilds of Warwickshire somewhere,’ she explained. ‘Jane had persuaded him to fetch Melandra home—whatever situation he found her to be in—but he returned two days later and told us all that she was dead.’

She paused momentarily, her brow wrinkling in pensive remembrance of the stark, angry expression on her brother’s face as he had curtly informed his shocked family of their niece’s death. ‘He made no mention of a child, however, nor do I recall the whereabouts of his destination. He always refused to speak of it.’

‘His own recollection was merely that the building itself was reached by a long driveway with lime trees on either side,’ offered Hornsey, once more perusing his papers. ‘And, also he believed that the hotel he stayed in was a coaching inn in the market town of Dunchurch—I understand that this town is situated on the London Road, somewhere in the vicinity of Coventry.’

Maitland digested this information.

‘She must have been buried, you know,’ he observed. ‘There will be parish registers. It should not be too difficult to discover her last resting place—she had a most unusual name, remember. There can’t be many Melandra Billinghams recorded as having died in—when was it—1795, I suppose?’

‘You really intend to seek out this bastard, then?’ Fenton, rising, eyed Maitland curiously. ‘Said you weren’t interested in Billingham’s fortune—changed your tune now you know how much there is to gain, eh?’

Maitland also rose to his feet, facing his cousin squarely. The two were of equal height, but Maitland had the weight, his shoulders and limbs needing no tailor’s assistance to fill out his coats and trousers and his clear grey eyes were unspoiled by the reckless dissipation that marred the older man’s.

‘I shall do you the service of ignoring that remark, Jerry,’ he said carefully. ‘I gave Uncle Roger my promise and I intend to do my best to find out what became of Melandra’s child. If you wish to join me you will, of course, be welcome—but I advise you to keep such opinions to yourself, otherwise I may well forget that you are my kinsman!’

Jeremy Fenton’s handsome face flushed slightly as, with a self-conscious laugh, he lowered his eyes.

‘No offence, Will,’ he stammered. ‘Of course I shall accompany you—I bow to your military efficiency—I should hardly know where to begin! When are we to set off on this quest, may I ask? I shall require several days to settle certain—matters—and my man Pringle will need time to see to my wardrobe…’

Maitland burst out laughing and gave his cousin a friendly clap on the shoulder.

‘I don’t intend to drag about the countryside with carriage-loads of your finery, Jerry!’ he chuckled. ‘We can’t leave until after the funeral, of course, but then I mean to take off first thing and ride for Dunchurch—it can’t be more than sixty miles away. If you want to accompany me, you’ll need to keep your baggage to a minimum!’

‘You surely don’t expect me to travel all that way on horseback!’

The Honourable Jeremy was visibly horrified at the idea. Out of necessity he had learned to be a fairly competent rider, in as much as the daily canter in Hyde Park was concerned—for one had to be seen, of course—but the prospect of being in the saddle for several hours at a time appealed to him not in the slightest degree. His expensive riding coats and breeches were cut more for display than practicality and he shuddered to imagine what damage would be done to his new top-boots if he were to subject them to the rigours of country-lane mudbaths. Also, he had to have his man to help him into his jackets and see to his linen! He was no fool, however, and quickly realised that if there were to be any hope at all of maintaining his chosen way of life, he was going to have to make some sort of push to get hold of his share of old Billingham’s money as soon as possible. Recurring visions of the likely alternative helped him to make up his mind.

‘I’m not the cavalryman you are, coz,’ he said, in explanation for his outburst. ‘I’ll have to follow you up in my chaise—I’ll get Pringle to scrabble a few things together and we shan’t be much behind you, you’ll see. Will you order the rooms?’

‘Good man!’ Maitland gladly gave his hand to this arrangement then, turning to the man of law who had been sitting silently listening to this interchange, he asked, ‘Is there nothing else which might be of use to us, Mr Hornsey? There must be hundreds of villages in that area—each with its own church and graveyard, I shouldn’t wonder. No clues to that, I suppose?’

‘You are welcome to copies of the papers,’ Hornsey offered. ‘I was most careful to take down everything in Mr Billingham’s exact words but, of course, the event occurred a great many years ago and his memory was failing. I believe I have furnished you with all the relevant information…’ His eyes scanned the sheets in front of him. ‘He did leave a considerable sum of money for the young lady’s funeral but he said that when the nun questioned him—’

‘Nun! Are you sure?’

Maitland pulled the paper towards him and ran his eyes quickly down the close, spidery handwriting, finally giving an exclamation of triumph when he found the information for which he was seeking.

‘Yes! Uncle Roger quite definitely said “nun”!’ He spun round eagerly to face his puzzled family. ‘Do you see what this means? It must have been a convent, or a priory—Roman, in any event—that will surely be easier to trace!’

‘The young man Étienne,’ said his mother, in growing realisation, ‘he would have been a Roman Catholic.’ She turned to Lady Fenton. ‘What was his name, Eleanor? I’ve been racking my brains trying to recall it.’

The older woman’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Dela”—no—” du” something—or “Des” something…..?’

‘Doubly!’ cried Fenton, in sudden excitement. ‘His name was “Doubly”. You remember, Will—we used to call him “Bubbly Doubly”—after we saw him sobbing away behind the church, that time?’

‘You may have called him that,’ said Maitland shortly, still intent upon scrutinising the lawyer’s scribbled testimony. ‘I remember him only as monsieur. Doubly doesn’t sound very French to me—more likely to have been “D’Arblay” or “de Blaise”.

‘Yes, I remember now!’ cried Mrs Maitland, clapping her hands. ‘D’Arblay! Étienne D’Arblay—I’m sure that was it! Oh, Eleanor! Do you think he could have been there, too—with Melandra?’

There was a heavy silence for a few moments as the two ladies stared at one another, each of them considering the implications of this possibility.

‘Doesn’t look like it.’ Maitland shook his head and indicated some more information he had managed to decipher. ‘Apparently, the nun told Uncle Roger that Melandra had extracted a promise from them that her child would be given its dead father’s name, but when they asked him—Uncle Roger, that is—what he wanted them to do, he informed them that he had no further interest in the matter and that they must place the child in a foundling home—he gave them money with which to give Melandra a decent burial, then he left.’

‘And he never breathed a word to any one of us—not even Jane,’ said Marion Maitland, in wonder. ‘He must have known she would have wanted to keep Melandra’s child!’

‘No wonder he was so distressed at the end! To have carried this burden all these years!’ Billingham’s sister turned her eyes, now wet with tears, towards her son. ‘You must find the boy, Jeremy—Roger was right—a dreadful wrong has been committed! The money is no longer important!’

Fenton raised his eyebrows. ‘I regret to say that the money is very important, Mama,’ he said witheringly. ‘Most of my creditors have held out for so long only because they have been under the assumption that Maitland and I would soon be sharing Uncle Roger’s estate between us—and I’m afraid that I have done little to discourage their belief. This recent development has dropped me right in the suds. I don’t have a year to wait for my full share—I shall likely be in Marshalsea by the end of the month if I can’t lay my hands on some serious blunt so, quite frankly, the sooner we can find this boy—or prove him dead—the quicker I shall be able to climb out of the basket!’

Maitland looked sharply at his cousin, his well-formed features full of concern.

‘Perhaps you would allow me to help you out, Jerry,’ he offered almost diffidently. ‘I dare say I could manage to cover some of your most pressing debts—you can’t owe so much, surely?’

‘Enough to make a very large hole in any fourth part I might receive, old man,’ said Fenton, smiling faintly as Maitland issued a soundless whistle. ‘With the best will in the world, I doubt you could even buy up my vowels—but I’m obliged for the offer. I shall just have to put my faith in your ability to hunt down our quarry—to which end you seem to be progressing pretty well!’

‘Good of you to say so, coz,’ laughed Maitland, clapping him affectionately on the back. ‘Although I don’t care much for your terminology—the lad we’re seeking is our young cousin, remember, not a wily old fox!’

‘Well, let’s hope he’ll appreciate the sacrifices we’re making for him,’ returned Fenton drily and, turning to Hornsey, he asked, ‘No chance of an advance, I suppose?’

The lawyer pursed his lips. ‘I can probably arrange something of that nature by next week, sir,’ he said. ‘Your expenses will be met, of course, but I would first like to be assured that some progress has been made.’

‘Perfectly in order.’ Maitland smiled in agreement, then he frowned as he caught the muted oath that escaped Fenton’s lips. ‘Come now, Jerry—Uncle Roger told you that you’d have to earn your share. That’s only fair, surely? Certainly, the fresh air won’t do you any harm and a few days in the country will keep you out of those gaming hells you seem to spend your life in. I would have said that a repairing lease might be just what you need at the moment!’

Jeremy Fenton eyed the younger man truculently for a moment or two then, with a slight lift of his shoulders, he reached out to grasp his cousin’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly. ‘I’d almost forgotten what a good-natured fellow you are, Will,’ he said, with an awkward grin. ‘I swear I’m looking forward to spending some time with you again, after all these years!’

Chapter Two

Four days later, having agreed that he would meet up with his cousin at the Dun Cow at Dunchurch, Will Maitland headed north from his home in Buckinghamshire and made for Dunstable, from where the newly metalled Watling Street would take him into Northamptonshire and eventually on to join up with the Coventry turnpike. He had sent his bags on ahead of him and had every intention of making quite a leisurely journey of it, since he reckoned that it would take him something in the region of six hours to accomplish the distance, including a couple of halts for refreshment and to water Pegasus, his chestnut stallion.

The summer day was fine and fair, with sufficient breeze to make a steady canter enjoyable and, to begin with, having set out at such an early hour, he had the road much to himself, skirting past the occasional rosy-cheeked milkmaid as she dreamily followed her charges from their field to the milking-shed, and exchanging smiling greetings with the farmers’ wives he encountered driving their laden gigs to the local marketplaces.

The morning wore on and the volume of oncoming traffic increased and, having more than once been forced to hug the hedge as a lumbering stagecoach bore down upon him, he judged the moment suitable to make his first stop, choosing a pretty little wayside inn just outside the village of Stony Stratford. After instructing an ostler to rub down and water his horse, he chose to partake of his own refreshment seated on the wooden bench that the landlord had thoughtfully provided beneath the shade of a nearby leafy chestnut tree.

His hunger satisfied, he leaned back in comfortable tranquillity against the tree’s great trunk and closed his eyes and, whether it was the lulling sound of the insects droning above his head or the effect of ‘mine host’s’ strong home-brewed, coupled with his early rising, he would never know, but in just a few moments his head nodded on to his chest and he was sound asleep.

A tentative tap on his shoulder startled him out of his pleasant doze.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’

The sound of the landlord’s voice dragged Maitland from his slumbers and it did not take him long to realise that the sun was no longer directly overhead, which irritating circumstance meant that he would have to press on very quickly if he wanted to make up the time he had lost. Cursing under his breath, he called for Pegasus to be saddled, hurriedly paid his shot and, mounting in one swift movement, he wheeled the horse out of the yard and urged him into a fast gallop towards Tow-cester.

Two hours later, by mid-afternoon, he had reached the Daventry turnpike where he ascertained from the toll-keeper that a further eight miles would see him at the Dunchurch pike.

‘An’ ye’d do well to stop the night there, sir,’ warned the keeper, pocketing Maitland’s two pence and handing him his ticket. ‘’Taint wise to be crossing Dunsmoor Heath at sundown—been a fair few travellers robbed there lately.’

Maitland thanked the man for his solicitude, assuring him that Dunchurch would, in fact, be the end of his journey and, with a cheery goodbye, set off once more at a spanking pace.

Hardly a mile or so up the road, however, Pegasus suddenly faltered in his stride and, gradually slowing down, he began to limp on his left foreleg. Maitland, after five years in a cavalry regiment, had no trouble recognising the ominous signs and he immediately reined in, dismounted and led his horse on to the grass verge where he carefully examined the hoof and found, as he had expected, a small sharp flintstone lodged under his shoe. Since he always carried with him the necessary implements for dealing with such an emergency, it did not take him long to extract the offending object, but, knowing that the horse would still be in considerable discomfort for some little while, he looked about him for inspiration and, spotting a small stream not far off, he led the still limping animal over to the bank and into its soothing shallows. He patted his neck with sympathetic encouragement as the thirsty animal eagerly gulped the refreshing water, then, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he soaked it in the fast-flowing stream and wiped his own perspiring face before lowering himself to sit on the grass verge while his mount gratefully cooled his sore foot.

There was still a considerable amount of traffic making its way in both directions along the road. Several carters went by, touching the brims of their felt hats in greeting as they passed, and a pedlar’s wagon, hung all about with pots and pans, brushes and broom-handles and the like, brought a instant smile to Maitland’s face as it rattled and clanked its way onwards. This was followed, shortly afterwards, by a well-sprung, open-topped landaulet, drawn by a pair of beautifully matched greys.

Having seen that the owner of the carriage was frantically signalling to his coachman to check his horses, Maitland leapt to his feet. Almost before the vehicle came to a standstill, its owner was out of his seat and hurrying back down the road, a slight limp impairing his otherwise swift progress.

‘Will Maitland!’ he cried, in obvious astonishment. ‘By all that’s holy! What in the name of goodness are you doing here?’

Grinning widely, Maitland strode quickly to meet him, both hands outstretched to grasp the other man’s.

‘Eddie Catford!’ he said. ‘My dear fellow! I had quite forgotten that your place is hereabouts. How are you, old chum? How’s the leg?’

The Honourable Viscount Edwin Catford beamed back at his ex-army comrade.

‘Not worth a mention, dear friend,’ he replied, with studied nonchalance. ‘But why are you lolling about at the side of the road? Lost your way, old chap?’

‘Very amusing,’ chuckled Maitland, giving the viscount a light-hearted punch in the arm. ‘Actually, I’m heading for Dunchurch, but poor old Pegs picked up a flint a while back, obliging us to rein in for a few minutes.’

‘Oh, bad luck!’ Catford was instant sympathy. ‘Can we take you up?’

He gestured towards his carriage and Maitland, turning, saw that the vehicle held other occupants.

‘That would be useful,’ he confessed, ‘but I see that you have ladies with you—I must not detain you.’

‘Nonsense! They’ll be delighted to meet you,’ avowed Catford, steering his friend to the side of the landau. ‘Ladies, this roadside vagrant is none other than an old comrade from my regiment—one William Maitland, Esquire. Will, allow me to present my cousin, Miss Georgianne Venables, and our neighbour’s granddaughter, Miss Stephanie Highsmith.’

His two young passengers had been consumed with curiosity as to the identity of the stranger but, upon hearing Maitland’s name, the viscount’s cousin’s face lit up with a welcoming smile.

‘Major William Maitland!’ she exclaimed. ‘But surely you are the hero himself?’

‘The very same,’ replied Catford, grinning hugely at his friend’s discomposure. ‘Dragged me from the Jaws of Death without a thought for his own safety…’

‘Cut line, Eddie,’ begged Maitland, laughing. ‘That’s old history now—your servant, ladies.’

Turning, he made his bow to the occupants of the carriage, both of whom regarded him with unconcealed interest, for the tales of Earl Gresham’s son’s exploits in the Peninsula had long held the locals spellbound, and there would have been few who would not have heard of Will Maitland’s daring intervention in what might well have been their young hero’s final action.

Having had his horse shot from under him on the field at Waterloo, the viscount had found himself pinned beneath the dying animal, unable to extricate his shattered leg. Notwithstanding the fact that their company had, by this time, been in hasty retreat, Maitland had wheeled back and leapt from his mount to heave his comrade out of the mud and up on to his own horse’s back. Miraculously avoiding both shot and cannon, he had managed to re-mount and head the animal in a frantic gallop back to their lines, for which courageous action he had been promoted and mentioned in dispatches.

‘Aunt Letty will be overjoyed to finally meet you face to face,’ said Georgianne. ‘She was so full of your bravery when she brought Edwin back from the military hospital at Chatham.’

Maitland smiled. ‘Her ladyship has been kind enough to write to me on several occasions during the past year,’ he replied. ‘I look forward to calling on her.’

‘Which I hope you will do, as soon as may be,’ interrupted Catford. ‘But, for the moment, where are you bound? Tie Pegasus to the rear of the carriage and we will take you up as far as we can—give him a much-needed rest from your tiresome weight, at any rate,’ he added, with a grin.

Maitland, returning the grin, acquainted Catford with his destination. On learning that the viscount was travelling to within two miles of Dunchurch, he gratefully availed himself of his offer and, having secured his mount’s halter to the rear of the landau, climbed into the vacant seat beside his friend.

‘You are bound for Gresham Hall, ladies?’ he enquired with interest, as soon as the coachman had whipped up the horses. ‘May I ask if you live hereabouts?’

Although he had addressed his questions to both of Catford’s female passengers, it was the young lady seated directly opposite him who had captured the better part of his attention.

Whilst Maitland was willing to concede that the viscount’s cousin, with her light brown hair drawn neatly back under a simple chip-straw and her placid grey eyes set in pleasant features, was far from unattractive, her looks paled almost into insignificance when compared with the breathtaking loveliness of Miss Highsmith.

A tumble of golden curls, half-hidden beneath the frivolous confection of a wide-brimmed, beribboned bonnet, framed Stephanie’s utterly bewitching features. As he gazed, wholly entranced, at the girl’s adorable face, complete with cornflower-blue eyes, a pert little nose and the most kissable lips he had ever come across, Maitland found himself instantly captivated.

‘Since Georgianne is also my mother’s ward, Gresham Hall has always been her home,’ replied Catford, on the girls’ behalf. ‘And Lady Highsmith has done us the honour of allowing her granddaughter to stay with us whilst she herself takes the waters at Harrogate.’ He turned to the still slightly bemused Maitland, explaining, ‘My parents are about to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary and we are quite a houseful at the moment. You, of course, will be more than welcome to a bed. Had I known that you intended to be in Warwickshire at this time, I would have invited you earlier. Why are you here, may I ask?’

Hurriedly redirecting his mind to the viscount’s question, Maitland replied, ‘Thanks for the offer, Cat, but I’m racking up in Dunchurch—with my own cousin, as it happens, if he arrives as planned. We’re set on the trail of a long-lost relative of ours who was, apparently, born in these parts—fulfilling a sort of a deathbed promise, you might say.’

‘How intriguing!’ Georgianne leaned forwards, her eyes alight with interest. ‘May we be privy to this search? Or, is it a deep secret?’

‘Well, there are family secrets involved, I must confess, but it is highly probable that in the end I shall be thankful for whatever assistance I can get, Miss Venables,’ replied Maitland with a laugh. ‘The mystery goes back before you were born, I hazard, and I suspect that it will be more of a chore than I had realised. I fear that I shall be poring over old parish records for some weeks to come.’

Stephanie’s pert little nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Oh, that does, indeed, sound boring in the extreme, Mr Maitland—I do hope that you will be able to set aside a little time to come and visit us all at the Hall, as Lord Catford has suggested?’

Although Maitland merely promised that he would do his best, he was inwardly determined that wild horses would not prevent him from furthering his acquaintance with the lovely Miss Highsmith. Now twenty-eight years old, he had, of course, indulged in many light-hearted adventures of the romantic kind but, having spent the previous five years of his life in a somewhat ramshackle military life on the Continent, he had always been careful never to allow himself to become too emotionally involved. For, truth to tell, he thoroughly enjoyed his bachelor existence.

A man of independent means, with a solid family background to his name, he was almost totally lacking in personal conceit, although he could hardly have been unaware that the eyes of many a hopeful mother lit up when he chose to single out their daughters, for he was what was known as a ‘good catch’. In point of fact, though, he had no idea of marrying for some time to come, being perfectly content to spend his days assisting his father in the management of the Maitland family’s large estate in Buckinghamshire and involving himself in the many sporting activities available to gentlemen of his wealth and status. His previous amatory excursions had left his heart more or less unscathed, with the possible exception of that which had involved a certain somewhat exotic demoiselle, to whom he had been obliged to bid a rather reluctant farewell upon his unit’s embarkation from Belgium. A few weeks back in the swing of the victory celebrations in London had soon cured him of that particular malady, however, and, although he had subsequently danced and dined with many a fair damsel, he had not, until this moment, discovered any good reason for altering his single state.

Sitting back, he allowed his eyes to play over the creamy perfection of Stephanie’s complexion and, as he marvelled again at the curling length of the sooty black lashes that framed the deep azure blue of her eyes, the neat little nose and the sweet rosebud lips, a deep sigh seemed to tug at his heart. But then, suddenly conscious that he had, perhaps, been staring at the lady rather longer than was circumspect, he forced himself to drag his gaze away from Stephanie’s all-encompassing loveliness and allowed it to drift across to her companion, only to discover that, if the curve of her lips was anything to go by, Catford’s cousin appeared to be regarding him with a certain amount of amusement.

Feeling somewhat like a naughty schoolboy who had been caught with his hand in the biscuit jar, a slight flush appeared on his face and he hurriedly dropped his gaze and endeavoured to concentrate his attention on the ongoing conversation.

‘His lordship is being most kind,’ Stephanie was enthusing, as she cast a warm smile at the viscount. ‘He has chosen to accompany us on our afternoon excursions almost every day since my arrival—he insists that it is good exercise for him—although I am sure he would rather be off shooting with the other gentlemen.’

‘Not at all, my dear,’ demurred Catford graciously. ‘I’m not yet up to tramping the heath—more than happy to be of service, I assure you.’

‘Cat keeps us entertained with his endless fund of droll anecdotes about his travels,’ said Georgianne, shooting her cousin a fond glance. She had been somewhat taken aback at Maitland’s response to her smile, which had been merely been offered as a gesture of friendliness on her part. His reaction to Stephanie’s loveliness had come as no surprise to her, since it was very little different from that of the majority of others of his sex when they first set eyes upon her friend. Having known Stephanie all her life, Georgianne had learned to regard such behaviour with patient equanimity, experience having shown her that this sort of awestruck admiration was inclined, for the most part, to be fairly short-lived. She was well aware that her friend took such adulation as her due, deriving much enjoyment from playing off one hopeful contender against another. It was not that Georgianne particularly approved of Stephanie’s somewhat cavalier attitude towards her fluctuating band of admirers, but rather that she felt that any man who allowed himself to be treated in such a way was no man at all and must, therefore, deserve all he got. Furthermore, although she had no personal interest in him, she did feel a slight sense of disappointment that the man who had risked his own life to go to her cousin’s aid should turn out to be as shallow as the majority of Stephanie’s previous devotees.

‘You must know the area pretty well, Eddie,’ ventured Maitland, reluctantly hauling his thoughts back to the real reason he had set out on this journey. ‘Do you have you any idea where might I procure a list of the local churchyards? I suppose that ought to be my first objective.’

Catford pursed his lips in thought, then, ‘Reginald Barkworth is your man,’ he nodded. ‘Used to be the curate at the parish church in Dunchurch. Veritable encyclopaedia when it comes to local history—oh, botheration! Here we are at the Willowby turn, old man. Time to bid you farewell, I fear!’

Not at all sorry to extract himself from Georgianne Venables’s somewhat pointed scrutiny, Maitland opened the door, leapt nimbly from the landaulet and untied Pegasus from his tether. Catford leaning out, waited for his friend to mount before adjuring him not to fail to present himself at the Hall with all speed as soon as he was settled in.

‘Reginald Barkworth,’ he called, in reminder, as Maitland turned his horse’s head towards his destination. ‘Tell him I sent you and be sure to let us know how you get on with your quest, dear fellow.’

Maitland had no difficulty in giving his promise, since he had every intention of finding his way to Gresham Hall and the fair Miss Highsmith at the earliest opportunity but then, as he suddenly remembered that he had prevailed upon Chadwick, his man, not to bother to pack his decent dress-clothes, he cursed himself for a fool. Determined to reach the inn in time to send off for reinforcements to his meagre wardrobe, he reluctantly waved farewell to his travelling companions and set off up the turnpike.

Chapter Three

Georgianne viewed Maitland’s departing figure with an odd mixture of curiosity and disappointment.

‘It will be very pleasant for you to have Mr Maitland’s company again after so many months, Eddie,’ she then observed.

‘Capital fellow,’ replied the viscount enthusiastically. ‘Served with him for almost five years. A superb horseman and very handy in a bare-knuckle spar, he can shoot out a pip at twenty-five feet and hold his liquor with the best of them!’

Georgianne’s lips twitched. ‘High recommendations, to be sure!’

Catford laughed. ‘Perhaps not to the ladies, dear coz—but I, for one, will never forget that I owe Will Maitland my life.’

His eyes grew bleak momentarily and there was a heavy silence. Stephanie sighed and a small frown creased her brow as Georgianne leant once more towards the viscount.

‘You never speak about those times, Eddie,’ she said in a tentative voice. ‘I know that they must have been very bad, for Uncle Charles allowed me to read some of the dispatches.’

Stephanie shot a fulminating glance towards her friend.

‘I’m sure Edwin would rather not be reminded of his dreadful experiences, Georgianne,’ she said pointedly. ‘I have never understood why he felt it necessary to join the military in the first place—but, now that he is home again, it is surely finished with and best forgotten, I believe.’

‘It certainly doesn’t do to dwell on the matter,’ agreed Catford, quickly recovering his composure and smiling across at his young companions. ‘As to forgetting, of course, I shall be hard pressed to do that while I still have this gammy leg—but Stephanie is quite right, Georgie. War is not a suitable topic for social discourse and, most certainly, never for young ladies’ ears.’

Ignoring Georgianne’s affronted expression at this last remark, he turned the conversation to the coming celebrations and listened with cheerful interest as Stephanie, her face glowing with delight, described in detail the utter perfection of her newest gown.

‘And you, Georgie?’ he enquired, in a teasing voice. ‘What stunning creation has Madame produced for you?’

Georgianne laughed, her good humour immediately restored. ‘You know perfectly well that I do not have Steffi’s enthusiasm for such matters, Eddie. Madame Henri and I have reached an understanding and I am usually very happy with her work.’

‘I find it quite extraordinary that Georgianne never takes even the tiniest bit of interest in the latest fashions,’ said Stephanie, complacently smoothing the pleats of her smart blue velvet carriage-dress. ‘I swear that she’d wear the same outfit on every occasion if someone did not take her in hand!’

But her eyes twinkled at her friend as she spoke and Georgianne smilingly nodded in agreement.

‘Very probably,’ she said, looking down at her own well-worn, but still perfectly serviceable russet-coloured pelisse. ‘I like to be comfortable; provided that I don’t look an absolute fright, then I’m perfectly happy!’

Catford grinned. ‘I’d like to be at that unlikely event, dear cousin, but I cannot see it ever happening. Both of you always look quite delightful and you will no doubt be surrounded by the usual bevy of admirers fighting to be included on your cards. I dare say I might be amongst them if my leg holds out—I could probably manage the odd stately minuet.’

Stephanie giggled deliciously. ‘I doubt if anyone can remember the steps,’ she said. ‘The waltz is all the rage nowadays. How odd to think that only two years ago it was considered shocking and young ladies were forbidden to dance it in public!’

‘You will allow, then, that the war was of some benefit to society?’ said Catford, his lips twitching in amusement. ‘At least our success in importing the German dance seems to have won your approval. Sadly, I fear that it will be too strenuous for me at present, but I look forward in great anticipation to seeing the pair of you twirling about the room.’

‘A full-dress ball, at long last!’ breathed Stephanie rapturously. ‘I had almost given up hope of ever attending a real one! I am so grateful that you managed to persuade Grandmama to allow me to stay at the Hall for the month, Georgie—the thought of yet another season in Harrogate was beginning to drive me quite insane!’

‘It is Aunt Letty who really deserves your thanks,’ demurred Georgianne. ‘She was the one who eventually convinced Lady Highsmith that she would benefit much more from her visit to her sister in Yorkshire if she did not have to concern herself with having to see that you were sufficiently entertained.’

‘I have been forced to endure Harrogate’s so-called “entertainments” ever since I was sixteen years of age,’ grimaced Stephanie. ‘They consist of morning promenades to the pump-room, afternoon visits to Grandmama’s dreary old acquaintances and long, tedious evenings at the card tables.’

‘But you did get to attend the assemblies last year,’ her friend reminded her, with a smile. ‘I seem to recall you mentioning that a rather dashing young lieutenant paid you a great deal of attention!’

‘Richard Loxley,’ Stephanie nodded glumly, ‘He was quite sweet but, as usual, Grandmama did her utmost to discourage him—it sometimes seems as if she cannot bear to see me enjoying myself!’

‘Oh, come now, Stephanie!’ protested Catford, who had been following the girl’s conversation with polite interest. ‘You are being a little hard on Lady Highsmith, surely! Whilst it is certainly true that your grandmother takes her role as your guardian rather more seriously than would some, you cannot fault her for her generosity. Only five minutes ago you were describing to me the “simply gorgeous” ballgown that Madame Henri—whose creations, I might add, are hardly cheap—has produced for you. If her ladyship discouraged one of your suitors, you may be sure that she had very good reason for doing so.’

‘Yes, but she always discourages all of them,’ pouted Stephanie. ‘That is why I was so astonished when she actually agreed to let me stay with you this year. She normally never lets me out of her sight for more than five minutes at a time!’

‘Her ladyship is merely concerned for your welfare,’ put in Catford gently, as he reached across to press her hand. ‘Having devoted the best part of her life to caring for young ladies whose lives have been less fortunate that your own, she is probably more aware than most of the dangers that might easily befall one who is as lovely as you are, my dear.’

Although she was not remiss in offering the viscount a tremulous smile in recognition of his compliment, Stephanie could not forbear from thinking that it was all very well for those whose lives were as free as a bird’s to chastise her for grumbling about her own rather more restricted one. After all, she reasoned to herself, none of the viscount’s family had been obliged to suffer her grandmother’s long-term dedication to her Refuge for Genteel Ladies in Distress—or Home for Unmarried Mothers, as some of the less enlightened members of the local populace tended to refer to Highsmith House. Highly commendable though Lady Highsmith’s commitment to her project might be, it did seem to carry with it the unfortunate side effect of causing the home’s founder to be uncommonly strict as regarded her granddaughter’s upbringing. And, even though she had taken extreme measures to ensure that the girl was shielded from the more unsavoury aspects involved in overseeing the welfare of the continual stream of those young ladies who were housed in the west wing of the building—referring to them only as “our guests”—it would have been difficult, if not downright impossible, for an inquisitive child, such as Stephanie had always been, not to have learned the real truth of the situation.

Owing to the fact that Georgianne’s aunt, Lady Letitia Gresham, served on Lady Highsmith’s board of trustees, the two girls had been acquainted since early childhood. Having both been orphaned at birth, it was hardly surprising that they should have forged the bonds of friendship, even though their temperaments could hardly have been more different.

Not long after the two girls were out of leading-strings, it had been arranged between their guardians that Stephanie would take her lessons with Georgianne, in the schoolroom at Gresham Hall, and this she had done until both girls had turned eighteen. Georgianne’s subsequent departure to London to make her formal début into the high society to which her family belonged, had filled her lifelong friend with both envy and rage, since Lady Highsmith had flatly refused to countenance the countess’s very generous offer to bring the two girls out together.

Her grandmother’s inexplicable refusal to allow her to accompany the Greshams to London had come as a bitter blow to Stephanie for, as with a certain amount of resentment, she had quickly pointed out to her friend, it was not as though the old lady was short of funds. ‘It is all part and parcel of her refusal to admit that I have a good deal more common sense than any of those pathetic creatures to whom she devotes so much of her time!’ she had complained at the time.

‘I hardly think that sense has had a lot to do with any of your grandmama’s ladies’ falls from grace,’ Georgianne had mused. ‘I am rather inclined to the belief that they simply allowed their hearts to overrule their heads.’

‘Allowed themselves to be totally taken in by some mendacious philanderer, you mean!’ Stephanie had retorted scornfully, ignoring her friend’s pained expression. ‘Well, I for one, find it extremely galling to discover that my own grandmother appears to labour under the misconception that I am going to throw myself into the arms of the first man who crosses my path!’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ Georgianne had pointed out, with a smile and a shake of the head. ‘Especially if you were to fall in love.’

‘Fall in love!’ her friend had scoffed. ‘You do talk such nonsense at times, Georgianne! I have no intention of ever indulging in such a feeble-minded activity! Why limit one’s favours to just the one gentleman when there is so much more satisfaction to be gained from having several of them at a time vying for one’s attention?’

‘Well, if the various routs and assemblies we have attended this past year have been anything to go by,’ the laughing Georgianne had then replied, ‘there have certainly been more than enough of them queuing up to vie for yours!’

‘Local squires’ sons and impoverished preachers!’ Stephanie had sniffed disparagingly. ‘Just think how many earls and viscounts I might have added to the list had not Grandmama been so adamant in her refusal.’ Then, having extracted herself from her friend’s sudden but heartfelt hug of sympathy, she had added, somewhat despondently, ‘By the time this Season is over, Georgianne, I predict that you will have netted a peer of your own and will be all set for your big society wedding, while it seems more than likely that I shall be stuck in this boring backwater for the rest of my days. Life is so unfair!’

Three years had passed since she had made that prediction, however, and, as the Gresham carriage rolled up the winding drive towards the Hall’s front door, Stephanie found herself recalling how very astonished she had been when Georgianne had, in fact, returned from her sojourn in town not only quite unattached but, as it happened, several weeks earlier than had been anticipated. Short of a rather brief and terse account of her presentation at Clarence House, and, despite Stephanie’s eager questioning, Georgianne had proved strangely unwilling to satisfy her friend’s curiosity as to the success or otherwise of her London début. In addition to which, there had been no further talk of any future Seasons for Lady Letitia’s niece.

Stephanie had been forced to deduce that some distressing event must have occurred to change the formerly positive and fully self-confident Georgianne from the girl that she had once been to the much quieter and far more reserved female that she was today. Whilst it was true that rare glimpses of her friend’s once quite infectious sense of humour might still be occasionally observed, it saddened Stephanie to think that the girl whom she had always regarded as her soulmate no longer chose to confide in her.

Later that same evening, as she sat on Georgianne’s bed, watching her friend brushing back her soft brown waves into the rather severe chignon that she favoured nowadays, a small frown marred Stephanie’s smooth brow, as she pondered over the fact that Georgianne had surely had more than enough time to get over the unexplained mystery surrounding her London début.

‘How is it that you never let your maid see to your hair, Georgianne?’ she asked, fingering her own bright locks. ‘Emily always thinks up such clever arrangements.’

‘Too true,’ nodded Georgianne, as she jabbed another hairpin into place. ‘The trouble is that she chooses to ignore my specific requests and will insist upon arguing for “just the odd little tendril here” or for “softening the line just there”—to use her expressions—while I myself prefer this much less troublesome and, to my mind, far neater style.’

‘I recall a time when your ringlets were even longer than my own,’ Stephanie reminded her. ‘We used to measure each other’s every month, to see whose had grown the most, do you remember?’

‘Yours always seemed to grow far more quickly during the summer months, as I recall,’ said Georgianne, a little smile playing about her lips. ‘My own hair, for some obscure reason, appears to favour the springtime.’

‘Am I right in thinking that it was after you came back from London that you decided upon this particular style?’ asked Stephanie, adopting a deliberately casual tone whilst, at the same time, appearing to give her full attention to a minor adjustment to the low-cut bodice of her dinner gown.

A slight frown flitted across Georgianne’s brow and a wary expression crept into her eyes. ‘You probably are,’ she murmured, as she reached for her gloves and rose from her seat. ‘I really cannot recall the exact occasion.’

‘Well, I can, Georgianne!’ retorted Stephanie crossly, as she leapt to her feet and planted herself squarely in front of her friend. ‘It’s been over three years now—surely we have been friends long enough for you to trust me with whatever happened then to change you so!’

Georgianne let out a deep sigh. ‘Honestly, Steffi,’ she protested, ‘I swear you are like a dog with a bone over this matter. No sooner do I think that I have cast it all out of my mind than you insist upon bringing up the whole beastly affair once again.’ Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she gave a resigned shrug, lowered herself down on to her bed and motioned to her friend to join her. ‘What happened was really nothing so very dreadful,’ she began tentatively. ‘I fancied myself in love and so was over the moon when he—the gentleman concerned—petitioned my uncle for my hand in marriage. But then, on the very day that our engagement was due to be announced in the Post, my suitor begged to be excused!’

‘Oh, how truly ghastly for you!’ cried Stephanie, instantly reaching out to clasp her friend’s hand in sympathy. ‘But, did the dastardly creature give you no reason for his craven withdrawal?’

‘He wasn’t such a dastardly creature really,’ said Georgianne, with a wan smile. ‘In fact, I would have been prepared to swear that his intentions were totally sincere. Sadly, however, it transpired that my—er, lineage—was not up to the standard that the gentleman required in a wife and he therefore felt himself obliged to withdraw his suit.’

‘But, that is ridiculous!’ exclaimed her friend, her eyebrows raised in astonishment. ‘Your lineage, as you call it, must be second to none! The Venables family history goes back hundreds of years—even the royals themselves could not claim a more distinguished pedigree!’ She paused, frowning in contemplation, then, drawing in a deep breath, she asked excitedly, ‘Was that it, Georgianne? Was your reluctant suitor a member of the royal family?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Georgianne hastened to assure her. Then, rising to her feet once more, she added, ‘It really would be better if you forgot everything that I have told you this evening, Steffi. Since the gentleman in question swore never to disparage my name, I feel that he too is entitled to assume that his identity will remain my secret.’

‘Hardly a gentleman, in my opinion!’ sniffed Stephanie. ‘Especially since you seem to have been carrying a torch for him all this time—’

‘Oh, no, Steffi!’ Georgianne interrupted hurriedly. ‘You may relieve yourself upon that score, at least! I ceased to think of his—him—in that particular way some time ago. Further to which, I understand that the gentleman has since found himself a wife who would appear to have all the necessary qualifications.’

But then, as she fixed a stern eye upon her friend, she added quietly, ‘Now that I have done my best to satisfy your curiosity, you must give me your promise that you will never refer the matter again.’

‘But, of course you have my promise,’ returned Stephanie, somewhat affronted that her friend should even consider otherwise. ‘Although, I must confess that I still find it hard to understand why the matter should have wrought such a change in you.’

‘I am bound to admit that the whole unfortunate business did have rather a sobering effect on me,’ returned Georgianne, with a shrug, as the two friends made their way down the magnificent oak staircase to join the rest of the countess’s guests. ‘Which was due, most probably, to my self-esteem having suffered rather a setback!’ At the foot of the staircase, she paused momentarily then, with a slightly rueful smile, added, ‘It certainly taught me that it does not do to take anything for granted.’

Just as I had always done until that time, she recollected, with an inward shudder, as they walked across the marble-tiled floor towards the drawing-room.

Whilst it was true that Lord Tatler’s retraction of his offer of marriage had affected her greatly, her initial distress had been as nothing compared to the painful humiliation that she had felt on being made aware of the real reason that lay behind her suitor’s reluctant withdrawal. Her uncle’s somewhat embarrassed explanation that she had, in fact, been born before her parents had exchanged any marriage vows had delivered a devastating blow to her self-confidence, and was certainly not something that she would ever be prepared to share with Stephanie, no matter how much her friend might tease and cajole her!

As a result of her uncle’s disclosures and despite her aunt’s protests to the contrary, Georgianne had, forthwith, resigned herself to a life of spinsterhood. Having already known the pain of rejection, she had done her best to protect her heart from any further such damage. While she had always been perfectly charming and agreeably polite to every one of the several prospective suitors who had attempted to win her hand during the past three years, she had been equally dogged in her determination that the unfortunate facts of her birth should not become common currency and had, thus far, refused to allow her heart to be swayed by any of those young men’s eager blandishments.

Nevertheless, as she found herself wistfully recalling, for perhaps the third or fourth time that evening, the rapt look that had appeared on Will Maitland’s countenance, as he had sat drinking in Stephanie’s loveliness, it was with considerable difficulty that she managed to control the sudden longing that welled up inside her, its very presence threatening to destroy her hard-won equanimity.

Chapter Four

Leaping from his mount, Maitland passed the reins to a waiting ostler and was just about to make his way into the Dun Cow when he heard a voice from the far side of the stableyard calling out his name. Turning swiftly, he beheld a very familiar face from his not-so-distant past.

‘Sergeant Andrews!’ he grinned, reaching forwards to grasp the other man’s outstretched hand. ‘What in the name of fortune are you doing here? I was under the impression that you hailed from Essex!’

Pete Andrews, an ex-sergeant from Maitland’s own Light Cavalry regiment, was a tall, lanky individual whose once-handsome features had been severely marred by the vicious sabre slash that he had received while on the field at Waterloo.

‘Didn’t fancy goin’ back home with this ’ere, guv,’ he grunted, ruefully fingering the puckered scar that ran diagonally across his face. ‘Frighten my poor Rosie to death, so it would!’

‘You would rather that your wife believed you dead?’ exclaimed the astonished Maitland. ‘But what about your children—you have two young sons, I believe?’

‘Aye, that I have.’ Andrews nodded, his bright blue eyes clouding over. ‘Tommy and Billy—ain’t set eyes on the pair of ’em for nigh on four years now—but I do my best to send ’em all bits of cash whenever I gets the chance, guv!’

‘Very commendable, Andrews,’ returned his former major, raising an eyebrow. ‘However, I would be prepared to gamble that your good lady would as lief have your presence, rather than your pennies!’

‘Not possible at the moment, guv,’ shrugged Andrews. ‘Us old soldiers ’ave got to go where we can find the work—two of my old muckers are up ’ere, too, as it ’appens. I dare say you’ll, no doubt, recall Privates Skinner and Todd?’

‘Only too well, Andrews!’ replied Maitland, with a reminiscent grin, as he brought to mind the pair of rather shady individuals to whom his ex-sergeant had referred. Although they had always been up to some devilry or other, their ingenuity at ferreting out provisions for the communal pot had been second to none. Had it not been for the pair’s amazing scavenging abilities, there had been more than a few occasions when he and his men might well have been forced to face the enemy with empty stomachs.

‘So, what brought you to this part of the country?’ he enquired.

‘Matty Skinner used to work ’ere when ’e were a lad,’ explained Andrews. ‘Put in a word for us, so ’e did—seems coachin’ inns can always find work for them as knows their way round ’orses.’

‘Well, your employers will surely not be able to fault you on that score, Sergeant,’ nodded Maitland, as he turned to go. ‘I just wish you would give some more thought to returning to your family.’ Then, after a thoughtful pause, he added, ‘I dare say I could find you a place in my own stables—probably run to a cottage, too, if needed. What do you say?’

At first, the man’s eyes appeared to light up in eager interest but then, after a brief hesitation, he gave a careless shrug, saying, ‘Thanks for the offer, Guv; I’ll certainly bear it in mind!’

Later that same evening, Maitland, comfortably ensconced in the small parlour that had been set aside for his private use, swirled the remnants of the brandy in his glass and, gazing down into the amber liquid, spent some little while ruminating over the day’s happenings. That his ex-sergeant had not immediately jumped at his offer of employment had surprised him somewhat, since it would seem that the man, if his almost skeletal frame and shabby appearance were anything to go by, could hardly be earning enough to support himself, let alone contribute to his deserted family’s welfare. Sipping thoughtfully at his drink, Maitland could only suppose that, in order to send them any meaningful amount, Andrews must be reduced to sleeping above the stables and taking what he could get, in the way of sustenance, from the inn’s kitchens. Shaking his head at the man’s baffling obstinacy, Maitland then turned his mind to the far more pleasurable subject of the deliciously lovely Miss Highsmith and wondered whether the following afternoon would be considered too early to pay the promised visit to Gresham Hall.

As luck would have it, however, shortly before noon on the following day, the Honourable Jeremy, complete with valet, arrived, along with one very large trunk and several bulging valises strapped to the rear of his smart chaise. This quickly put an end to Maitland’s plans to ride over to Gresham Hall and so, leaving Pringle to organise his master’s belongings, Maitland invited his cousin to accompany him down to the parlour, called for two bumpers of ale and proceeded to share with him the meagre bits of information that he had already manage to obtain from his previous day’s enquiries.

‘Sounds as if this Barkworth fellow could be worth a visit.’ mused Fenton, as soon as Maitland had concluded his short report. ‘Sure to be able to tell us where we might find nuns, at any rate.’ And, tossing back the remains of his drink, he got to his feet, saying, ‘Let’s get on with it, then—nothing like striking while the iron’s hot, as the saying goes!’

Accordingly, the cousins presented themselves at Reginald Barkworth’s little cottage, which was situated close to the parish church at which he had once been incumbent, and were ushered into the cramped and dusty room that the elderly cleric had designated as his office. Hurriedly removing the untidy piles of papers and books from the decidedly rickety-looking chairs upon which they had been perched, he invited the two men to make themselves comfortable.

‘Sit down, sit down, please, gentlemen,’ he exhorted them, taking his own seat behind a desk that was covered in such an assortment of miscellaneous clutter that Maitland, who was a great believer in orderly arrangement, began to doubt whether this shaggy-haired venerable could possibly have anything to impart to them that might help them in their quest.

* * *

Half an hour later, however, he realised that his doubts were unfounded for Barkworth proved to be, as Catford had informed him, an inexhaustible fount of local history and folklore. However, since the elderly curate was only too eager to impart to his listeners far more on the subject than they might have wished to learn and was, clearly, not to be hurried, Maitland resigned himself to listening patiently to his host’s apparently inexhaustible supply of local anecdotes.

The Honourable Jeremy, however, was in no mood to prolong what seemed to him to be an extremely dull and tedious waste of time. ‘Yes, yes, most interesting,’ he muttered, fastidiously brushing away the particles of dust that settled upon his new yellow pantaloons every time Barkworth moved a book or lifted a map to point out yet another fascinating detail in relation to one of his stories. ‘But it’s churchyards we came to see you about—gravestones and suchlike—it’s nuns we’re looking for, ain’t it, Maitland?’

As Maitland shot his cousin a disapproving glance, the old curate pursed his lips and regarded Fenton with a frown.

‘If it’s nuns you’re after, my boy,’ he said scathingly, ‘I doubt that you’ll find any hereabouts. All the local priories and convents were disbanded a good many years ago, even though several of the villages, such as Priors Kirkby and Monkswell, still carry their original names. Even the old Mercy Houses, which the Poor Clares ran, gradually fell out of use well before the turn of this century.’

‘Poor Clares?’ Maitland asked with interest, while Fenton heaved another sigh and gazed dispiritedly out of the begrimed window beside which he was seated.

The cleric nodded and a wide smile lit up his cragged face.

‘Aye, that’s what they called them,’ he said reminiscently. ‘The Ladies of St Clare, to give them their proper title—part of what was left of the Franciscan order, I understand. Lived in small groups, helping the needy and tending the sick—usual kind of thing, but they wouldn’t accept payment, hence the name.’

‘And were there any such Mercy Houses in the vicinity of Dunchurch?’ asked Maitland eagerly, convinced that he had, at last, hit upon something that might prove useful.

‘More than likely,’ nodded Barkworth. ‘Couldn’t advertise themselves, of course, being of the Roman faith—which, in those days, was like waving a red rag to a bull in certain sections of the community.’

After studying his visitors thoughtfully for some minutes, he dipped his quill into the inkwell and began to scratch out some names on a piece of paper.

‘Try these, he said. ‘Most of these village churches do have their own curates but, as to whether they will be able to lay their hands on such records, is hard to say. Nice little churchyards some of them have, too— worth a look, at any event.’

Having succeeded in scattering sand over paper, desk and floor before eventually passing the list to Maitland, he then rose stiffly to escort the two men to the street door, dismissing Maitland’s grateful thanks with a careless wave of his hand.

‘Happy to be of service, my dear boy,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t hesitate to come and see me again if there is anything further you require.’

‘Doubt if the old fool has had such a captive audience for years,’ muttered Fenton, as the cousins made their way back cross the street to their hostelry. ‘Shouldn’t think that room’s seen so much as a duster since the blessed Gunpowder Plot itself!’

Maitland laughed. ‘You could be right there,’ he nodded, in cheerful acquiescence. ‘Nevertheless, it is just faintly possible that our loquacious friend might well have provided us with some rather useful information.’ And, indicating the list in his hand, he then enthused, ‘These villages, for instance—I see that Willowby is amongst them—an ex-military friend of mine lives in that vicinity—promised I’d look him up, if I got the chance. Fancy a trip over there tomorrow morning, Jerry?’

‘Consider me at your service, dear boy,’ returned his cousin, carefully picking his way across the straw- strewn forecourt of the Dun Cow. ‘Only too happy to let you organise this campaign in whatever way you see fit—wouldn’t have the vaguest idea where to start, meself!’

And so it was that, shortly after eleven o’clock the following morning, the Honourable Jeremy’s well- sprung chaise, along with both of the cousins, found its way to Gresham Hall, which turned out to be an imposing early Georgian residence situated on a small rise on the far side of Greenborough village.

‘Fancy-looking pile,’ remarked Fenton enviously, as he brought the carriage to a halt at the foot of the Hall’s front steps. ‘Worth a pretty penny, I’ll be bound.’

Having been alerted by the sounds of their approaching vehicle, a stable lad appeared from the rear of the property to take hold of the horses’ heads, while the two men jumped to the ground and ascended the steps up to the wide front door, which was quickly opened by a tall, stately-looking individual, dressed in plum-coloured livery.

Upon learning the identity of the visitors, the manservant’s haughty demeanour vanished immediately, to be replaced by an expression of deep respect.

‘Mr William Maitland!’ he exclaimed, in an almost reverent tone of voice, as he ushered the pair into the large black-and-white tiled hallway. ‘May I say what a great privilege it is to come face to face with you at last, sir!’

‘Good of you to say so,’ murmured Maitland, not a little embarrassed at the serving man’s effusive attitude, which must stem, as he now realised, from his having learnt about the part he himself had played in his young master’s rescue and recovery.

To his further consternation, the elderly butler then thrust out his hand, saying, ‘Allow me to shake you by the hand, sir! Oswald Moffat, at your service, sir!’

Reaching out to take hold of the other man’s hand in a firm and friendly grip, Maitland could only pray that he was not about to be subjected to this sort of unwanted adulation from very many more of Earl Gresham’s staff.

Inclining his head, he said graciously, ‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Moffat. Perhaps you would see if her ladyship is receiving visitors this morning?’

Hurriedly remembering his place, the manservant gave a courteous bow and, after showing the two men into an anteroom, bade them to take a seat. Then, after bowing to Maitland once again, he exited, his eyes alight with pleasure, as he hurried to impart the good news of the hero’s arrival, not only to his mistress, but also to his colleagues below stairs.

‘What the devil was that all about?’ demanded Fenton, in astonishment, as soon as the door had closed behind the departing butler. ‘Damned funny way for a servant to go on, if you ask me!’

‘’Fraid it looks as though we might have to put up with quite a bit of that sort of thing,’ said Maitland, with a rueful grin. ‘Cat seems to have put it about that I had a hand in saving his life.’

‘Seems there’s no end to your blessed talents, Will!’ exclaimed Fenton, eyeing his cousin sourly.

‘Stow that, Jerry!’ returned Maitland, reddening slightly. ‘I only did what any fellow would have done in the circumstances, which hardly warrants remarks of that sort, surely?’

Fenton gave a careless shrug. ‘If that butler chap’s performance is anything to go by,’ he observed, ‘it strikes me that the odd sarcastic remark from yours truly might well serve to help keep your feet on the ground!’

Before Maitland could reply, a soft tap on the door heralded Moffat’s return and the two men were escorted up the stairs to the morning room, where a smiling Countess Gresham, her son at her side, was eagerly awaiting their arrival.

‘My dear Mr Maitland!’ she exclaimed, rising from her seat and hurrying forwards to greet him. ‘I have so wanted to meet you face to face! How can I ever thank you for saving my son’s life?’

Doing his best to ignore his cousin’s disdainful sniff, Maitland reached forwards and took Lady Letitia’s outstretched hands into his own. ‘Eddie is my friend,’ he said gently. Then, looking up and catching sight of the viscount’s sober expression, he added, ‘Had the roles been reversed, I know that he would have done nothing less!’

Tears glistened in her eyes as, releasing her hands from his clasp, the countess threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. ‘You dear, dear boy!’ she cried. ‘I beg that you will always consider Gresham Hall as a second home!’ And, raising herself on tiptoe, she reached up and kissed him on his cheek.

Maitland returned her hug in much the same way as he was often wont to embrace his own mother and, after allowing her a few moments to regain control of herself, led the countess back to her seat. Then, having complied with her request that both he and his cousin should sit themselves down, he enquired as to the whereabouts of her ladyship’s other guests.

‘My father took several of the gentlemen out on a drag-hunt early this morning,’ answered Catford, on his mother’s behalf. ‘The rest of our party are sunning themselves in the garden.’

‘We were out there ourselves until Moffat brought news of your arrival,’ added the countess, with a warm smile. ‘But I did so want to speak with you alone before you were besieged by the others.’

‘I trust that you are making a jest, your ladyship!’ exclaimed Maitland, in horror, doing his best to ignore the nearby viscount’s smothered laugh. ‘I must assure you that I have no desire to be besieged by anyone!’

‘Then I fear that I shall have to apologise in advance, my dear boy,’ returned Lady Letitia, leaning forwards to pat his hand. ‘Your exploits have become somewhat legendary within the family. It would be well nigh impossible for me to try to prevent any of them from wanting to shake you by the hand and offer you their thanks. If you could just grin and bear it for a few minutes, I promise you that it will soon be over and done with!’

Assuring the countess that he would do his best, Maitland rose and, offering her his arm, led her out of the room and down the stairs. Fenton, whose earlier fit of pettishness had not been improved by her ladyship having, apart from her initial greeting, virtually ignored his presence, followed the pair, unaware that his revulsion at the thought of having to stand by and witness Maitland basking in hero-worship was not entirely dissimilar to his cousin’s own feelings at being obliged to submit to it.

Chapter Five

Some little while later, having endured all the effusive praise and hearty backslapping with as much good nature as it was possible for him to bring to bear in such trying circumstances, Maitland was at last released from his ordeal and allowed to catch his breath. Stepping down from the terrace, he swept his eyes across the manicured lawns in search of Stephanie who, along with Georgianne, had desisted from joining in the general mêlée that had greeted the cousins’ arrival. Eventually, having spotted her sitting in the shade of a large chestnut tree on the far side of the garden, he was just about to make his way over to her, his heart thumping in joyful anticipation when, with a start of annoyance, he perceived that the Honourable Jeremy had already forestalled him. Miss Highsmith, if her mischievous glances and ripples of laughter were anything to go by, appeared to be very much impressed by Fenton’s blond good looks and well-practised charm. And, as he watched Stephanie picking up her sketchbook and executing a few swift strokes with her pencil, Maitland could not help but notice that three or four of the other young men of the company had also started to drift over in her direction.

Since he could not bring himself to be merely one amongst the many of those who had congregated about the clearly popular Miss Highsmith, he sauntered across to another part of the gardens to join Catford, who was engaged in a spirited conversation with his cousin Georgianne.

‘Ah, there you are, Will!’ cried the viscount, with a huge grin. ‘Finally managed to stave off your devoted admirers, I see!’

‘No thanks to you, dear friend!’ grunted Maitland, as he threw himself down on the grass next to his ex- comrade. ‘Next time you’ve a mind to fall off your horse, kindly call on someone else to drag you out of trouble!’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, old chap!’ chuckled the viscount, with a sly wink at Georgianne.

Although her lips curved in amusement as she listened to the two comrades’ teasing repartee, Georgianne, who was well aware that her cousin’s affable friend would far rather be sitting next to Stephanie than where he was at present, was unable to hold back the slight pang of longing that had suddenly invaded her heart. Bending her head, she tried to concentrate her mind on the piece of sewing that, for some time now, had lain idle in her lap but, even as she proceeded to execute the small neat stitches, she found her attention wandering across to where Maitland lay sprawled elegantly on the grass beside the viscount.

What a very fine physique the fellow has, she thought admiringly, as her eyes swept over him. How broad his shoulders are! But then, as she found herself dwelling rather too long upon how well his breeches clung to his muscular thighs, her face grew quite hot and she rummaged hurriedly in the basket beside her in search of the small fan that she always carried.

Noticing her sudden discomfort but, unaware of the true reason behind it, Catford scrambled to his feet, saying, ‘This sun getting a bit too much for you, Georgie? Let me fetch you a cooling glass of Mrs Barnet’s lemonade.’ And, looking down at his friend, he added, ‘What about you, Will? Fancy a drop of ale?’

After intimating that a glass of ale would, indeed, be most welcome, Maitland raised himself from his prone position and, casually draping his arms over his drawn-up knees, focussed his attention upon the opposite side of the lawn, where Stephanie was still holding court to her rapt audience.

Georgianne, having observed his melancholy demeanour, could not help but feel a flash of compassion for him. ‘Poor Mr Maitland,’ she said gently. ‘Stephanie has so many admirers—you will need to arrive at a much earlier hour if you wish to be first in line!’

At her words, Maitland gave a sudden start and an embarrassed flush began to cover his cheeks, but then, having realised that there was little point in denying the obvious, he gave a dismissive shrug, saying ‘So it appears! I did hope to get the chance to ask her if she would care to join me in an early morning ride tomorrow morning—but it looks as though I shall have to settle for writing her a note, instead.’ Then, getting to his feet, he turned to go, saying, ‘If you will excuse me, Miss Venables, I believe I shall go in search of Catford, in order to ascertain where I might lay my hands on some writing materials.’

Georgianne’s smile did not waver, nor did her expression betray her inner disappointment. ‘You will find paper and ink a-plenty in the library,’ she said brightly, indicating one of the sets of doors leading out on to the terrace above them. ‘Pens, too, I should think, for I mended several myself only yesterday. Do, please, go and write your note and, if you care to trust me with its delivery, I shall see that Stephanie receives it at the first possible opportunity.’ Then, pausing, as a slight frown puckered her brow, she added hesitantly, ‘However, I do feel that it is only fair to warn you in advance that Miss Highsmith does not, in fact, ride!’

Maitland’s steps faltered and he turned back to face her. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, staring down at her in astonishment, for this was a possibility that had certainly never crossed his mind. ‘Did I really hear you say that Miss Highsmith does not ride?’

Georgianne nodded. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied, with a sympathetic smile. ‘She took a tumble when she was just a child and has refused to mount ever since— she actually has a great fear of horses, although she does enjoy being driven about the countryside. Perhaps you could invite her to take a ride in your carriage, instead?’

Maitland’s heart sank. ‘Unfortunately, as you are no doubt aware, I travelled up to Warwickshire on horseback. And the carriage in which we drove here this morning belongs to my cousin.’ He nodded towards Fenton, who was still in the thick of those enjoying the exquisite Stephanie’s favours. ‘It should be possible to hire one, I suppose,’ he went on, more to himself than to his companion. ‘It’s getting one’s hands on a halfway decent one that might pose the biggest problem, though.’

Weighing up the various pros and cons of the unexpected dilemma, he stared moodily across the lawn, a hot spurt of jealousy running through him every time Stephanie bestowed her vivacious smile upon one of her admirers. But then, suddenly conscious of Georgianne’s eyes on him, he remembered his manners and, hurriedly collecting himself, lowered himself to the ground at her side.

‘And how about yourself, Miss Venables?’ he asked, more out of politeness than from any real interest. ‘May I take it that you do not share your friend’s aversion?’

‘Oh, absolutely not!’ replied Georgianne, her eyes immediately lighting up and, to Maitland’s surprise, completely transforming her face. ‘It is quite my most favourite pastime and one that I indulge in at every possible opportunity. Uncle Charles—Lord Gresham, I should say—has only just recently purchased the most delightful new mare for me—I had quite outgrown my dear old Meg. Fortunately, we have no need to put her out to pasture quite just yet, since she is so gentle that Cat’s two sisters are perfectly happy to trust her with their youngsters.’

A smile crept across Maitland’s face. ‘I have been fortunate enough to hang on to my own Pegasus for more than six years now,’ he said, in reply. ‘I have other mounts, of course, but none so dear to me. One grows so attached.’

Georgianne gave an enthusiastic nod. ‘Oh, I do so agree,’ she said fervently. ‘I have to confess that I already find myself sharing many a secret with Puss!’

His smile deepened. ‘Puss? An unusual name for a mare, surely?’

Catching his twinkle, she returned the smile. ‘Her name is Olympus really, but it became too much of a mouthful when I was urging her over a seven-footer, so she became Puss, which does seem to suit her temperament rather well, I feel.’

‘I’m sure that it does,’ he returned, somewhat absentmindedly, for his eyes had strayed once more to the group on the far side of the lawn.

Swallowing her regret at his sudden change of manner, Georgianne refused to allow her disappointment to show. ‘Steffi enjoys many other pastimes,’ she said stoutly. ‘She sketches and paints quite beautifully and plays the pianoforte far better than anyone I know. And, look—’

Reaching over into the basket by her side, she drew out a carefully folded piece of material and held it out for his inspection. ‘Her embroidery is perfectly exquisite.’

Somewhat taken aback, Maitland eyed the small flannel garment that she was holding up to him. ‘What is it?’ he asked curiously. ‘It looks not unlike a doll’s petticoat!’

‘It’s to be a nightdress, silly!’ She laughed and, seeing his lack of comprehension, pointed to the pile of garments in her sewing basket. ‘A newborn babe’s nightdress—we sew them for Lady Highsmith’s charity home, only…’ as, with a self-conscious smile, she hurriedly folded the small garment and returned it to her basket ‘…I fear that I am no embroiderer—a simple seamstress, that’s me!’

‘Your work is very fine,’ he replied. ‘And of far more practical use than the usual traycloths and tea serviettes, I should imagine.’ Then, reaching out, he ran his fingers through the finished garments. ‘Why is it that not all of the garments have this small rosebud embellishment? Does it have to do with the status of the recipient?’

Georgianne looked shocked. ‘Good heavens, no!’ she disclaimed hotly. ‘When they are finished, they will be identical! It is simply that I have been at liberty to forge ahead with my part of the task, while Steffi has had rather more calls upon her time, so she has a little catching up to do. You gentlemen must take the blame for that,’ she added, eyeing him mischievously. ‘Not you personally, I grant, but, I dare say as soon as you are given the opportunity…?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ he countered, somewhat impulsively. ‘I was rather wondering whether you yourself would consider allowing me to join you on one of your morning rides?’

For the briefest of moments, she stared at him, her face quite impassive, then, giving a swift nod, she smiled, saying, ‘Yes, of course, although Cat and I go out very early—you will have to be here by seven, if you mean to join us! Oh, look! Uncle Charles and the others have returned; I must go and see if Moffat has everything ready—it seems that we are to lunch “al fresco” today, which, while it is intended to provide a great deal of enjoyment for Aunt Letty’s guests, does, of course, rather involve the staff in a great deal of extra work. If you will excuse me?’

As he scrambled to his feet, Maitland’s eyes followed Georgianne’s graceful figure as she crossed the grass, mounted the steps leading on to the terrace and disappeared around the corner of the building. Then, wondering where the devil Catford had got to with the promised drinks, he lowered himself down on to the grass once more and stared thoughtfully at the abandoned sewing basket. Why Georgianne’s apparent lack of enthusiasm to include him in her morning ride should have come as such a disappointment to him, he could not imagine, since, as far as he had been concerned, his impromptu gesture had come about more out of good manners than for any real desire for her company. Not that the young lady had not proved herself to be excellent company, he hastened to remind himself, a swift grin creasing his face as he recalled Georgianne’s impassioned listing of her friend’s numerous accomplishments. Added to which, he thought good-humouredly, it had been a good many years since anyone had had the temerity to label him ‘silly’!

His contemplative reverie was soon interrupted by the belated arrival of the highly apologetic viscount, bearing a pair of foaming tankards. ‘Dreadfully sorry, old chap,’ he puffed, as he joined Maitland on the grass. ‘Bit of a domestic crisis, I’m afraid—one of the kitchen maids tripped over the blessed cat and suffered a broken ankle—had to call the doctor out!’

‘Ooh, nasty!’ returned his friend, with a sympathetic grimace. ‘Nevertheless, if my impression of Lady Letitia is anything to go by, the poor lass is sure to have the benefit of the best of treatments.’

The viscount gave an emphatic nod. ‘Quite right, too!’ he exclaimed. ‘The welfare of our employees has always been high on the list of Mater’s priorities. Although, to be fair, Georgie’s pretty amazing too, as a matter of fact. She’d grabbed a hold of a teacloth and a tub of ice and had a cold compress on the girl’s foot before any of us could say “Jack Robinson”!’

Maitland sipped thoughtfully at his ale. ‘Seems a very pleasant girl, your cousin,’ he ventured, almost carelessly. ‘Would have thought she’d have been snapped up by now!’

The viscount was silent for a moment. ‘Mmm, well, you might think so,’ he said, eventually. ‘She’s an absolute gem, is our little Georgie. Don’t care to talk about the lady behind her back, but the fact is that she suffered a severe disappointment some years back and now does her damnedest to keep all the fellows at bay—still carrying the proverbial torch, if you want my opinion—not that any of us ever mention the subject, of course,’ he added hastily.

‘Nuff said,’ acknowledged his friend while, at the same time, finding himself thinking that it was clear that the unaccommodating suitor, whoever he was, must have been in dire need of having his head examined.

While the two men were conversing, the servants had been setting up trestle tables and laying out a selection of cold meats, raised pies, platters of fruit and other mouth-watering delicacies. Chairs were brought out for the older members of the party, whilst rugs and cushions were thrown on the grass for those youngsters who might wish to avail themselves of them. Shortly afterwards, a footman appeared on the terrace striking a gong, signalling to those guests still in the furthest reaches of the grounds that luncheon was about to be served. In answer to the summons, the ongoing games of cricket, tennis and croquet were brought to a swift close, couples ceased their aimless wanderings about the gardens, and everyone began to make their way back towards the terrace area.

Triumphantly waving the piece of paper that he held in his hand, the Honourable Jeremy sauntered over to join his cousin. ‘What a creature!’ he breathed. ‘So talented and such rare insight!’

Catching hold of the paper, which he quickly recognised as a page torn from a sketchbook, Maitland found himself staring at a remarkably well-executed likeness of Fenton.

‘One of Miss Highsmith’s, I collect?’ he said, feeling not a little put out that his rather dandified cousin had apparently captured Stephanie’s undivided attention with such apparent ease.

‘You should consider yourself highly honoured,’ grinned Catford, as he leaned across and studied the sketch. ‘Steffi usually only bestows those on her favourites.’

‘Do you say so!’ Fenton beamed, carefully rolling up the paper and tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket, an action that caused Maitland considerable astonishment, knowing, as he did, his cousin’s normally fastidious attention to the smooth, uncluttered line of his dress. ‘I shall treasure it always! And, now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I am commissioned to select a few tasty morsels for the lady’s enjoyment!’

‘Well, he certainly seems to have found favour with our little beauty,’ remarked Catford, as the Honourable Jeremy drifted off towards the refreshment tables. ‘Wonder how long that little caper will last?’

Maitland frowned. It was not like his friend to cast disparaging remarks about a member of the opposite sex. ‘Steady on, Cat!’ he protested. ‘That’s a touch near the knuckle, surely!’

‘If you had been acquainted with the delectable Miss Highsmith for as many years as I have, Will,’ observed the viscount, with a wry smile, ‘you, too, might have learnt to be a little sceptical—I do hope that you were not thinking of casting out a lure in that particular direction!’

‘Well, you have to admit that she is rather dazzling,’ returned his friend, giving a slightly self-conscious shrug.

The viscount stared across at him, his forehead puckered in dismay. ‘Keep away, old chap, if you value your sanity!’ he cautioned. ‘There’s not a fellow in the vicinity who hasn’t fallen under her spell—have to admit that I went down the same road myself, a few years back. Luckily, I soon found out that the adorable Miss Highsmith enjoys nothing better than playing off her admirers one against the other—take a look, if you’re disinclined to believe me!’

Not entirely convinced by Catford’s friendly words of caution, Maitland allowed his eyes to travel across to where the object of their discussion sat, still surrounded by half-dozen or so eager gallants. But then, as he registered the mischievous way in which she smilingly reached out a finger to chuck one man under his chin whilst, at the same time, fluttering her long, curling lashes over his shoulder at another, it became horribly clear to him that the viscount’s ruthless shredding of Stephanie’s character had been entirely justified.

Stifling a pang of regret for all those earlier hopes and dreams that had, all too quickly, crumbled into dust, Maitland silently cursed himself for allowing his usual good sense to be swayed by the sight of a pretty face. Offering up a prayer of thanks to his lucky stars for his friend’s most timely warning, he resolved to put aside all thoughts of romance and apply himself to the job in hand—namely, the search for young Étienne Billingham, always supposing that the unfortunate lad had survived his birth.

However, since it was clear that any attempt to hurry Fenton away from Stephanie’s side at this juncture was likely to meet with fierce resistance and, uncomfortably aware that he was obliged to rely upon the clearly besotted Jeremy for his own transport back to the inn, Maitland realised that he had no choice but to wait until his cousin decided the moment of their departure. And, since the unexpected set-back to his own romantic hopes had somewhat diminished his appetite, he declined Catford’s invitation to join the family for luncheon and, somewhat disconsolately, wandered off into the lower reaches of the gardens, towards the lake.

As the noisy hubbub of conversation and laughter began to fade into the distance, to be replaced by the rather more agreeable sounds of rippling water and birdsong, his inner turmoil gradually lessened and he could feel his mind growing calmer with every step. Pausing only to smile at the antics of the disorderly line of mallard duck chicks, each of them noisily jostling for position in their mother’s wake, he made his way along the path towards the hexagonally shaped summerhouse that he had spotted on the bank a little distance ahead.

He had barely set his foot onto the bottom step of the building, however, before he became conscious of the fact that he was, clearly, not the only one who had chosen to leave the clamour of the garden party behind them, in search of a moment’s solitude.

‘Miss Venables!’ he exclaimed, standing stock-still in the doorway. ‘I beg your pardon! I had no idea that there was anyone here!’

Georgianne, who had, in fact, been observing Maitland’s leisurely stroll along the lakeside path with a peculiar mixture of panic and excitement, carefully laid down her plate of, as yet, untouched food on to the bench at her side. ‘I fear that you have found me out, Mr Maitland,’ she said, with a rueful smile. ‘I had a sudden urge to get away from all the hullabaloo for a few moments’ peace and quiet on my own.’

‘And here I am, depriving you of your well-earned rest!’ grimaced Maitland, stepping back hurriedly and turning to go. ‘Please accept my apologies for having intruded upon your privacy.’

‘No, please don’t go, sir!’ begged Georgianne, leaping to her feet. ‘There is more than enough room for the two of us here and, as you can see…’ she indicated with a sweep of her hand ‘…the view from this spot is simply marvellous.’

Maitland entered the summerhouse and sat down on the bench opposite. ‘It’s hardly surprising that you felt the need to catch a few minutes’ respite from your labours, Miss Venables,’ he ventured, with a gentle smile. ‘Cat has told me all about your sterling efforts with the unfortunate kitchen maid.’

She flushed. ‘I had heard that it is preferable to limit the swelling in such cases,’ she replied diffidently. ‘It apparently makes it easier for the physician to reset the bone.’

‘Far less painful for the patient too, I believe. How is the poor lass?’

‘Fast asleep by now, hopefully—Dr Travers had to administer quite a hefty dose of laudanum to calm her. I shall look in on her later this afternoon to see how she does.’

Maitland’s eyes travelled to the heaped plate at her side. ‘I appear to have interrupted your luncheon,’ he observed, suddenly feeling quite peckish himself. ‘Please do not allow my being here to prevent you enjoying your meal.’

‘Perhaps you would care to join me?’ invited Georgianne, lifting up the plate and holding it out to him. ‘Cook piled on far more than I can possibly manage.’

Quickly transferring his position to her side of the summerhouse, Maitland thanked her and helped himself to a slice of game pie. ‘I have to admit that I was somewhat disinclined to join in the general scrimmage around the refreshment tables, but that little walk along the lake path seems to have done wonders for my appetite!’

‘I have often thought that picnics are not nearly as much fun as we keep telling ourselves!’ she said, with a dimpling smile.

‘Oh, I cannot agree there, Miss Venables,’ he protested, a wide grin on his face. ‘I have to say that I am finding this particular alfresco meal rather pleasant!’

At his words, Georgianne felt her cheeks grow quite warm and, in an attempt to hide her growing confusion, she turned her head away, appearing to busy herself with choosing a titbit from the plate. Maitland, studying her profile, suddenly found himself wondering how it was that he had ever considered her to be merely ‘nice-looking’. With her clear grey eyes and softly flushed cheeks, not to mention the several gently waving tendrils of warm brown hair that had escaped their rigid confinement from their pins to fall, in graceful confusion, over her brow and down the nape of her neck, he could see that it was well past time to revise his former opinion of his friend’s young cousin.

‘Your hair appears to have come somewhat adrift, Miss Venables,’ he pointed out softly, lifting up his hand in an attempt to tuck one of the curling wisps back behind her ear.

Almost as if she had been stung, Georgianne started back in alarm. ‘Yes, I know,’ she acknowledged breathlessly. ‘I had intended to deal with it before going back to the house.’

‘Pity,’ he drawled, her sudden reticence not having escaped his attention. ‘It suits you much better that way.’

Then, getting to his feet, he strolled across to the doorway, endeavouring to give her the impression that he was admiring the view. Great heavens above! he was thinking. You have surely not been extricated from one bumblebath only to fall straight into another! Then, shaking his head, he came to the conclusion that it must have something to do with the much talked-about rebound effect, a circumstance with which he was unfamiliar. Or, could it be that, having registered Cat’s remark about his cousin ‘keeping the fellows at bay’, he had regarded Georgianne as something of a challenge to his masculinity?

‘I really need to get started on this blessed search,’ he murmured aloud. But, on turning to face the silent Georgianne, to enquire as to the whereabouts of Willowby’s church, his breath caught in his throat and he found himself quite lost for words.

Still seated on the bench, Georgianne had taken advantage of his protracted meditation to unpin her hair and was, at this very moment, hurriedly combing her fingers through the flowing waves, prior to coaxing them back into their usual neat chignon and quite determined to have the job done before Maitland should turn around.

Alerted by the sounds of his booted feet on the stone floor of the summerhouse, she swept back the curtain of hair from her face and, to her consternation, looked up to find him standing directly in front of her. Biting her lip in annoyance at having been caught out, she quickly attempted to bundle up her locks into some semblance of tidiness, only to find Maitland’s hand on her own, preventing her from continuing.

‘Please don’t,’ he said softly, running his own fingers through the silken strands. ‘Your hair is so very lovely—must you drag it back into such an unbecoming style?’

Finding herself, momentarily, transfixed by both the sensation of his fingers on her head and his unconcealed expression of admiration, Georgianne could neither move nor think but then, as Maitland, having relinquished his hold, lowered himself on to the bench at her side, she drew in her breath and said, somewhat shakily, ‘It is not, usually, quite as troublesome as it has been today—I must crave your indulgence while I attend to it.’

And, much to Maitland’s regret, she proceeded to coil her hair into a tight loop and, with the help of the few remaining pins at her disposal, set about attaching the heavy chignon to the top of her head. Then, picking up the chipstraw bonnet that she had lain aside on the bench, she settled it carefully over her newly arranged hairstyle and quickly tied the ribbons under her chin.

‘There, now,’ she said, with a smile of satisfaction. ‘That should hold it in place—I dare say all that rushing up and down stairs caused it to come adrift—I must make a point of securing it more firmly in future.’

Although he was obliged to shelve his disappointment that Georgianne had chosen to ignore his plea that she might adopt a less severe style, Maitland could not help but be impressed at the calm, matter-of-fact way that she had attended to her somewhat embarrassing predicament. He was well aware that a good many of the young women of his acquaintance, by exhibiting a more-than-usual quota of fluttering eyelashes, simpering blushes and highly irritating giggles, not to mention a pretended mortification, would have used such an opportunity to turn what had been merely an unfortunate mishap into a full theatrical performance. Having observed Stephanie Highsmith’s earlier display of dramatic ability, it was not difficult for him to visualise how she would have reacted, given a similar circumstance.

Unfortunately, Maitland’s failure to reply to her lighthearted comment only gave Georgianne the impression that her somewhat nonchalant behaviour had caused him to think badly of her. As an unexpected sense of despondency swept over her, she rose hurriedly to her feet, fighting back the impulse to offer her apologies for having acted in so unladylike a manner in front of a gentleman, who was, after all, still little more than a stranger.

But Maitland, finding himself suddenly loath to part with her company, at once leapt up to join her, saying, ‘Please do not rush away, Miss Venables. I was hoping that you might point me in the direction of your local church—this would seem to be an excellent opportunity for me to have a few words with the incumbent there.’

‘Oh, that would be our curate, Mr Childs,’ the much- relieved Georgianne was delighted to be able to inform him. ‘And you are in luck, for there is a shortcut to the church through that spinney just ahead of us—the family often make use of it. If you will permit me, I would be happy to take you there myself.’

‘The pleasure will be mine, I assure you.’

And, so saying, Maitland leapt nimbly down from the summerhouse and held out his hand. After a scarcely discernible hesitation, Georgianne placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her descend the three shallow steps on to the pathway. Why this simple action should have had the effect of setting up such a trembling inside her, she could not imagine but, when Maitland then chose to tuck her hand firmly into the crook of his arm, she was powerless to prevent the rosy blush that formed instantly upon her cheeks.

Fortunately for Georgianne’s peace of mind, her escort seemed not to have noticed her brief moment of confusion. Indeed, as far as she could tell, he appeared to be heavily engrossed in studying the courtly behaviour of the pair of swans who were sailing majestically across the lake.

‘Such beautiful creatures,’ he observed chattily, as they turned off the path and strolled through the sunlit spinney, at the far end of which the church’s squat tower could be seen. ‘I’m told that they mate for life.’

‘A particular habit amongst a good many members of the bird family, I believe,’ replied Georgianne, with a sudden smile. ‘Strange, really, when one considers that their brains are said to be not nearly as well formed as our own.’

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