THEY SAID NO MORE.

After the music stopped, he bent over her hand—and kissed it. Georgie pulled it away, as though the kiss had stung her, and for a moment he thought that she was about to leave him there, stranded.

“No,” he said, and recovered the retreating hand. She stared at him, eyes huge in a pale face. “Come, Mrs. Georgie,” he said, still gentle. “Admit it—we were both in the wrong.”

Her indomitable spirit surfaced again. “What did it cost you to tell that lie, Fitz?” she demanded, still letting him hold her hand. “You can’t believe that you were in the wrong.”

Paula Marshall, married with three children, has had a varied life. She began her career in a large library and ended it as a senior academic in charge of history. She has traveled widely, has been a swimming coach and has appeared on U.K. quiz shows such as University Challenge and Mastermind. She has always wanted to write, and likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor.

Miss Jesmond’s Heir
Paula Marshall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

‘Georgie, dear, have you heard the news? Louisa Manners came this morning whilst you were out and told me that the caretaker at Jesmond House had received word from the heir that he intends to take up residence there almost immediately. It seems that he is not aware of how derelict the place has become over the last few years. All in all, though, I don’t think that it would be wise for you to take the children to play in the grounds. Miss Jesmond was happy for you to do so, but perhaps the new owner might not be so accommodating. Best wait and see.’

Georgie—more properly Georgina—was busy stringing a guitar. She looked across at her widowed sister-in-law who was only a few years older than she was, but was a semi-invalid who spent her life on the sofa.

‘Who is the new owner?’ she asked. ‘Have you any notion when he is due to arrive?’

‘No to both questions.’ Caro Pomfret sighed. ‘Louisa asked me if I knew who the heir might be, but all I could say was that I had no knowledge of any of Miss Jesmond’s relatives—indeed, from what little she said of them, I thought that she had none. For that matter, I don’t even know that it’s a he. I thought that she might have said something to you—she was as friendly with you as anyone…which isn’t saying much.’

She looked disapprovingly at Georgie. ‘You said that you were taking the twins for a walk when you had finished repairing poor John’s guitar—do you really intend to show yourself in public in those unsuitable clothes?’

Georgie, her self-imposed task nearly over, smiled at her sister-in-law before looking down at herself. She was wearing jacket, shirt, breeches and boots, suitable for riding in, which had belonged to her half-brother John when he was a boy. Her russet-coloured hair was cut short after a fashion which had died out some years ago—but then Georgie and fashion had little to do with one another. She preferred to wear whatever was most suitable for the task in hand.

Her sister-in-law often sighed regretfully over the undeniable fact that Georgie did not use her best features—a pair of fine green eyes and a piquante, almost turned-up, nose—to more effect on the local gentlemen who had come courting as soon as they decently could after her husband’s death.

‘I shall not be in public, Caro,’ Georgie said, after playing a few testing chords on the guitar. ‘I thought of taking Gus and Annie to play at the far end of the Park where no one at all will see us, except the birds and the squirrels. The children like it there.’

‘I know they do. But you are forgetting two things. First of all, that part of the Park adjoins Miss Jesmond’s land, and secondly, you can never be quite sure that no one will come across you. Suppose it were some gentleman? What would he think of Miss Pomfret of Pomfret Hall, near Netherton, exhibiting herself in public dressed like a stable boy!’

‘Hardly a stable boy,’ returned Georgie, smiling. ‘When John wore these when he was a lad, no one ever thought he was other than John Pomfret of Pomfret Hall. And besides, you forget, I am a widow and no longer Miss Pomfret, but respectable Mrs Charles Herron of Church Norwood who chooses to live with you for the time being for our mutual convenience.’

This was not strictly true; the convenience was all on Caro Pomfret’s side. The Pomfrets had been as poor as church-mice and, when John had died after a hunting accident, Caro and his twin children had been left with little to live on. Georgie, on the other hand, had been left a comfortable sum of money by her mother, her father’s second wife. Her husband’s death had left her with even more, and a fine house to boot, which was at present let to an Indian nabob and his wife who needed a temporary home while they looked for one of their own.

Georgie’s decision to return to her old home to help Caro—who had taken to her bed after her husband’s sudden death and had left it only to live an idle and helpless life—had been for her nephew and niece’s sake rather than her sister-in-law’s. For a variety of reasons, she had no wish to marry again, even though she was only twenty-five.

‘All the same, no gentleman would think you respectable in those clothes,’ moaned Caro, as though Georgie had not spoken—a bad habit of Caro’s.

‘I have no interest in gentlemen, respectable or otherwise, so that is no matter,’ Georgie declared, beginning to sing one of Mr Tom Moore’s songs in a low contralto, satisfied that she had made the guitar playable again.

She rose. ‘Forgive me, Caro. Nurse will have the children ready by now and I have no wish to keep them waiting.’

‘And you will remember what I told you about not going on Miss Jesmond’s land. We really ought not to annoy our new neighbour by trespassing upon it.’

‘I always remember everything you say,’ returned Georgie untruthfully. ‘Try to rest, my dear, and then we can have a game of cards this evening. Gus and Annie would like that.’

‘If my poor head doesn’t persist in troubling me,’ wailed Caro, watching Georgie walk out of the room carrying the guitar, and thinking that it was fortunate that Georgie was something of a flat-chested beanpole who could certainly be mistaken for a boy in her brother’s old clothes. Which I never could, Caro congratulated herself complacently, since my nicely rounded figure has always been the subject of admiration.

Besides, I mustn’t be too unkind, for it is a most convenient thing for me that she takes the children off my hands when she visits so that I don’t have the trouble of caring for them. I’m not in the least surprised that she ended up by marrying an elderly scholar—for his money, presumably. Considering the way she dresses and carries on, no one else would have wanted her! One wonders why Charles Herron did, such a hoyden as she has always been.

With which ungracious thoughts—considering all that she owed to her sister-in-law, both in love and money—she drifted off to sleep.

Georgie, meanwhile, went her own sweet way, across the small park where no one was allowed to play cricket on the carefully tended grass. Gus and Annie ran happily behind her. They were making for the far end of Jesmond House’s land where there was a large stretch of flat green turf where she and the children could play cricket to their heart’s content, far from the disapproving glare of Caro and her gardeners.

‘You’re sure of this, Jess? You know what you are doing? This is not a mere whim wham, I hope—the result of a more brilliant spring than usual.’

The new owner of Jesmond House was standing before the glass doors of the drawing room, looking out over ruined gardens and the desolate park beyond which a small folly stood, crumbling into ruin. He could almost hear his former employer’s sardonic voice echoing in his ear after he had walked into his office to tell him that he had inherited his great-aunt’s estate and wished to be relieved of his duties in order to start a new life far from the City of London and the to-and-fro of the business world there.

‘No, not a whim wham,’ Jess Fitzroy had said, shaking his head. ‘And it’s not because I am tired of working for you—after all I owe you a debt of gratitude which I can never repay.’

Ben Wolfe made a dismissive motion with his hand. ‘Nothing to that,’ he said curtly. ‘You repaid me long ago. I only want to be sure that you have carefully weighed up what you are proposing to do. You know, of course, that if at any time you grow bored with country living and would wish to return, I shall always be ready to welcome you back—if only because I might have some difficulty in finding a lieutenant whom I can trust as completely as I trust you.’

Jess said simply, ‘I shall miss working with you’, and took the hand Ben held out in friendship. The two men could not have been more unalike. Both of them were tall and well built, but Ben was a great, grey-eyed, black-haired bear of a man, who looked more like a coalheaver or a pugilist than a wealthy man with an old name. Jess, on the other hand, was fair, blue-eyed and classically handsome, with the build and poise of an athlete.

Susanna, Ben’s wife, had once likened Ben to a broadsword and Jess to a rapier, so far as physique went, that was. In business and in life, however, both were equally devious—Jess, because Ben, slightly older, had trained him to be that way, Ben being devious by nature.

‘You will be easy financially, I hope,’ Ben said, eyebrows raised a little, ‘If not…?’

It was an offer of help, Jess knew. He said, carelessly, ‘Oh, my great-aunt has left me a competence, and I am not strapped for cash myself.’

This, he knew, was evasion rather than direct lying. Ben was not to know—indeed, Jess had concealed it from him—that he had made himself wealthy by following his employer’s example. Like Ben, he had made a financial killing in 1815 by buying rather than selling stocks because, old soldiers both, they believed that Waterloo would be a victory, not a defeat. The first news which had come from the Continent had wrongly reported that Napoleon had won.

Since then he had invested wisely and, although he would never be as inordinately wealthy as Ben Wolfe, he was rich in the way most people counted riches. It was not only Ben Wolfe from whom he wished to conceal his true financial position, but the people amongst whom he proposed to live. When a very young man, he had learned by bitter experience the wisdom of playing his cards close to his chest. Only Ben Wolfe’s friendship and advice had saved him from ruin.

Now Jess felt that he no longer needed Ben’s protection, that he could fend for himself, without needing someone powerful and daring to stand behind him, ready to rescue him if he failed. He was also beginning to believe that only if he left his familiar surroundings to strike out on his own would he ever find a wife as worthy of loving as Ben’s Susanna was.

He would have liked to marry Susanna, but she had only ever had eyes for Ben. Leaving London would mean leaving her shadow behind as well as Ben’s.

He had had no notion of what he might find when he reached journey’s end in the south Nottinghamshire countryside. He remembered Jesmond House from his days there as a small boy, when his great-aunt had always made him welcome. Days which he had almost forgotten, until the letter had arrived from her lawyers telling him that he had inherited the house which he had not seen since he had left for India as a very young man. And not only had she left him the house, but also her small fortune. His first reaction had been that he would sell the house, sight unseen.

Jess smiled wryly, wondering at the sudden impulse which had, instead, brought him back to this near ruin, which he could only just recognise as the well-run splendid mansion of his youth. He remembered it being a spotlessly tidy place with a warm kitchen where he was always welcome. Mrs Hammond, the cook, had fed him surreptitiously because his great-aunt had the appetite of a bird and thought that lively young Jess needed no more to eat than she did. She had baked the most appetising Sally Lunns and fed them to him on the sly in her kitchen.

Well, he would need to use some of his money, and all his aunt’s, to restore the house to its former glory, and fill it with the servants who would keep up its splendour. It was perhaps appropriate that at this point in his musings, Twells, his aunt’s aged butler-cum-footman, should walk deferentially in and murmur, ‘The mistress always used to ask for the tea board at this hour of the afternoon, sir. Would you care to follow her custom?’

He was about to say ‘No’ when he had a sudden brief memory of a much-younger great-aunt sitting at the small table beside the hearth serving tea to him on many of the long, golden, summer afternoons of his childhood, a younger Twells hovering beside her. That, together with the understanding that the old man found his presence bewildering and disturbing—although one of his first acts on arriving had been to tell his aunt’s remaining few servants that he had no intention of dismissing any of them—had him changing his mind.

‘Very thoughtful of you, Twells. Yes, indeed, and afterwards I’ll take a walk into the paddock beyond the Park. The servants used to play cricket there in their time off, I believe.’

The old man’s face filled with pleasure. ‘Fancy you remembering that, sir! You were naught but a young shaver when you last visited—and I was a deal spryer then than I am now. I’ll see that the tea board comes along instanter.’

He was as good as his word and departed, muttering, ‘Mrs Hammond will be that pleased.’

Once he had gone Jess half regretted his hasty decision to take a walk. He was still dressed for the town with fashionable trousers strapped inside light shoes, and a tight, elaborate cravat which he had tied himself. He sometimes wondered—frivolously—whether his valet Mason’s desertion of him, in order to take over his father’s inn in Devon, had been the real reason for his own sudden abandonment of London and his old life. In the country he would be able to dress more carelessly than in town where a man was judged by his clothing and deportment.

He drank his tea and ate the Sally Lunns which arrived with it. Astonishingly, Twells—or, more likely, Mrs. Hammond—had remembered his childhood love of them. Altogether it was an odd thing for Jess Fitzroy to be doing in the middle of a mild May afternoon.

Back in London he would either have been at his desk or engaged on some delicate—or indelicate—errand for Ben Wolfe. Now the day was his, but he scarcely knew what to do with it. He walked slowly through the glass doors, crossed the terrace, and strolled down a slight incline, passing by the neglected flower-beds which once had been so trim. Finally he came to a wooden gate, badly in need of rehanging, which he remembered led towards the paddock. On opening it he heard voices: high voices, children’s voices, and a cry of ‘Well caught’ came ringing through the mild summer air.

Jess grinned to himself. He had trespassers; village children, probably, who were using the paddock because no one else did. There used to be an elderly donkey grazing there, he remembered, who had most likely brayed and galloped off into the Shades long ago to eat grass in heaven instead of in Jesmond Park. There was a small stand of trees to pass through before he finally reached the spot where the trespassers were enjoying themselves.

For all the happy noise they were making, there were only three of them. A boy and a girl who looked to be about ten years old and, by their casual dress, were a tenant farmer’s children, and a russet-haired youth, similarly attired, who was bowling at the girl. They were playing single-wicket with a crude cricket bat. They were so intent on their game that they did not see him, until the girl, skying a ball, was caught by the boy.

Jess clapped his hands together and exclaimed, ‘Well bowled! May I have a go now?’

All three of them turned to look at him. The youth said in a clear, pleasant voice, ‘You must be the new owner of Jesmond House. We really ought to apologise for playing here—but it’s the only convenient piece of turf near to home. I suppose you’ll want us to leave.’

He was a handsome enough lad with a cheeky face, who held himself well for all his rough dress. The boy said reproachfully, ‘Oh, come on, Georgie, he said that he wanted a go. Give him your bat, Annie—unless you wish to bowl, sir.’

Another educated rustic. Jess said, stretching out a hand, ‘I was never much use as a bowler, but with the bat—that was different.’

Annie handed him the bat, saying confidentially, ‘Don’t judge Georgie’s bowling by what I was receiving—that’s all,’ she added, for Gus was putting his hand over his mouth to indicate that she was not to say too much.

So Georgie was a bit of a demon bowler, was he? And here he stood, scarcely dressed for a real game in his tight trousers and his fashionable cravat, which held his head stiff and high as it was intended to. On the other hand, Georgie was slight—although sometimes slight men were the most cunning and successful bowlers of all.

On yet another impulse—he was having a lot of them these days—Jess ripped off his cravat, tossed it aside and undid the top button of his shirt before taking guard.

The lad’s run up was short and the trundling ball was artfully pitched, spinning away from him; nevertheless, he hit it hard and high, but not too much so, because of the youth of the players. Gus gave a squeal of excitement, Annie put an awed finger in her mouth to watch the ball’s flight while Georgie ran towards where it was falling—only to miss it by inches when it hit the ground and ran into the scrub which bordered the paddock. The lad ran after it, his coat flying open to reveal his loose shirt which had fallen out of his breeches.

It also revealed something else which brought up Jess a little short, although he had half-suspected it. Georgie was plainly no lad, but a girl dressed in her brother’s clothes, and when she scrambled enthusiastically into the bushes to kneel down to rescue the ball from where it was hiding, it was quite plain that Miss Georgie was a veritable tomboy—a romp, no less.

A judgement which was borne out when she threw the ball, overarm, straight and accurately at Gus, shouting, ‘Catch, Gus—and now it’s your turn to bowl.’

Gus caught it, moaning reproachfully, ‘Oh, I say, Georgie, he’s a regular Corinthian, I shan’t stand a chance against him.’

Jess raised his bat in salute—amused that Gus should describe him with a word used of fashionable idlers who never did a hand’s turn. His camouflage—something which he had sometimes adopted in London when on one of Ben Wolfe’s missions—was obviously working well.

He was rewarded with a belligerent glare and a slow trundler from Gus which he treated with more respect than it deserved as he did the second and third he received. But he let fly at Gus’s fourth, only to be caught by the rampant lass, Georgie—or more accurately, perhaps, Georgina.

She smiled triumphantly at him before Gus exclaimed, ‘Oh, that was a gift, that was. He meant you to catch it, Georgie. He really knows how to play.’

Georgie’s triumph disappeared immediately. She said reproachfully to Jess as she held the ball high, ‘Was it, sir? Did you intend to be caught out?’

Before he could answer, she continued, her tone quite changed. ‘Oh, it’s very wrong of me to question you so rudely. You are most plainly the owner of this land, Miss Jesmond’s heir, for who else would be strolling in her grounds dressed like a refugee from Piccadilly? And we are equally plainly trespassers. You have every right to offer me a dolly drop and, now I think of it, you were almost certainly being kind to Gus to let him take your wicket. Allow me to apologise to you at once.’

Jess, who had handed his bat to Annie, smiled at Miss Georgie’s impulsive speech.

‘Not at all,’ he said, and walked towards her so that they stood face to face before he bowed elaborately to complete his portrayal of a Piccadilly lounger.

‘Allow me to apologise for doing it too brown. I should have known that Master Gus was fly enough to grasp when he was being patronised. I wonder if you would agree to let Gus and Annie play at single-wicket alone for a few moments while I have a quiet word with you.’

Georgie looked at him closely for the first time. At a distance he had been an impressive figure of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, quite unlike her late husband who had been a stooped scholar. Near to he was, as she was later to tell an interested Caro, quite impossibly handsome—no man in the neighbourhood of Netherton could hold a candle to him. Golden-haired, blue-eyed, straight-nosed, with a long amused mouth, and—she noted a trifle dazedly—with trim ears, set close to his head, he was, indeed, the very model of a Prince in a fairy tale.

His voice was pleasant, too. It was also, she thought, the voice of a man who was accustomed to be obeyed. She wondered what he had to say to her privately as she told Gus and Annie to continue their game without them for a few moments.

Jess regarded her levelly. Close to, no one could mistake her for a boy, even though she had buttoned her coat so that her clinging shirt no longer revealed the lines of the small breasts which had given her sex away to him. He considered carefully what he was about to say: principally, that it was dangerous for her to parade around the countryside dressed like a lad. Her father should have more sense than to allow it. Particularly someone as young as she appeared to be.

He was not yet to know that he had quite mistaken Georgina’s age, which he had guessed, wrongly, to be under twenty. Later, he was to think that it was her lack of artifice, her frank manner, and the lack also of any kind of fashionable face-paint which had combined to deceive him.

‘I am, as you have guessed, the new owner of Jesmond House. My name is Jesmond Fitzroy. Miss Jesmond was my great-aunt and this is my first inspection of my property. Now, whilst I am not angry that you and your brother and sister have trespassed on my land, I am a trifle worried that your mother and father should allow so young a woman to go abroad dressed like a boy.

‘It is, I would submit, highly dangerous for you to put yourself at the mercy of any rogue who wanders the countryside, of whom there are many these days, and I consider it to be one of my first duties, seeing that I am the owner of Jesmond House, to so inform them—if you will be so good as to tell me your name.’

The play of feeling on Georgie’s mobile face was revealing. She was smiling at him when he began to speak, but by the end of his well-meant—but unfortunate—words of advice her face turned black as thunder. She thinned her lips and said nothing, but she was thinking a lot.

Jess waited for her to reply but, seeing that she apparently had no such intention, he continued, a little less agreeably, ‘Your name please, Miss Georgina. If you would be so good.’

Georgie said, keeping her voice low, but plainly furious, ‘Has anyone ever told you how pompous you are, Mr Fitzroy—or do they expect it of you? In which case, everyone has ceased to remark upon it. Gus and Annie are not my brother and sister, and we shall certainly leave your land to you in future. I shall be careful not to sully it again either in skirts or breeches, so you may take your sermons elsewhere.’

Later, she was to regret the violence with which she had answered him, but he had touched a nerve by reproving her for wearing breeches. She had endured quite enough of that from Caro! Her anger was the greater precisely because for the first time she was beginning to think that Caro, foolish though she usually was, had some right on her side.

But, faced with this attractive stranger who was speaking to her as though she were a naughty child, her temper ran away with her. ‘For your information,’ she continued, her voice as cutting as she could make it, ‘my mother and father are both dead, and I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

She turned away from him before he could answer her, calling peremptorily, ‘Gus, Annie, please pull up the stump at once, and bring the bat and ball to me. We are leaving immediately.’

Jess said in his usual mild way, ‘One moment, if you please.’

‘No moments at all,’ she flung at him, incontinent, something which back at Pomfret Hall she was to recall with growing shame, ‘for we shall be gone in a moment.’

‘No,’ Jess said, stung at last into abandoning his normal equable manner. ‘You will tell me your name and where I may find you. Someone near to you may be pervious to sense and try to control you.’

‘Oh, indeed,’ she returned fiercely, thinking of Caro and her whining. ‘There certainly is someone, and you may find her—and the three of us—at Pomfret Hall. I bid you good day. I trust that you are sufficient of a gentleman not to try to detain me.’

He stepped back. She had breached his resolve always to conduct himself with quiet dignity, a resolve which dated back to his earliest days with Ben Wolfe.

‘Oh, indeed,’ he informed her through gritted teeth. ‘I have not the slightest wish to detain such a termagant in breeches. I bid you good day—and may the future invest you with a little more common sense.’

All the way back to the Hall, Georgie blushed with shame every time she thought of her recent encounter with Jesmond House’s new owner. What on earth could have possessed her to make her behave so badly, so completely outside the bounds of a young gentlewoman’s normal conduct?

She could find no useful answer to her own self-questioning, for what she did not wish to admit was that at first sight she had been bowled over by Miss Jesmond’s heir, only to have him treat her like a foolish child who needed advising and reprimanding! Her pride and her vanity were alike hurt. The second did not matter, but the first did.

And the worst thing of all was that, although he had been right to warn her, it was his refusal to see her as anything but a silly chit which hurt the most.

Chapter Two

‘You’re quiet tonight, Georgina. Is anything wrong?’

Caro, after a great deal of complaining, had played cards with Gus, Annie and Georgie before an early supper. After it she had retired to her favourite position on the sofa in order to read, but The Forest Lovers did not interest her, even though it was by her favourite author, who had written Sophia.

Georgina was repairing Annie’s doll’s dress, which had been torn by Caro’s pug Cassius in an unusual fit of temper. He was usually as sleepy as his mistress.

She said nothing in reply until Caro came out with, ‘Really, Georgina, you might be civil enough to answer a reasonable question.’

‘Forgive me, I’m somewhat distraite tonight,’ Georgie said with a sigh after removing some pins from her mouth. She had been wondering a little wildly how best to answer her sister-in-law since she really ought to have informed her earlier of her meeting with Jesmond Fitzroy. In the normal course of events, she would have done so immediately on returning home.

Gus and Annie, who had heard nothing of her final encounter with him, had babbled to their mother about meeting a strange man in the paddock, but Caro had been too full of her own affairs at the time to take much notice of them.

Something of Georgie’s disquiet must have affected Caro; she said anxiously, ‘I do hope you’re not sickening for a chill. It would be most inconvenient, for I should not like to catch it. Dr Meadows has often said that in my delicate state I ought to avoid having anything to do with anyone affected by any form of ill health.’

‘No, I’m not sickening for anything—at least, I don’t think I am. It’s just that this afternoon we met Miss Jesmond’s heir when we were playing cricket in her paddock, and I must confess that I think that you were right to advise us not to take advantage of him by trespassing on his grounds.’

Caro sat up sharply, her face a picture. ‘And you said nothing of this until now! Really, Georgina, it’s most inconsiderate of you. So little happens in Netherton, and when it does you invariably keep it to yourself.’

‘Don’t do it too brown, Caro,’ retorted Georgie, a little stung. ‘It’s not three hours since I met him, and until now we’ve not had an opportunity for a private conversation.’

Since she had no answer to make to that Caro said, somewhat stiffly, ‘I take it that he was the gentleman who came to the paddock this afternoon about whom Gus and Annie were prattling.’

‘Indeed. His name is Jesmond Fitzroy. He is Miss Jesmond’s great-nephew.’ It was all Georgie could bring herself to say of him. It was not enough for Caro.

‘But what is he like? How old is he? He is a gentleman, I take it?’

Georgie thought of the perfectly turned-out Mr Jesmond Fitzroy in his exquisite town clothes.

‘Very much a gentleman.’

Georgie’s reply was short, but it gave her away a little. Perhaps it was its very brevity that was betraying.

Caro said sharply, ‘And that is all? Surely you could tell his age. Was he old or young?’

‘In his thirties.’ Georgie was still brief. ‘He is extremely handsome. Very fair. Tall.’

‘Did he say anything about a wife?’ There was an unwonted eagerness in Caro’s voice which surprised Georgie a little.

‘Our conversation was not a long one, and I did not quiz him about his personal particulars. He was on his own. He did say that we might continue to play cricket in the paddock but, bearing in mind your reservations about that, I am not sure that we ought to accept his invitation.’

‘Nonsense. Of course we must accept such a kindness. A handsome young man—possibly without a wife—will be a great addition to Netherton. I wonder what he is worth. We must be sure to invite him to supper when he is settled in. You must call on him formally.’

And then, a trifle anxiously, ‘Did he notice your breeches? I told you not to wear them.’

Georgie said dryly, ‘He could scarcely not notice them. And, if I do pay him a formal call, I shall be sure to wear skirts.’

‘If? Why if? Of course you will oblige me by calling on him. You have nothing better to do! I grow intolerably bored these days and you would please me greatly by arranging matters so that I may enjoy a little entertainment. I would prefer that we extended the hand of friendship to him before Mrs Bowlby does. She is always to the fore these days. One would not think that I was Mrs John Pomfret of Pomfret Hall!’

Georgie nobly refrained from pointing out that if Caro were to exert herself a little and not perpetually live on her sofa it would be more difficult for Mrs Bowlby to claim to be the grande dame of Netherton, and that it was she, Georgie, who did most of the work which provided Caro with some sort of social life. That she did so willingly was for the sake of Gus and Annie, who would otherwise have been neglected, and in memory of a brother who had been unfailingly kind to her.

‘Very well,’ she said, squirming inwardly at the thought of calling on Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, with or without skirts. ‘On the other hand, if you wish to rival Mrs Bowlby, why do you not make the effort and call on him yourself? After all, he does live virtually next door.’

Caro gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You know quite well why I go out so little, Georgie. The effort is too much for me. Dr Meadows says it is essential that I take things easily and that does not include running round Netherton extending supper invitations to all and sundry. And you know that you like being busy.’

But not with Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, was Georgie’s dismal response. Oh, dear, who would have thought that Caro would take such an interest in a new neighbour? And then something else struck her: what a slowcoach I must be! John has been dead these three years, she is scarce thirty, and there are few men in this part of Nottinghamshire whom Caro would think fit to marry Mrs John Pomfret.

Hence retiring to the sofa.

But the arrival of a handsome man, who is only a little older than she is, and who must be presumed to have some sort of fortune, is obviously considered by her to be quite a different proposition from the local squires and the odd unmarried poor parson who frequent these parts!

For some odd reason, this new thought distressed Georgie a little. Odd, because her memories of Mr Jesmond Fitzroy were bitter ones. After all, she told herself firmly, he and Caro would make a good pair, united in disapproving soundly of me if in nothing else!

Caro was still talking—it was time Georgie paid some attention to her. ‘So that’s settled,’ she was saying. ‘You will pay him a courtesy visit tomorrow morning before the rest of Netherton stands in line at his doorstep to try to monopolise him. Poor John was the Squire here before he died, even if Banker Bowlby does seem to think he has inherited a position which Gus will fill when he comes of age.’

She sank back against the cushions. ‘You may also invite Mr Fitzroy—and his wife, if he has one—to supper tomorrow evening. It is possible that he has had a long and hard journey and might not wish to visit anyone tonight.’

The last thing Georgie wished to do was to have another lengthy tête-à-tête with her recent tormentor. While not directly contradicting Caro—which would only have resulted in starting a lengthy and complaining argument—she privately decided to send one of the footmen around in the morning with a note asking him to supper on Friday evening, two days hence, which would give him time to find his bearings.

On second thoughts, she decided that, by the look of him, Mr Jesmond Fitzroy would never need time to find his bearings. By his looks and manner he appeared eminently capable of landing on his feet at whatever spot he chose to arrive—whether it be Netherton or elsewhere.

Netherton, being somewhat more than a village, had decided to call itself a town, albeit a small one. It had numerous good shops, two posting inns, a bank, and, although it could not claim to be a genuine spa, possessed a set of impressive Assembly Rooms where one might drink pure, and supposedly health-giving, water brought from a nearby spring which had been dedicated to Saint Anne. Balls were held there and, on two afternoons a week, tea and cakes were served in the Grand Hall to the sound of a string quartet.

The sum of which caused its inhabitants to remark with great satisfaction, ‘We may not call ourselves a spa, but we have all the advantages of one without the disadvantages of large numbers of idle—and sometimes disreputable—visitors.’

Besides Pomfret Hall and Jesmond House, there were also a large number of respectable country houses around the town whose gentry owners were responsible for a lively social life. One of Netherton’s wits had recently remarked that ‘in imitation of the north of Nottinghamshire, nicknamed the Dukeries by virtue of the large number of Dukes’ mansions there, this southern part of the county ought to be nicknamed the Gentries!’

Because of the lack of visitors from the outside world, the news that Miss Jesmond’s heir had finally arrived at Jesmond House was the cause of a good deal of excitement among the ladies of the town. The gentlemen, whilst sharing their interest, were much less noisy than their wives and sisters in expressing it.

Mrs Bowlby, Banker Bowlby’s wife, was holding court in her drawing room surrounded by cronies and toadies on the afternoon after Georgie’s encounter with Jess, and she could scarcely contain her enthusiasm on learning of his arrival.

‘You are sure, Letitia,’ she announced, addressing the poor gentlewoman who was her cousin, dependent and victim, ‘that he really has taken up quarters here? I would not like to make a fool of myself by visiting an empty house in order to be patronised by that awful butler. One might imagine that, if the heir truly has taken up residence here, one of his first acts will be to dismiss him and engage someone more suitable.’

‘Oh, I am quite sure that he is the gentleman now in residence,’ Miss Letitia Markham reassured her demanding mistress. ‘The cook there told our cook that he arrived here two days ago, but has not advertised his presence to the generality. He wished to inspect the house and grounds in private, he said. Far from sacking the butler, he immediately rehired the few servants left to look after the house—so I’m afraid you will have to put up with him, Maria.’

One of poor Miss Letitia’s few comforts in life was to administer small pinpricks to annoy her irascible employer, whose only concession to her poverty-stricken cousin was to allow her to use her Christian name. Fortunately for Letitia, Mrs Bowlby was never quite sure whether the pinpricks were accidental or intended.

‘The more fool he, then!’ she exclaimed. ‘He had a fine opportunity for a clean sweep. Have you any notion who he is? Of what family or fortune? Or how old he might be? Has he a wife, for example?’

Miss Letitia smiled and nodded. ‘Oh, yes. He is Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, Miss Jesmond’s great-nephew who used to stay with her, I am reliably informed, many years ago when he was only a lad. He is not married. Of his own family or fortune, I have no information—or rather, our cook had none.’

‘Hmm, Fitzroy,’ murmured old Miss Walton of Walton Court. ‘An odd name. I seem to remember a boy of that name visiting Miss Jesmond some twenty-odd summers back.’

‘It means King’s son,’ declared Mrs Bowlby, nodding authoritatively. ‘Probably goes back to the Middle Ages.’

‘Oh, how romantic,’ gushed Mrs Firth, whose own family only went back to Elizabethan times, although Letitia often privately thought that that meant nothing since all families went back to Adam and Eve. This was an opinion so seditious that she never voiced it aloud.

Instead, she added slyly, ‘I understand that Mrs Pomfret sent Mr Fitzroy an invitation to supper which—according to what his cook said to ours—he gratefully accepted.’

‘Did he, indeed! One would never have suspected that she might be so forward—she being such an invalid these days. What does puzzle me,’ added Mrs. Bowlby, ‘is how it is that the servants always know these things before we do. You must have spent a great deal of time gossiping in the kitchen with cook today, Letitia, to have learnt all that.’

This last came out as a piece of overt criticism.

Miss Letitia was in no way daunted. ‘Yes, wasn’t it fortunate that I did? Otherwise we should all still be in the dark about our new neighbour!’

‘Has Mrs Pomfret invited anyone other than Mr Fitzroy to supper?’ asked Miss Walton, looking around her. ‘I have heard nothing—has anyone else?’

No one confessed to having been invited. Mrs Bowlby, giving a ladylike sniff, said, ‘You may be sure that she will monopolise him if she can. I will not be at all surprised if he is her only guest.’

Mrs Bowlby plainly felt that her desire to be the first lady of Netherton—spurred on by Caro Pomfret’s retirement from public life—was under threat if Caro decided to leave her sofa and return to it.

She was just about to say something even more cutting than usual about the Pomfrets when the butler opened the door and announced ‘Mrs Charles Herron,’ and Georgie walked in, looking charming in a leaf-green walking dress which showed off her russet hair and green eyes to advantage.

So much so that, looking at her ladylike self in her mirror, she had felt so composed and comme il faut that she had a sudden wish to call on Mr Jesmond Fitzroy and dazzle him in her character of Professor Charles Herron’s wife, to demonstrate how mistaken he had been to dismiss her as a hoyden in breeches.

She had, on the other hand, not the slightest desire to visit Mrs Bowlby, whom she disliked intensely, but, having defied Caro’s wishes over meeting Mr Fitzroy again and inviting him to supper, felt that she was compelled to oblige her over Mrs Bowlby.

‘Try to find out,’ Caro had said eagerly, before she set out, ‘whether there is any useful gossip about our new neighbour to be gleaned. Mrs Bowlby’s cook is Miss Jesmond’s cook’s sister, you know.’

Georgie didn’t know, and was sadly amused by the vacuous tittle-tattle which formed the staple of provincial life. Her marriage to a gentleman-scholar who had been a pillar of academia at Oxford University had introduced her to a far different society. It had necessitated making herself over into a demure and outwardly conventional wife, but she had considered that a fair exchange for her entry into the world of ideas in which he had reigned supreme.

Her return to Netherton had shown her its emptiness—but she could not say that to Caro, nor that her reversion to her previous lively ways was a silent rebellion against Netherton’s dullness. Nevertheless, to please Caro, she smiled at Mrs Bowlby, pretending that the greatest desire of her life was to sit in her drawing room, to drink weak tea and to engage in prattle about all those neighbours who were not present.

Mrs Bowlby was not slow to attack. ‘I understand that Mrs Pomfret has already asked our new neighbour to supper. May I ask if you have met him, Mrs Herron?’

After a night’s rest and a private determination that she was making a cake of herself over Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, for whose opinion she did not give a damn—to use a phrase which her brother John had been fond of—Georgie found it easy to answer the Gorgon, the name with which she had privately dubbed Mrs Bowlby.

‘Oh, indeed. By pure chance, I assure you. I was walking with the children in the paddock between the Hall and Jesmond House when we came upon him.’

She paused, surveying the expectant faces around her who were finding her narrative much more exciting than the tale of what one cook had said to another.

‘And what did you make of him?’ burst from Miss Walton, who had the reputation of being both downright and forthright and tried to live up to it.

‘I thought that he appeared most gentlemanly and agreeable. He was dressed in the London fashion,’ said Georgie with a smile, as though she and Jess had been exchanging civilised pleasantries on the previous afternoon instead of engaging in a slanging match.

‘We hear that he is young—in his thirties,’ stated Mrs Bowlby. ‘Did he mention anything about having a wife or a family?’

‘Oh, our conversation was brief and we never touched upon personal matters. Neither of us thought it the time or the place. We shall shortly know everything about him, shall we not? Until then we must possess ourselves in patience.’

The smile she offered the assembled company this time was that of Mrs Charles Herron of Church Norwood at her most cool and commanding and brooked of no contradiction. It killed further conversation about Jess Fitzroy dead, and the ladies were reduced to gossiping about the next Assembly Ball, due to take place in a fortnight. Since Mrs Bowlby’s husband was the chairman of the committee which ran the Rooms, her opinion on whether the Ball was to be a formal, or an informal one, was deferred to.

‘Oh, informal, please,’ Georgie begged. ‘Formal ones are so stiff, I think, and the younger girls would like something a little freer. Do try to persuade Mr Bowlby to incline in that direction, please.’

‘I rather think not,’ Mrs Bowlby enunciated firmly. ‘There is too much freedom among the young these days. It is never too early to learn to conform!’

‘But only think how we longed for a little freedom when we were young,’ Georgie pleaded—but in vain.

After she had left them Mrs Bowlby remarked, ‘Mrs Herron is a deal too sure of herself for so young a woman. I note that she is not affecting the tomboy today.’

Mrs Firth leaned forward to say confidentially, ‘Jepson, my maid, told me yesterday that she runs round the grounds at Pomfret Hall wearing—of all things—breeches!’

Hands were raised in shock. Miss Walton pronounced the last word on the subject. ‘One has to hope that Mr Fitzroy has not seen her in such a get-up. What kind of impression would that give him of the way we conduct ourselves in Netherton!’

A judgement which was received with universal acclamation.

Jess Fitzroy was introducing himself to Netherton on the morning of the day on which he was invited to supper at Pomfret Hall—a visit which intrigued him since it would mean meeting the young termagant on her own ground.

He drove into Netherton in his gig. He had decided not to bring his flash curricle into the country immediately, since it might give away the extent of his wealth. To be regarded as comfortable, he had decided, was his aim: an impression he certainly gave when he reached the inn yard of the White Lion and handed the reins over to a willing ostler.

‘Which is the way to the bank?’ he asked, adjusting his hat to the right angle, neither too jaunty nor too serious. He was not dressed in his London fine, but something discreet, more suited to a small country town. His boots were not dull, but neither had they been glossed with champagne.

‘To your left, sir, when you leave the yard. On the main street. You can’t miss it.’

His reward was an unostentatious tip.

Jess found the main street to be busy. He was the subject of a few curious stares, as he had been when he drove in.

The ostler had been right. The bank was unmissable. He pushed open a big oak door with a brass plate in the centre proclaiming itself to be Bowlby’s. Inside it was like every country bank he had ever visited—quite different from Coutts, where he had his account in town.

A small man dressed in decent black advanced towards the stranger. ‘Pray, what may I do for you, sir?’

Jess said briefly. ‘I am Jesmond Fitzroy of Jesmond House, Miss Jesmond’s heir. I wrote to Mr Bowlby from London, explaining that I wished to do business with him and possibly open an account here. I would like to speak to him, if you please.’ He looked towards the door which plainly opened into the bank’s parlour.

‘One moment, Mr Fitzroy. I will discover whether he is free to see you.’

Jess sat down in the chair indicated and gazed at the bad oil paintings of bygone Bowlbys on the walls. He reflected amusedly that it had been easier for him to see Mr Coutts in his London office than Mr Bowlby in his country one—but then Mr Coutts knew exactly who he was and all that Mr Bowlby knew was that he was Miss Jesmond’s nephew.

The door opened and Mr Bowlby emerged, followed by his clerk. He extended a welcoming hand.

‘Always honoured to meet the late Miss Jesmond’s nephew,’ he boomed, his fat face one smile. ‘Pray step this way, sir,’ and he flourished a hand towards the parlour where he offered Jess a seat in an armchair facing his large and imposing desk.

‘Now, sir, what may I do for you?’

Jess looked round the comfortable room before saying, ‘First of all, I should like to take charge of the deeds of Jesmond House, which I believed are lodged with you. Was there any particular reason why they were not given to the keeping of her solicitor, Mr Crane?’

‘None, sir, none. But I had been a friend of Miss Jesmond’s for many years and when she indicated that she wished me to retain them for safekeeping after she had paid off her mortgage, I did not argue with her. I shall have them delivered to you at Jesmond House tomorrow. What else may I do for you, sir?’

‘I would like to open a small working account with you, so that I have a source of income here in Netherton. Nothing large, you understand. My main account will remain at Coutts.’

Mr Bowlby rubbed his fat hands together and said in the manner of a wise man instructing a foolish one, ‘Will not that present some difficulties for you, sir, if you intend to remain in Netherton? Would it not be wiser to have your main account here, rather than at a distance? Our reputation is an excellent one.’

For some reason Jess found that he did not like Mr Bowlby. He could not have said exactly why, but years of working with Ben Wolfe had first honed his intuition and then had led him to trust it. Nothing of this showed. He poured his charm—noted among the circles in which he moved in London—over the man before him.

‘Since I have not yet made up my mind whether I intend to make Netherton my permanent home, I think it wise to retain my present financial arrangements. You are happy to have a small account on your books, I trust.’

He did not add that transferring his full account to Bowlby’s Bank would have enlightened the man before him of the true extent of his wealth—something which he preferred to remain a secret. His trust Mr Bowlby would have to earn, since Jess Fitzroy had long since learned that nothing was ever to be taken for granted in the world of business and finance. Only time would tell how far he could trust Mr Bowlby.

‘Certainly, certainly, no account too small, sir. I was but trying to assist you. Finance is a tricky business and gentlemen frequently find themselves adrift in it.’

Not surprising if their metaphors are as mixed as yours, was Jess’s inward comment while Mr Bowlby roared on, ‘And is there nothing further we can do for you?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Jess sweetly. ‘You may inform me of the way to Mr Crane’s office where I also have business.’

‘With pleasure, sir,’ and he walked Jess to the bank’s front door before pointing out Mr Crane’s front door as cheerfully as the ostler had done.

But Jess did not leave him a tip.

Instead, he bowed his thanks and walked the few yards down the street to Mr Crane’s office, where something of a surprise waited for him.

The surprise was not Mr Crane, who was an elderly gentleman whose manner was as quiet and pleasant as Mr Bowlby’s had been noisy and officious. His office was quiet, too. No oil paintings, Jess noticed, just a small water-colour showing a country view with sheep in the foreground and a river in the distance.

Instead, the surprise consisted of Mr Crane’s information as to the extent of his inheritance.

‘I fear that I misled you, sir. When I came to investigate Miss Jesmond’s financial position more fully I found that, in fact, her estate was less than half of what I had originally indicated to you in my earlier letters. It seemed that she invested unwisely, sold off good stock and bought bad. I spoke to Mr Bowlby about the matter and he confirmed that she had refused his advice and depended on that of a friend who claimed that he had been an expert in the City. At one point, she did so badly that she was compelled to borrow from the bank, lodging her house deeds as security—although I understand that she later paid off the loan. In order to do so, she sold him a large part of what had been Jesmond land for many years.’

‘But Mr Bowlby retained the deeds,’ Jess said slowly, ‘even after she had repaid the loan. He has promised to forward them to me tomorrow.’

‘Oh, you must understand that she trusted Mr Bowlby, who had been so kind to her, and allowed them to remain with him. Of course, until she was compelled to take out the mortgage, they were in my charge. I saw no need to bring pressure on her to lodge them with me again. They were safe where they were.’

‘Oh, that explains it,’ said Jess—who thought that it didn’t.

‘I repeat that I am sorry that I unintentionally deceived you over your inheritance. I did not realise that matters had gone so ill with her. I hope that you have not yet made any unbreakable decisions based on its apparent original size.’

‘Not at all,’ said Jess, who had regarded his aunt’s money as a bonus. He had been more interested in the house in which the bank no longer had any interest. He was surprised that Mr Bowlby had said nothing of these matters when he had indicated his misgivings over the bank’s holding the house deeds. Or was he surprised? He wondered what advantage Mr Bowlby thought that he was gaining by holding on to them. Nor had Bowlby informed him that it was he who had bought his aunt’s lands so that she might pay off the mortgage: that transaction had never been mentioned.

He also thought that Mr Bowlby had supposed him to be a gentleman who knew little of matters financial and therefore might be fobbed off with an incomplete story—which raised, in Jess’s mind, further suspicions as to his motives.

Mr Crane was still speaking. ‘There are some documents for you to sign, Mr Fitzroy, which will, in effect, transfer all her inheritance to you. It will then be your decision whether I continue to act for you as I did for her.’

‘For the moment,’ returned Jess coolly. ‘Until I have made up my mind what I intend to do, you may continue as my solicitor here—for my business in Netherton only. It is only fair to inform you that I have a solicitor in London who will continue to act for me there. Your interests will not conflict with his. My London affairs have nothing to do with Miss Jesmond’s estate.’

Mr Crane nodded. ‘I understand. If they do, then I must ask to be relieved of my responsibilities to you.”

Jess rose, bowed and sat down again.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘let us get down to business. You will be good enough to tell me all the details of the late Miss Jesmond’s estate which are in your possession and not those of Banker Bowlby.’

Mr Crane looked up sharply. Mr Jesmond Fitzroy had spoken coolly to him throughout in a most offhand manner, but he was not sure that his first impression of him as a charmingly lightweight young man was necessarily the true one.

And what had he meant by his last remark about Banker Bowlby?

He did not enquire and Jess said nothing further to make Mr Crane ponder on the true nature of his visitor. He listened quietly to the old solicitor’s exposition of Miss Jesmond’s admittedly muddled affairs, offering no opinions of his own before leaving with mutual expressions of goodwill.

He strolled along the street, familiarising himself with its layout before returning to the inn to collect his gig. After he had driven out of the White Lion’s stable-yard, he found himself behind a chaise which followed the road which led to Jesmond House until it turned off into the drive to Pomfret Hall some half-mile before Jess reached his own gates. He noted idly that Mrs Pomfret had visitors and wondered whether he would meet them at supper.

His main preoccupation was with his morning’s work and in particular with Banker Bowlby and with what Mr Crane had—and had not—told him…

‘Garth! What brings you here? And why did you not inform us that you were coming to visit us? Georgie, pray ring for the housekeeper—she must prepare a room for my brother immediately.’

Sir Garth Manning made no attempt to answer his sister’s questions. He was too busy smiling at Georgie, who was, for once, dressed demurely in Quaker’s grey with a high white linen collar trimmed with lace, as were the cuffs of her long sleeves.

‘Oh, don’t fuss, Caro. I never stand on ceremony, you know that. I always do things on impulse. Much the best way—one never knows what or who one may encounter next. And, to prove my point today, I have found your sister-in-law. I had no notion that she was staying with you—which proves my claim about the unexpected being best. You look charming, dear sister—I may call you dear sister, may I not?’

Georgina, who had never cared overmuch for Sir Garth, would have liked to retort to him with ‘No, you may not,’ but her regrets over her recent encounter with Jesmond Fitzroy had made her a little wary about being needlessly rude to gentlemen.

She simply gave him an enigmatic smile which he took for agreement. ‘Sister it shall be then. I cannot be constantly calling you Mrs Herron, most clumsy.’

‘But accurate,’ Georgie could not help retorting.

‘True, true—but how boring the truth often is, you must agree?’

Georgie could scarcely contradict him. Nothing could be more boring than the truth which Jesmond Fitzroy had served up to her the other day. It seemed that thinking of him had almost brought him to life for Caro exclaimed to her brother, who had sat down beside her and was fanning her gently, ‘Oh, Garth, it is most apropos that you have come. We shall now have not one, but two, handsome and unattached men with whom to entertain Netherton!’

‘Two,’ remarked Sir Garth archly. ‘Pray, who is the other? I am not sure whether or not I am pleased to learn that I have a rival.’

It took Georgie all her powers of restraint not to inform him that he and Mr Fitzroy would make a good pair so far as being obnoxious was concerned. Caro, on the other hand, was only too happy to inform her brother of the new owner of Jesmond House.

‘Plenty of tin, has he?’ enquired Sir Garth negligently.

‘So one supposes,’ she said, ‘but I have not yet met him. He is to sup with us this evening and then you may pass judgement on him. At least he has Miss Jesmond’s inheritance, which cannot be small.’

Sir Garth raised dark eyebrows. He was dark altogether, glossy-haired, with a saturnine hawk-like face, rather like, Georgie thought fancifully, a villain in one of Mrs Radcliffe’s Gothic romances.

‘Perhaps,’ he returned enigmatically. ‘The old lady was light in the attic towards the end, was she not? Sold all that land to pay for bad investments. If you want to hook him for yourself, Caro, be sure that you find out exactly how deep his purse is. Another unfortunate marriage—begging your pardon, dear sister Georgie—would be one too many.’

Caro simpered, ‘Oh, seeing that we have not yet met, are you not being a little forward, brother, in handing him to me for a husband?’

‘My habit, Caro dear, is always to further your interests,’ he assured her. ‘It’s a cruel world we live in. One needs to know one’s way about it. All that glisters is not gold.’

Georgie thought that Sir Garth knew whereof he spoke. She wondered cynically if he had arrived in Netherton to lie low at his sister’s expense—or to recoup himself, perhaps. She did not believe that Netherton was at all the sort of place which he would choose to frequent—unless necessity drove him there.

‘It’s your good luck that I am here to inspect him, my dear. I look forward to the evening.’

So, apparently, did Caro. She arrived in the drawing room where Georgie was looking at an album of the Beauties of Britain while waiting for Mr Fitzroy to arrive. She received the full benefit of Caro’s elaborate toilette.

For once her sister-in-law did not immediately make for the sofa, but instead pirouetted in the centre of the room, waving her fan and looking coyly over the top of it.

‘How do I look, Georgie? Will I do?’

Georgie, inspecting her, had to confess that her sister-in-law had seldom looked more enchanting. Her golden hair, her blue eyes and her pink and white prettiness were undiminished although she was nearing thirty.

She was wearing an evening dress of the palest blue trimmed with transparent gauze and decorated with small sprays of silk forget-me-nots. Her fair curls were held in place by a small hoop of the same silken flowers mounted on a ribbon of slightly deeper blue. Her slippers were frail things of white kid.

All in all it seemed that three years of sitting on the sofa doing nothing and letting others worry on her behalf had enhanced rather than marred her good looks. If she had become slightly plumper as a consequence of her lengthy idleness, her figure was so charmingly rounded that most gentlemen, Georgie conceded glumly, would have nothing but admiration for it.

And all this hard work over the past few hours was for Mr Jesmond Fitzroy—as Sir Garth immediately remarked when he entered to find Caro in her glory and Georgie, as usual, feeling eclipsed by it.

Her own green outfit with its cream silk trimmings seemed drab and ordinary, but Sir Garth bowed over her hand as though she were beauty’s self and complimented her on her appearance with, ‘When last I met you, many years ago now, you were only the humble little sister, but time has worked its magic on you to transform you.’

How in the world did one answer anything quite so fulsome? Georgie put down her book and offered him a meek thank-you, and was saved from further extravagant nonsense by the announcement of Mr Jesmond Fitzroy’s arrival.

Any hope that she had possessed that her memory had played her false by enhancing his good looks and his perfect self-command flew away when he entered. If anything, she had under-rated his good lucks and the ease with which he wore his good, but unspectacular, clothes.

She heard Caro draw a sharp breath when he bowed over her hand. Sir Garth, more sophisticated in the ways of the great world, raised his quizzing glass to inspect the visitor more closely, drawling, ‘I thought that we might have come across one another before in town although your name is not familiar, but I see that I was wrong.’

Jess surveyed him coolly. So this was Mrs Pomfret’s brother, the owner of the carriage which he had seen earlier that day. He was a regular London beau with all the hallmarks of one who moved in good society and had been born into it.

‘Oh, I live on the fringes of the ton, as many do, I believe.’

He offered Sir Garth no explanation of who and what he had been, and what he had just said to him was no more, and no less, than the truth.

Caro said suddenly, ‘I believe, Mr Fitzroy, that you have already met my sister-in-law, Mrs Charles Herron, when she was looking after my two children, so no introductions are needed, although to make everything comme il faut, I will offer you a formal one.’

She took Georgie, who had been standing half-hidden behind the brother and sister, by the hand to bring her forward—and Jess found himself facing the hoyden in breeches whom he had rebuked the previous afternoon. Only she wasn’t wearing breeches, but a plainish green frock with few trimmings. Her riotously short russet-coloured hair was held back and half hidden by a black bandeau, and the low collar of her dress and its artful cut left one in no doubt that here was a young woman in her early twenties and not the young girl whom he had thought her. Only her green eyes were the same—but even more defiant and mutinous than they had been the previous afternoon!

Caro Pomfret was explaining to him that Mrs Herron was a widow and was living with her so that they might keep one another company instead of being lonely apart.

‘She’s so good with my lively two, and keeps them in order, which I never could,’ she sighed, as though Georgie was a rather helpful nursemaid.

It would have been difficult to know which of the pair of them, Jess or Georgie, was the more embarrassed in view of the unfortunate nature of their previous meeting, although nothing that they said or did gave Caro or Sir Garth any hint of their mutual feelings.

I ought to apologise, they both separately thought, but how does one do that without making matters worse?

Jess’s other thought was that, unlike her sister-in-law, Mrs Caroline Pomfret was exactly the sort of unexceptional lady whom a wise man might make his wife. She would always, he was sure, say and do the right thing—indeed, was busy saying and doing them even while they sat and talked about Netherton and the late Miss Jesmond.

‘I was so fond of the dear old lady,’ sighed Caro untruthfully. She and Miss Jesmond had disliked one another cordially. It had been Georgie who, until her marriage, had provided Jess’s aunt with congenial company. After she had been widowed and had returned to Netherton she had lightened the old lady’s last days with her bright presence until death had claimed Miss Jesmond.

Caro was now giving Jess her version of her friendship with Miss Jesmond—which was an accurate account of Georgie’s transferred to herself.

‘So,’ she ended, smiling sweetly, ‘you may imagine how pleased I am to meet at last the nephew of whom she was so fond.’

Great-nephew, thought Georgie a trifle sourly.

‘And Georgie knew her a little, too,’ Caro sighed. ‘Although none of us was aware that you were her heir.’

‘And nor was I,’ returned Jess, who was enjoying more than a little the attention and admiration of a pretty woman. ‘It is many years since I last visited my aunt, but I believe that I am the only member of her family left—which accounts for the inheritance, I suppose.’

Sir Garth said, ‘I am never sure whether having relatives is a good thing or not, but one is supposed to commiserate with those who have none—so I shall do so.’

Jess bowed his thanks. ‘It leaves one feeling lonely,’ he admitted. ‘However, I can well understand that there are occasions when relatives can be a liability—although I am sure that that term could never be applied to your sister or your sister-in-law.’

‘True,’ replied Sir Garth, ‘and I was spared an unkind father so I am lucky.’

‘And I also,’ sighed Caro. ‘Until I lost my husband,’ she added hastily.

Georgie refused to join this mutual congratulation society. She was more than a little surprised by the resentment aroused in her by Jess’s admiration of Caro. It was not that he was being obvious about it. Indeed, most people would not have been aware of his interest in her, but Georgie was finding that she could read him.

It was her late husband who had tutored her in the art of understanding the unspoken thoughts of men and women, and she was beginning to regret that anger had led her to misread Jess when she had first met him. It was not that she was interested in him—no, not at all, she told herself firmly—but in a small society like Netherton’s she was bound to meet him frequently and it would not do to be at open odds with him, for that might cause unpleasant gossip.

So she said a few moments later, just before the butler came to announce that dinner was served, ‘Have you found the opportunity to visit Netherton yet, Mr Fitzroy?’

‘Indeed. I drove there this morning. I needed to find a bank and Miss Jesmond’s solicitor. Not all my business could be concluded by correspondence before I visited Jesmond House. I was pleasantly surprised by how attractive the little town is—and how busy. I had no notion that there were Assembly Rooms, for example. There were none, I believe, when I visited my aunt over twenty years ago.’

Georgie replied, pleased that they were about to have a civilised conversation at last, ‘They were built about fifteen years ago. My late father and Mr Bowlby headed a committee which thought that Netherton needed to have a more varied social life. They were also responsible for improving the streets and creating the public park and the small Arboretum which lies at the end of the main street. My father was a keen gardener; so, too, was your great-aunt when she was a young woman and they frequently made presents of flowers and plants to both the park and the garden.’

Jess privately noted that Georgie had been careful to refer to Miss Jesmond as his great-aunt rather than his aunt and had also informed him—or rather, reminded him—of her love of the outdoor world. He had already decided to restore the gardens around Jesmond House in celebration of her memory.

He told Georgie so.

Her face lit up. ‘Oh, how pleased she would have been if she had known that! I think she rather feared that once she was gone the gardens might never recover their old glory.’

Caro was privately yawning at this discussion of matters in which she had no interest. So far as she was concerned, flowers and plants were things which the servants collected from the gardeners and placed in bowls and vases around the house for her to admire if she chose to—which wasn’t often.

She was pleased that the butler arrived to announce that supper was ready immediately after she had seconded Georgie’s remark by exclaiming, ‘What a sweet thought. It does you credit, does it not, Garth?’

Sir Garth, whose lack of interest in things botanic was even greater than his sister’s, drawled, ‘Yes, indeed, great credit, I’m sure. I like a tidy garden.’ A remark which would have killed that line of conversation even if the butler had not summoned them to the supper table.

‘I thought,’ Caro said, after they were all seated, ‘that you would prefer a small private supper party with only a few present rather than a formal dinner where you might be overwhelmed by all those wishing to meet you. You must be aware that the whole of Netherton is excited by your arrival—we meet so few strangers.’

Georgie thought drily that she had rarely met anyone less likely to be overwhelmed than Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, whose reply to Caro was a model of tact and charm.

‘Very good of you, madam. Most thoughtful of you. A slow introduction to all the curious would certainly be easier than encountering them en masse.’

Now Mr Jesmond Fitzroy was not being quite truthful in coming out with a remark made primarily to please his hostess. He had long been aware that in war, business and life, early reconnoitring of one’s surroundings and their inhabitants was highly desirable—particularly when those surroundings were new. He would have been perfectly happy had Mrs Caroline Pomfret invited most of Netherton society to meet him, but no one would have guessed it from his manner.

Except for Georgie.

Her instincts were beginning to inform her that their guest was a far more devious person than his bland exterior might suggest. Consequently the eye she turned on him after that little speech was a trifle satiric—and, being devious and alert, Jess immediately read her expression correctly.

So, Mrs Charles Herron was not only a hoyden, she was also a minx! And a cunning one—unlike her artless sister-in-law. Unfortunately for him, his first encounter with Georgie not only had him continually misreading her, it was helping him to misread Caro too. Because she was so obviously Georgie’s opposite, so delightfully conventional in her manner, he was crediting her with virtues which she did not possess.

His instincts were on surer ground with the ineffable Sir Garth, who entertained them over supper with tales of high life. He was, it seemed, a personal friend of all of those in the first stare of London society, throwing nicknames around with abandon. Lord Palmerston was ‘Cupid’, Lord Granville was ‘Beamer’, Lady Jersey was ‘Silence’, and so on…and so on…

Yes, the man was a fraud of some kind, Jess was sure.

If that were so, then what was he doing here in this quiet backwater where some small Assembly Rooms and a miniature park were among the few excitements of the little town?

Jess made a mental note that Sir Garth Manning would bear watching.

And all the time that he was exchanging small talk with Manning and his sister, about the gossip surrounding King George IV’s determination to rid himself of his wife, Queen Caroline, who, when she was Princess of Wales, had been the bane of his life, the Herron minx remained unwontedly quiet. And who, pray, had the late Mr Charles Herron been, who had chosen to marry a redheaded termagant?

Which was being unfair, he knew, for Georgie’s hair was not truly red, and for a termagant she was being uncommonly backward in the assertion department!

Halfway through the meal the butler came in and spoke a quiet word to Caro Pomfret, who looked sweetly up and waved an airy hand at Georgie. The butler promptly went over to her and further whispering ensued, at the end of which Georgie rose from the table and addressed the company apologetically.

‘Pray excuse me. It seems that Annie has had a bad dream and is asking for me.’

Jess rose and bowed. Belatedly, a second later, Sir Garth followed suit. ‘No excuse is necessary,’ Jess offered with a smile. ‘Bad dreams take precedence over supper.’

‘Unless they are caused by supper,’ guffawed Sir Garth when Georgie had left the room.

‘You see,’ said Caro, all sweetness and light, ‘Georgie is so very good with them. A pity she never had any children of her own. My health, you understand, does not allow me to run around after them too much. Georgie, now, is as strong as a horse.’

For the first time where Caro was concerned Jess’s critical faculties began to work. Mrs Pomfret appeared to be the picture of health—but perhaps the picture was not entirely truthful.

Sir Garth, aware that his sister had sounded a false note, and had said something which might put off a prospective suitor, particularly one who had inherited Jesmond House, drawled languidly, ‘But you are recovering a little from the shock of your poor husband’s death, are you not, Caro dear? Your health was feared for then, but I gather that you are doing much more than you were.’

He turned to Jess, smiling his crocodile smile. ‘Dear Georgie has been a real tower of strength—so strong and commanding—everyone takes heed of her. Such a boon while Caro has not been up to snuff.’

Well, the strong and commanding bit was true enough, thought Jess, remembering Georgie’s reaction to his well-meant advice. It was plain that she lacked poor Caro’s sensibilities.

Georgie did not return until supper was over and the rest of the party was seated again in the drawing room, waiting for the tea board to appear. She had had enough of watching Caro charm Jess and had decided that seated on poor Annie’s bed, reading her a fairy story, and occasionally comforting her, was a better way to spend the evening than in mouthing sweet nothings to persons she did not like.

Unfortunately, in the middle of the second story Annie fell into a happy sleep, leaving Georgie with no choice than to return to the drawing room where she sat, mumchance, watching Caro and Jess try to charm one another.

She soon realised, though, that Jess was not engaged in mouthing sweet nothings. His apparently idle remarks were intended to winkle information out of both Caro and Sir Garth without appearing to do so.

Caro was discoursing animatedly about Banker Bowlby and his pretensions. ‘Had it not been for the untimely deaths of both my father-in-law and then my husband,’ she was declaiming pathetically, ‘Mr Bowlby would not be such a prominent person in Netherton. He quite sees himself as the Squire—which, of course, he is not. Even buying up Miss Jesmond’s unwanted land does not entitle him to be considered other than a business man who claims to belong to the gentry.’

‘The trouble is,’ said Sir Garth, ‘we have no notion of who old Bowlby—this man’s father—was. He came to Netherton with a bit of money and, it must be admitted, a great deal of drive, and ended up taking over the bank from old Gardiner who had no heir but wished to retire. He claims that his grandfather was Bowlby of Bowlby village near Worksop, but has never shown any evidence to prove it.’

After that there was further gossip about the Wiltons and the Firths. It would be impolite to yawn, though Georgie had heard most of this before and wondered what Jesmond Fitzroy made of it.

Jesmond Fitzroy! What an absurdly pompous name. Fitz! That’s what she would call him. It suited him better than his proper one. The thought made Georgie giggle inwardly. Her face flushed and her eyes shone. Yes, given the opportunity she would call him Fitz.

Jess, all ears, being enlightened as well as entertained by Netherton gossip, looked across at her sitting quietly in her chair and recognised the message of the shining eyes, so at contrast with the unsmiling and silent mouth. He decided that he would like to know more about her, about her dead husband and how she came to be here, running Caro Pomfret’s errands and looking after her children.

The unwelcome thought struck him that she might be the reason for Garth Manning’s presence. Why unwelcome? It was nothing to him if Manning might be after Mrs Herron’s small fortune. He was sure that it was small. Although, if Manning were desperate, small might be enough.

Why did he think Manning desperate? Jess didn’t know. What he did know was that Manning was a poor thing to be a gentle and pretty woman’s brother and her hoyden of a sister-in-law’s suitor.

Meanwhile he stayed talking until the proper time to leave, bending first over Mrs Herron’s hand, and then—a little longer over Caro Pomfret’s, watched by a benevolent Sir Garth Manning. He was suddenly sure that Manning would approve his suit if he decided that Caro was the wife for whom he had been looking.

Back at Jesmond House Twells was waiting up for him, a slightly agitated expression on his old face.

‘You have a visitor, sir.’

‘What, at this hour?’

‘He arrived shortly after you left and said that he was sure that you would wish to see him. He was so insistent that I put him in the library. I didn’t think that the drawing room was suitable.’

Jess was intrigued. Who, in the name of wonder, could his visitor be? He tossed his top coat and hat on to the medieval bench which stood in the hall and strode towards the library. Twells said agitatedly, ‘Shall I announce you, sir?’

He sounded so tired and old that Jess turned to look at him. ‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘You are ready for bed and I need no trumpeter to go before me. And, Twells—’ as the old man moved away ‘—you are not to wait up for me again. Surely there is a young footman about the house—Henry Craig, for example—who doesn’t need his rest so much and who could be trusted to open the door for me.’

‘I am butler here, sir.’ Twells’s tone was both dignified and rebuking.

‘I know that, but you could consider that you are training up a useful deputy—one who can stand in for you at any time. I shall not value you the less, you know—merely commend your good common-sense in agreeing with me. Now, go to bed. I can see myself there later.’

He walked into the library, wondering whom he might find. A man was seated in a chair, reading a book by the light of a candle. He rose when Jess entered.

‘Kite!’ exclaimed Jess. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

‘A good demon to invoke,’ said Kite smoothly. He was a tall, slender man with a clever face, decently dressed, a cross between a clerk and a gentleman. His voice and accent were good, although Jess knew that he could speak London cant when he wished. ‘You might like to look at my letter, sir.’

He handed it over to Jess who broke the seals and began to read it. It was from Ben Wolfe.

‘Dear Jess,’ it said, ‘I am sending you James Kite to be your lieutenant because I am tired of seeing his damned dismal face around the counting house since you left us. It was either him or Tozzy who had to go, seeing that they were both being glum together—I believe they thought that I had dismissed you, and I wasn’t prepared to tell them that you went of your own free will.

‘I chose him for you rather than Tozzy because I thought that he is smooth enough to fit into your new life as Lord of the Manor of Netherton. Pray don’t turn him away. He can do for you what you did for me—he made it plain that it was you he wished to serve, not me, so I have lost two good men at once. My only consolation is that he will keep you, as well as himself, out of trouble. Knowing him, you will take my meaning.

‘Susanna joins me in sending you our best wishes for your future.

‘Your humble servant, Ben Wolfe.’

Jess looked at Kite. ‘You are aware of what is in this?’ he asked, waving the letter.

‘Not the exact words, no, but the gist of it.’

‘And it is what you wish?’

‘Yes—as Mr Wolfe understands.’

‘Mr Wolfe understands a damned sight too much,’ said Jess. ‘You must understand that being my lieutenant, my man of all work, will be very different here in the country from what it was in London.’

‘You need a man at your back anywhere in the world, begging your pardon, sir. Here as elsewhere.’

‘And will you, on occasion, be my valet—should I ask you? I don’t want a regular one.’

‘Anything you ask, sir.’

‘But I have already discovered that I may need your special skills as well—although practising them may not be as dangerous as in London.’

‘Only time will tell.’

He should have remembered how brief and sardonic Kite was. A cross between himself and Ben Wolfe.

‘Your official position will be as my secretary. Tomorrow I shall be seeing the man who was my great-aunt’s agent until she lost her reason, and you will be present, taking notes—and listening. You were good at listening.’

‘My forte, sir.’

Jess rang for the footman, Henry Craig, who he hoped was now standing in for Twells. ‘I shall have a room assigned to you—it won’t be comfortable. The whole damned place is derelict. You can help me to restore it.’

‘With pleasure, sir.’

Jess watched him follow young Henry, who was to be Twells’s new deputy. Craig was carrying the bags which Kite had brought with him. He did not know whether to laugh or to curse—or to congratulate himself.

On the whole, he decided on the latter—but God help Netherton with Kite loose in it.

And Sir Garth Manning and Mr Bowlby in particular, both of whom Kite could track for him.

Chapter Three

Jess had underestimated the size of the social life in Netherton and the ingenuity of its inhabitants in organising it.

The following morning Kite, who had already taken up his secretarial duties, handed him a letter from the Bowlbys which had arrived by special messenger.

It invited him to a fête to be held in the grounds of the Bowlbys’ mansion, Nethercotes, on the afternoon of the immediate Saturday. It also welcomed him to Netherton and hoped that Mr Fitzroy would enjoy his stay in the town.

‘Shall I answer it for you? I take it that you wish to accept.’

‘You take it correctly. I shall be seeing Parsons, the former land agent here, at two of the clock this afternoon in the library. You will, of course, be present. This morning I intend to ride around the countryside, familiarising myself with the lie of the land.’

‘You have a map of the district, sir?’

‘Yes,’ said Jess, holding up a tattered scrap of paper. ‘It purports to show the boundaries of the local estates, including those of the land my aunt used to own. I’ll see you at lunch. In the meantime, you might go up to the attics and see if you can find anything useful there. And by useful I mean not only bibelots, pictures and furniture, but also papers and documents, however old.’

‘Understood, sir.’

Kite ghosted out of the room. Jess had forgotten how unobtrusive he was—and how immediately obliging. The letter would go straightway to the Bowlbys and the attics would be searched.

It was a glorious morning for a ride and his horse—named Tearaway because he was nothing of the kind—like Jess, was, for once, eager to enjoy a little exercise. He turned down the main street, openly watched by the villagers—he could not yet think of Netherton as a town.

Occasionally stopping to read the map, he quartered the countryside after the same fashion he had employed long ago in India, only the scenery being different. He had just begun to ride down a green lane at the back of his little property when he saw young Gus running along the bank of a shallow river, one of the tributaries of the Trent, waving his arms and shouting.

Jess grinned. He’d bet a mountain of tin that the young hoyden was at her tricks again! What could it be this time? He ought to find out in case she were in real trouble. He dismounted, tied Tearaway to a fence post, and pushed through the low hedge which bordered the field where he had caught sight of Gus.

By now Gus had seen Jess and was running towards him.

‘What luck to find you here, sir,’ he gasped breathlessly. ‘I thought I’d have to run to your home farm to find help.’

He began to tug at Jess’s coat. ‘It’s Georgie,’ he said. ‘She went into the river after one of the village children who had strayed from home, fallen in and was like to drown. She saved the child, but she’s wet through and has hurt her ankle. She said not to fuss, she could manage, but I disobeyed her because I thought she needed help. This way, sir, this way.’

He had been pulling Jess along while he told his story.

So, he had been right. Georgie Herron was in trouble again. No, that was quite wrong. She had not been in trouble when he had found her playing cricket on his land. The trouble had come after that when he had tried to advise her.

He wondered how badly she had been hurt. He doubted whether Gus was the most reliable of witnesses, although he seemed to have plenty of common-sense.

How like mad Mrs Georgie to hurl herself into a river—even a shallow one—after a drowning child! He couldn’t imagine the ladylike Caro doing any such thing. But then Caro would never have been roaming the countryside with two small children, either.

He found Georgie sitting on the river bank not far from where he had first seen Gus. She had stripped off her boy’s jacket in order to go into the river and was soaked through, her wet shirt clinging revealingly to her. She was cradling on her knee the soaked and crying child whom she had rescued and was trying to comfort her.

She had walked a few yards from the spot where she had rescued the little girl from the river, but the weight of the child, combined with the pain in her damaged ankle, had compelled her to sit down for a moment. She felt her heart sink when Gus and Jess rounded the turn of the river and came into view.

Of all the dreadful luck! What a fright she must look, like a drowned rat with her hair in strings about her face, for the child had sunk on to the river bed and she had had to bend down in order to lift her out. Of course, the poor little thing had had no more sense than to clutch at her so that she had lost her balance, landing in the water and wrenching her ankle at the same time.

Fitz was bound to ring a peal over her again and be full of sound advice on the proper behaviour of a young lady. She tried to stand up to greet him, but holding the squirming child made such an act difficult as well as painful.

Nevertheless, she managed to lever herself upright just before Jess reached her. He confirmed her worst fears by immediately barking an order at her in a sergeant-major’s voice. ‘Whatever do you think that you’re doing? Sit down at once!’

‘Oh, Fitz,’ said Georgie sorrowfully, ‘I might have guessed that you would begin to bully me the moment you saw me.’

‘Of course I shall bully you,’ said Jess, scarcely hearing the ‘Fitz’, but relieved to see that she still had enough spirit left to spark at him. ‘You need to be bullied if you insist on running around the countryside doing dangerous things!’

‘Goodness me,’ she exclaimed, seething. ‘I suppose I ought to have left the poor little thing to drown and fainted with shock at the sad sight instead.’

‘I would never have expected that of you,’ announced Jess firmly. ‘And before you try to walk, allow me to have a look at both the ankle and the child. You could let Gus hold it while I do so.’

He looked around him. ‘And where’s Annie? Have you lost her as well as half-drowning yourself?’

‘It! It! She’s a girl, Fitz—or were you so busy reprimanding me that you failed to notice that she wasn’t wearing breeches? And Annie isn’t with us—she didn’t feel up to a long walk.’

‘Fortunately for her, she appears to be unlike you in every way,’ said Jess severely, ‘seeing that she was obeying the normal conventions which govern the behaviour of females and didn’t want to go gallivanting around the countryside. Take off your wet sock at once so that I may inspect your damaged ankle. And, by the way, who gave you leave to call me Fitz?’

‘The same person who gave you leave to shout orders at me every time we meet. The deity, if you like. He’s supposed to arrange our life, I believe, although where females are concerned he’s made a poor fist of it!’

Jess, bending over her ankle, gave a crack of laughter at this spirited sally. Gus, now cradling the wet and crying girl child, saw nothing to laugh at, particularly since Georgie had begun to shiver with cold.

He said, rebuking Jess a little, ‘It was jolly brave of Georgie to rescue her. You mustn’t be cross with her.’

‘No, it wasn’t brave and I don’t think that he’s really cross. And I was stupid to allow myself to lose my footing in the water,’ announced Georgie, who was finding that there was something strangely intimate and pleasant in having Fitz examine her bare foot and ankle. That stroking motion, now, as he tried to assess the damage, was quite delightful and soothing. She was sorry when he stopped.

‘No real harm done,’ he pronounced at last. ‘A light sprain only. But I don’t think that you ought to walk on it. I left my horse tethered on the byway. If you will allow me to carry you there, he may take you the rest of the way home. Gus can lead Tearaway and I’ll carry the child. Have you any notion of who she belongs to?’

‘None. The first time I saw her was when she was falling into the river. And you don’t need to carry me. I’m quite capable of walking.’

‘Contrary infant that you are,’ Jess told her pleasantly, ‘you cannot really wish to make a light sprain worse. You will miss the Bowlbys’ fête and the Assembly Room dance if you do.’

‘Infant! Fitz, I’ll have you know I’m an old married woman, or widow rather. A little respect from you would not come amiss.’

But Georgie was laughing while she spoke, her green eyes shining and dancing and Fitz—dammit, he was already beginning to think that was his name—held her lightly against his heart. She was really no weight at all despite the one boot she was still wearing and her sodden breeches. Now that he was holding her, he could feel her shivering.

He sat her down for a moment and pulled off his coat. ‘Wrap that around you,’ he told her. ‘Unwise for you to get too cold.’

‘No need,’ declared Georgie, staring at his magnificent shirt which covered an equally magnificent torso. ‘I’m so wet that I shall ruin it. Though it’s kind of you to offer it, Fitz.’

‘All the more reason for you to wear it,’ he told her briskly. ‘And come to think of it, no one has ever called me Fitz before. Odd that, for one would normally expect it to be my nickname.’

‘Oh, everyone was too frightened of you to give you a nickname at all, I suppose. Have you always behaved as though you were the Lord of All?’

‘Now that,’ he told her severely, joining in with her light-hearted game, ‘is really unkind. I’ve a good mind to drop you and leave you to the wolves.’

‘There aren’t any wolves round here,’ said Gus glumly, ‘and if you did any such thing I’d tell on you to the village constable.’

‘He doesn’t mean it, Gus,’ Georgie reassured him. ‘He’s only teasing me. He’d never do any such thing.’

‘Really?’ said Jess, raising his perfect eyebrows. ‘Care to twit me again and find out?’

They had reached Tearaway; before Georgie could answer, Jess had lifted her on to him.

‘Your breeches do have some practical use,’ he told her. ‘You can ride astride. We’re not far from Pomfret Hall if my map is correct. Once there, you must take a warm bath, put on some dry clothes and lie down for a little.’

‘Orders, orders, always orders, Fitz. What were you in your previous incarnation? An Army officer?’

Something in his expression gave him away.

Georgie said exultantly, ‘Caught. I knew it! You were.’

‘You are,’ he told her, but his voice was kind, ‘the most knowing minx I have ever had the misfortune to meet.’

He had a sudden memory of an occasion on which Ben Wolfe had said something similar to his future wife Susanna. The thought made him smile. Georgie saw the smile. It transformed a face whose expression was usually a trifle severe.

‘What sort of a soldier, Fitz?’ she asked him.

‘The usual,’ he said drily, ‘but that was long ago and not worth the telling.’

‘Long ago,’ exclaimed Gus, delighted to meet a real live soldier. They had been thin on the ground since Waterloo. ‘You must have been quite a babe then.’

‘Indeed, Master Gus. Older than you, though. And green, very green.’

‘Green, Fitz?’ called Georgie from her perch. ‘I can’t believe that!’

‘Believe it, Mrs Georgie, believe it. I may call you that, may I not?’

‘If you will allow me to call you Fitz—though we must behave ourselves in public. There I propose to be good. You shall be Mr Fitzroy with just the slightest stress on the first syllable. You’re not green now, though. By no means. Was that the Army? Papa always said that being in the Army made a man.’

Jess decided to tell the truth. ‘Partly the Army and partly a friend I made in it. And that is enough of me. Since you have questioned me so thoroughly, I believe that gives me the right to question you. Have you always been so downright, Mrs Georgie?’

Silence. She was not answering him. He shifted the child on his arm. Fortunately for his comfort, fright and tiredness had finally sent her to sleep. He wondered why Georgie had suddenly become shy, for she was looking away from him and by the set of her body for the first time since he had met her, her ready wit had deserted her.

‘The truth, Fitz,’ Georgie said at last. ‘You want the truth? The answer is no. And it wasn’t the Army which changed me.’

She had not known how to reply. The question had brought the past rushing back and Georgie hated the past and had no wish to live in it again.

Unknowingly it was something she shared with the man walking alongside her. Suddenly she felt desperately tired and very cold. The exhilaration which had consumed her from the moment Jess had walked into view had disappeared. She shivered, a long shiver. Even his coat could not warm her.

Jess felt the shiver. He turned to Gus and said, ‘Can I trust you, young shaver? We are not far from your home. Do you think that you could carry the child there on your own if I mount Tearaway and gallop your aunt there before she expires with cold and shock? We are on what passes for a main road here and you should not meet with any danger. I’ll have them send a footman in your direction when I reach Pomfret Hall.’

‘No need,’ said Georgie quietly. ‘I am not about to faint, but I do feel so dreadfully cold.’

‘The warm bath, remember,’ Jess said, ‘The sooner you reach it, the better. I shall ride in front of you. Loose the reins and allow me to mount.’

She did not argue with him, which told him that she was in need of his assistance. Nor did he twit her again, but concentrated on encouraging Tearaway to increase his speed so that they might reach Pomfret Hall the more speedily.

‘How like you, Georgie,’ wailed Caro gently, ‘to throw yourself into the river after a chance-met child. I don’t say that it’s not worthy of you, only that it’s foolish. Could you not have sent Gus for help instead?’

‘By which time the child would have been drowned dead for sure,’ said Georgie sturdily, some of her old fire returning now that she was back home and about to enjoy the warm bath which Jess had demanded and Caro had ordered. ‘You didn’t really expect me to sit on the bank and watch her dying struggles?’

Jess watched, amused, when Caro threw him a helpless look, saying, ‘I never know what to expect from you, Georgie, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at this morning’s adventure. Do either of you have any notion of whose child it is?’

‘It,’ began Georgie belligerently, ‘she’s not an it,’ only for Jess to put a gentle hand on her arm and say soothingly,

‘Time to go upstairs, I think. That must be your maid approaching.’

It was. Georgie’s maid, Madge Honey, was in her fifties and had been her old nurse. She arrived in time to hear Georgie fire at Jess, ‘Orders again, Fitz!’ and to say reprovingly to her, ‘Now, now, Miss Georgie. None of that. You’re soaking wet through and there’s a nice warm bath being prepared for you. I’ve put some dry clothes out and readied the bed so that you can have a good lie-down. Come along, do!’

Georgie was led away, clutching her head melodramatically and exclaiming, ‘It’s a conspiracy, it really is. Has Mr Fitzroy been coaching you, Madge, that you should echo what he has been telling me every few yards on the way home?’

‘Has he, now, my pet? Then he’s a right sensible gentleman, isn’t he? And you’d do best to heed him.’

Jess tried not to laugh. Caro smiled wearily at him and said, ‘Madge is the only person who can control her these days. When I think what she used to be like…’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll have the butler fetch you one of John’s old coats before you catch your death of cold, and you’ll oblige me by taking tea—I’ve already ordered the tea board.’

Jess began to demur, but Caro looked so charmingly welcoming that he gave way, and obediently put on one of her late husband’s jackets which fitted him quite well, although it was not of a colour he liked.

Caro began to chatter about every subject under the sun until he said, ‘I would be grateful if you would enquire whether Gus has brought the half-drowned mite home.’

‘Oh, that!’ said Caro, waving an airy hand. ‘The butler informed me when I ordered the tea board that Gus had arrived home safely and that the housekeeper was arranging dry clothing for it. And now we have the bother of discovering whose it is.’

This last came out with a great sigh.

Fortunately for Jess—he could think of no reply which would not sound critical of his hostess—Sir Garth came in, saying, ‘Heard m’sister-in-law had been in the wars and that you had rescued her, Fitzroy. What’s she been up to now?’ and he gave a knowing laugh.

Jess, to his great surprise, found himself defending Georgie. ‘Nothing discreditable,’ he said coolly. ‘Quite the contrary. She went into the river to rescue a drowning child. Most enterprising of her. Fortunately I happened to be nearby to see that she reached home again without dying of cold. She has damaged her ankle, but not too seriously, I believe. Mrs Pomfret has sent for the doctor.’

Sir Garth smiled, ignoring the hidden rebuke. ‘Noble of her, I’m sure. Shouldn’t expect anything else of her. She’ll make some fortunate man a useful wife.’

By his expression he obviously considered himself to be that man, which, Jess decided, would be a pity. She deserved something better than this conceited jackanapes. He decided to take his leave. He could not stomach too much of Sir Garth’s company.

That gentleman, once Jess had gone, sank into an armchair, remarking to his sister, ‘Which of you does he fancy? You or Georgie? He looked down his nose at me when he thought that I was criticising her.’

‘Georgie!’ exclaimed Caro with a scandalised laugh. ‘He doesn’t fancy Georgie. They are quite at odds with one another, I believe. Thinks her a hoyden by the way he spoke when he brought her home.’

‘Does he, now?’ Sir Garth was thoughtful. ‘Some men have a penchant for hoydens, though.’

‘Not Mr Fitzroy. You must have observed that he is very comme il faut.’

‘Secretive devil, too,’ said Sir Garth, ignoring this last comment. ‘Wonder where he comes from. Would bear looking into.’

A verdict similar to the one which Jess had already passed on him!

Parsons, late Miss Jesmond’s land agent, arrived in the afternoon and was shown into the library, that repository of battered books.

Kite had earlier placed a box of grimy documents which he had salvaged from the attics on one of the tables for Jess to inspect. Before that he had had a distracted visitor: a young farm labourer, Jack Wild, one of Jess’s tenants, whose little daughter had disappeared that morning from the garden at the back of his cottage and had not been seen since.

‘I need a search made, sir,’ he had said hoarsely. ‘I thought you might be able to help me, seeing that you are my master now.’

Jess had the pleasure of telling him that his daughter was safe at Pomfret Hall after falling in the river and that she had been rescued by the bravery of Mrs Herron. ‘Go to the stables,’ he ended, ‘and ask one of the grooms to drive you over in the gig, collect her and take you both home.’

‘That I will, sir, and thank you and thank Miss Georgie, too—begging your pardon, but we all called her that before she married—it seems odd to think of her as Mrs Herron.’

‘One question for you before go on your way. You work at my home farm, do you not?’

‘Aye, that I do,’ agreed Wild eagerly. ‘Worked for old Miss Jesmond all my life. Don’t have much to do since Mr Parsons left. Miss Jesmond paid my wages—belike you’ll do the same.’

‘I am hoping to re-employ Mr Parsons—if he is not already committed elsewhere.’

‘Doing piece-work for Banker Bowlby, he is. Would probably like his old job back.’

He left, still thanking Jess profusely. Jess thought that he ought to thank him for revealing that Banker Bowlby seemed to have a finger in every pie.

Parsons turned out to be a large square man with a weathered face, dressed in country clothing.

‘You wished to see me, Mr Fitzroy?’

‘Indeed. You were my aunt’s land agent, I believe. When did she dispense with your services—and why?’

Parsons had not known what to expect of Miss Jesmond’s heir. He looked a right soft gentleman and no mistake with his pretty face and his pretty clothes, sitting there in the ruins of a once-fine library.

On the other hand, his first words had been direct and to the point.

‘After she sold most of her land she no longer needed an agent, nor, she said, could she afford to pay one, so she told me that my services were no longer needed.’

It was a straight answer to a straight question. Jess, leaning back a little in his chair said, almost as though he were not interested, ‘Why did she sell her land? Do you know?’

‘She said that she had made foolish investments and Banker Bowlby was helping her to pay back what she owed by taking the land off her hands as quickly as possible.’

Parsons’s face when he came out with this was expressionless, passing no verdict on what he was saying.

‘Have you any notion of how much he paid her?’

‘None, sir. She seemed happy with it, but…’ He paused and fell silent.

‘But?’ prompted Jess, eyebrows raised.

‘But, begging your pardon, sir, she was weak in the head by this time, and I am not sure that she quite understood what was what.’

‘You were present?’

‘When Banker Bowlby visited her here. Yes.’

‘Was no sum mentioned then? Or any account given of her debts?’

‘None. I understood that these matters had been raised in a meeting at the bank and this meeting was for her to sign the documents which he had prepared for her. The butler and I were simply there as witnesses.’

‘You did not read the documents, then?’

‘No, sir. I asked—but Mr Bowlby and Miss Jesmond both assured me that they had gone over them together and that they were both satisfied with their contents.’

‘But you said that Miss Jesmond was weak in the head.’

‘Aye, sir, but when I tried again Miss Jesmond grew petulant and sent me away. She said that I was trying to ruin her. One of the footmen signed the documents instead. Soon after that she dismissed me. I think Banker Bowlby recommended her to do so—although he took me on to do piece-work for him, saying he was sorry for me.’

‘And did you believe him?’

‘No, sir, but I needed the work, so I said nothing. I have a family to keep.’

‘And would you work for me, in your old capacity?’

‘But you have little land, sir, and so have little use for an agent.’

Jess smiled coldly. ‘You must allow me to be the best judge of that.’

Parsons stared across at Kite, busy taking notes.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but what is that man doing?’

‘Mr Kite is keeping a record of our meeting in case my memory fails me. He will now write down that I have offered you your post back at slightly more than Miss Jesmond paid you. He will also note down your answer—which is?’

‘That I accept, sir, except that I am a little troubled about what my duties might be.’

Jess said over his shoulder, ‘You have that, Kite?’

‘So noted, sir.’

‘Good, and you, Parsons, have no need to be troubled. You will start work tomorrow, and we shall then have a brief discussion about your future. Is there anything further you wish to know?’

Parsons stared at Jess now, fascinated. ‘No, sir, but you will forgive me for saying that this is a regular rum do.’

Was that a smile on Mr Kite’s impassive face? Parsons wasn’t sure. If he had feared that his answer might ruffle Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, he was quite mistaken.

‘You are not the first person to make such a remark to me, Mr Parsons, and I doubt that you will be the last. You will report to me in this room at eight of the clock on Monday morning. I am sure that I need not say that I expect punctuality at all times. Good day, Mr Parsons. The butler will show you to the door.’

A rum do, said Parsons to himself as he left Jesmond House, and a regular rum gent. Is he the clever one or does that man of his, Kite, do his thinking for him? But I’ve my old post back so I shan’t complain.

‘Well, Kite, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asked Jess when the door had closed behind Parsons.

‘That Banker Bowlby will bear investigating? Certainly.’

‘And soon.’ Jess was a trifle abstracted. ‘I had not thought that the country would prove so lively.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but in my experience liveliness may be found anywhere. Best to be ready for it.’

‘So noted,’ replied Jess, in a slight mockery of a clerk’s formal answer. ‘I shall remember your advice when I next meet Banker Bowlby at his fête on Saturday. For the present I shall not ask you to make a formal investigation of him—I need a little more information first. I shall go through the papers you have discovered—there might be something interesting to be found in them.’

‘I fear that there are a sight more in the attic.’

Jess sighed. ‘I thought that I had done with investigating dubious ventures, Kite, but I ought to have known that I was wrong. Bring them down slowly. Who knows, the answers to some questions which I am beginning to ask myself may be found there.’

‘So noted, sir.’

From Kite’s tone it was impossible to discern whether he was mocking himself or Jess.

Jess decided to let sleeping birds lie!

Chapter Four

The Bowlbys’ fête had been in full swing for some time and still Fitz had not appeared. There was an unexpectedly large number of people present, Georgie conceded, but even so Fitz was such a distinctive figure that she could not have missed seeing him if he were present.

And why in the world, she told herself crossly, should I worry whether His High Mightiness is present or not? Later in the day on which she had gone into the river, the little girl’s father had arrived at the Hall, sent on by Fitz with a short note in his own fair hand saying that Mr Wild was one of his farm workers and had been informed that his daughter owed her life to Mrs Herron’s courage.

Wild’s gratitude to her when she entered the entrance hall where he was waiting for her, the child’s hand in his, was so great that it was embarrassing.

‘I only did what anyone ought to,’ she told him.

‘That’s as may be, but there’s many a fine lady who’d have stood by and let her drown. I shan’t forget what you did, Miss Georgie.’

Nor would Georgie forget Fitz’s kindness in the manner in which he had sent Wild to the Hall in his gig. Yes, that was it. She was in such a lather to see him because she wished to thank him—and for no other reason.

And there he was, cool and confident, not a dandy, but wearing his ordinary clothes after such a fashion that he might as well be one. He was talking to Caro—of course. The Bowlbys had put a chaise-longue out for her and she was reclining on it with her usual airy grace, fluttering her eyelashes and her fan at the handsome man bending over her.

Georgie acknowledged desperately that she would never be able to lie on a sofa and make charming small talk. It was quite beyond her. She had never done such a thing, and now it was too late to learn.

She made her way slowly towards them, using her fan for the day was hot—unlike the one on which she had jumped into the river.

Caro saw her first. ‘Oh, there you are, Georgie. I thought that you might have gone home. This kind of affair always bores her, Mr Fitzroy. Is not that true, my dear?’