Читать книгу The Major's Guarded Heart - Isabelle Goddard - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Lizzie bid a prim farewell to him at the entrance to Brede House. Crunching her way along the gravelled drive, she was careful to hold her head high and not look back at the carriage. He was just a little too alluring. What a pity that Piers Silchester did not exude the same attraction, for as Miss Bates was fond of pointing out, he was everything she should want: loyal, loving, stable. The trouble was that she didn’t want it, or at least not enough. Instead she seemed continually drawn to men who offered fleeting excitement rather than a secure future. Soldiers lived in an exclusive world—she knew that from bitter experience—and it was a world in which women had no part. Justin Delacourt was most definitely a soldier, a gentlemanly one, but nevertheless a soldier. He lacked understanding of the cramped life she was forced to lead, knowing nothing of the narrow horizons which bound her. It would be years before he settled to any kind of humdrum life and in the meantime female company signified for him a little pleasantry, a little dalliance only.

Why was a woman’s life so very difficult? A small sum of money was all it would take to give her independence, but even a little money was beyond her. Still a companion’s life, for all its limitations, had to be better than marriage. Being married was too dull for words and being married to Piers Silchester, gentle soul though he was, the dullest of the dull. That was the choice that Clementine Bates had offered and she couldn’t blame the woman—she knew herself to be a liability, a loose cannon prone to fire in any direction. It must have been a blessed day for Miss Bates when she learned from her blushing music teacher that he hoped one day to make Miss Ingram his wife.

Lizzie was old enough now, though, to know that she could not afford to lose her heart to an adventurer. One day she supposed she would have to marry, heart or no heart, and doubtless Piers would be the lucky husband. He was the most dependable man she knew and, most importantly, he was willing to adore her. He would make her his goddess. She tried to imagine Justin Delacourt worshipping at her altar and the thought made her chuckle.

She wondered if he even found her attractive. He had certainly stared long and hard when she’d entered the library wearing that dress, his ever-changing eyes shading from light to dark as his glance held. Goodness knew why, since the garment was the frumpiest thing imaginable. But he had stared nevertheless and not in a pleasant way. Mrs Reynolds had confided in the bedroom that the gown had belonged to the Major’s mother, someone she called Lady Delacourt. Her tightened lips suggested to Lizzie that there was something odd about the woman. Was she dead? If so, why hadn’t the housekeeper mentioned the fact, especially since Sir Lucien had only just died himself? And if she wasn’t dead, then where was she? The dress was old fashioned, it was true, but she saw immediately that its material was richly luxurious and that it was beautifully made. Lady Delacourt must at one time have enjoyed wealth, enjoyed being spoilt, enjoyed being adored. Perhaps she had been made a goddess. If so, it was unlikely to have been her son doing the adoring. After that first amazed stare, his face had registered a dour distaste.

* * *

She had reached the front entrance of Brede House and was about to raise the cast-iron anchor that served as a knocker when the door flew open and a figure dashed past her, nearly knocking her down. It was female, wild eyed and seemingly distraught. She had a brief glimpse of a face before the woman started down the drive at the most tremendous pace. Lizzie looked after her in astonishment. It was Mrs Armitage, she was sure, the woman she had seen in the churchyard. Why was she visiting Mrs Croft and why had the visit upset her so badly that she had tossed aside all vestige of propriety?

Lizzie walked into the hall and saw that the drawing-room door had been left ajar. Cautiously advancing into the room, she spied the remnants of tea scattered across the small occasional table that her employer used when visitors called—a plate of uneaten macaroons, a teacup tossed on its side. It seemed that this had been a social call, but what kind of social call ended with a flight such as Mrs Armitage’s? Or for that matter left the hostess prostrate. Her employer was slumped into one of the armchairs, her hand to her forehead as though nursing a sick headache.

‘Mrs Croft?’ she said gently. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’

At the sound of her voice, the old lady stirred and, seeing Lizzie’s anxious face looking at her from the doorway, attempted to pull herself upright.

‘No, my dear, I thank you, just a little tired.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘Socialising at my age can be a little trying, you know.’

Mrs Croft evidently did not wish to dwell on whatever had occurred and Lizzie wondered if she should leave the matter. It would probably be as well to escape now before her employer recognised the outdated dress she was wearing. But she could not leave her in such a mournful state.

‘I saw Mrs Armitage,’ she mentioned quietly. ‘She passed me as I came through the door. She seemed very upset.’

The old lady did not look at her, but uttered the deepest of sighs. ‘I’m sorry you were witness to her distress. Caroline is grief-stricken and her behaviour at the moment is unpredictable.’

‘But why? I mean why is she grief-stricken?’ That sounded a little harsh, Lizzie thought, and tried to infuse more sympathy into her next words. ‘I had not realised that Mrs Armitage was so attached to Sir Lucien.’

‘Not Sir Lucien, my dear,’ Mrs Croft said gently. ‘It is her son she mourns. She has lost Gilbert.’

‘Lost as in dead?’ Lizzie queried, wide eyed.

‘Lost as in lost. You might as well know, since it is now common knowledge. Gilbert Armitage disappeared some months ago and his parents have been unable to trace him. No one seems to know a thing about his disappearance.’

‘How strange. And sad,’ Lizzie added quickly. ‘But why was she so distressed? She could have received nothing but comfort from you.’

‘That is where you are wrong, I fear. I could not give her what she wanted. She has asked me to intercede with Justin Delacourt, to put all his other concerns to one side and search for her son. I told you, did I not, that Gilbert Armitage was the closest of friends with Justin?’

‘You did. But why was she so upset with you?’

‘Because I refused. I cannot bother Justin at a time like this. He has so very recently lost his father and been left an estate which is in near ruin. It will take him an age to put it right and I know that he is desperate to return to his regiment.’

‘Could she not ask Sir Justin herself—if he is so very close to the family?’

‘She has already asked him for help, but she wanted me to add my voice to her pleas. I could not in all honesty do that. Justin has more than enough to contend with. If he has promised to help in the search, he will do so—he is a man of his word—but it must be on his terms and at a time of his arranging.’

‘And that is not what Mrs Armitage wants?’

‘No, indeed. He must drop everything. I am afraid that she is slightly unbalanced at the moment. Her son was everything to her. He was a late child, you see, a delicate boy, or so Caroline always maintained. His disappearance has sent her teetering over the edge of an abyss and none of her friends’ advice or her husband’s care has been able to prevent it.’

‘I am sorry that you have had such an uncomfortable afternoon, Mrs Croft.’ Lizzie felt genuine concern for her employer, the old lady’s pallor testifying to how badly shaken she had been. ‘Can I bring you some water, perhaps, or fetch down the footstool for you to rest more comfortably?’

‘No, but thank you for your kind thoughts, Elizabeth. I shall sit here a while and listen to the river. It is nearly high tide, you know, and already I can hear the waters lapping in the distance. It is a most soothing sound and will soon restore me.’

* * *

Lizzie took her cue and slipped out of the room and up the stairs. Once in her bedroom, she stood at the open window and listened to the same water tumbling across the small, stony beach which lay just beyond the garden. Taking up her sketch pad, she began to draw—not the river snaking below, nor the clouds above busily filling the sky. She drew a face, one she had studied well and but recently. When she had finished, she was pleased with her portrait—the strong, lean cheek bones, the eyes steady and appraising, the hair a wild halo—but she was not so pleased with herself. She should cast the Major from her mind. From the outset he had fascinated and his curt indifference when they’d first met had only sharpened her interest: he was an invitation, an enjoyable project to lighten the dull days ahead. But this morning it had taken only a very little time in his company to realise her mistake. He was far too attractive, certainly too attractive to treat lightly, and if she were sensible, she would keep her distance. She looked down at the paper on her knee. What on earth was she doing, drawing portraits of the man? She took the sheet of paper and tore it neatly in half, dropping it in the nearby waste bin. He was a footloose soldier and she must forget about him and instead school herself to appreciate the estimable Piers.

There was a soft knock on the door and Hester came in, carrying fresh bedding and towels.

‘Is mistress feeling any better now, Miss Elizabeth?’

‘She is resting. She wished to be left alone.’

‘She shouldn’t be put under that kind of strain, not at her age she shouldn’t.’

‘Mrs Armitage was very upset.’

‘Mebbe. But that ain’t no excuse for upsetting an old lady like she’s done.’

Hester had been with Mrs Croft for years and had a fierce loyalty to her mistress. She knew everything that happened in the house, and no doubt in Rye itself, without ever being told. A thought wormed its way into Lizzie’s mind and she could not stop herself from listening to it.

‘Do you know anything about her son’s disappearance, Hester?’

Why on earth was she gossiping with a maidservant? She knew why. It seemed that she was not yet willing to forget Justin Delacourt entirely and Hester might provide some small piece of ammunition in any future tussle with him. As so often, she was choosing not to be sensible.

The maid appeared unwilling to answer and looked fixedly down at her feet. ‘You do know something, don’t you, Hester?’ Lizzie probed.

‘Not rightly, miss. It’s probably nothing and I shouldn’t be saying it, but Mr Gil was fair taken with that gypsy woman and I’ve been wondering if she had anything to do with his going away.’

‘A gypsy woman?’ Lizzie tried hard not to sound eager, but her nerves were tingling. Could there be a real adventure here?

‘She weren’t truly a gypsy. But she didn’t seem to have a proper home. And she mixed with some queer company—still does for that matter.’

‘So she is still in Rye? Who is she, Hester?’

‘She goes by the name of Rosanna. A right heathen name, if you ask me.’

‘Rosanna who? What is her last name?’

‘There’s no other name, leastways none that I know of.’

Lizzie thought hard. It seemed incongruous that someone of Gilbert Armitage’s standing in the community should have made such a woman his sweetheart. But men under the influence of love could act completely out of character and contemplate the wildest of notions.

‘And Gil Armitage was walking out with her?’ she prompted. Was that the right term?

Hester snorted. ‘He weren’t doing that—walking out, I mean—not too boldly at least. He didn’t dare be seen, but everyone knew that he was fair gone on her.’

‘Why couldn’t he be seen?’ The question was ingenuous, but she was keen for the maid to keep talking.

‘With a no-good woman like that and him a gentleman!’

‘I understand.’ Lizzie nodded her head sagely. ‘I imagine then that his parents have no knowledge of Rosanna.’

‘I wouldn’t think so, miss. Reckon he would have kept mortal quiet about that particular friendship.’

‘But when it became obvious that he was missing, surely someone must have mentioned the girl to them?’

Hester drew herself up to her full height. ‘Folks round here don’t gossip,’ she said firmly. ‘Leastways they don’t gossip to the gentry. Mr and Mrs Armitage are well respected—nice people—and no one would want to hurt them by telling them such a thing. Not when their son wanted to keep it a secret.’

Lizzie shook her head, but kept her thoughts to herself. She had seen Caroline’s face, wild with grief, and for an instant had shrunk beneath the intensity of its pain. What must it be like to lose your only child and not know what had happened to him? Surely it would be better to risk distressing the Armitages if it meant solving the mystery of their son’s disappearance. But evidently Rye was a close-knit community and secrets were secrets and had to be kept. But not by her. A tantalising thought arrived. She might be able to help Mrs Armitage and surely the poor woman deserved whatever aid she could offer. At the same time she would annoy Justin Delacourt. She had been left feeling flustered and gauche by his closeness while he—he was just a little too smooth, a little too in control. It would be good to disturb that infuriating calm. Justin was charged with the onerous duty of finding his friend and he would need every small clue he could lay his hands on. And she had one now, and not a small clue at that. A very big clue. She would dangle it before him, tease him with it, and at the same time edge Caroline a little closer to finding her son.

* * *

The will was read and there had been few surprises, since except for several small bequests to servants and close friends, everything had been left to Sir Lucien’s son. The lawyer from London had come and gone, leaving Justin to distribute the gifts his father had bequeathed. A beautifully tooled calf-bound volume detailing the delights of Sussex and Kent was destined for Henrietta Croft, in remembrance of the happy hours she and Sir Lucien had spent poring over its expensive illustrations. His father had left a handwritten note with the book, asking Justin to deliver the gift personally. The dead man’s request gave his son cause to sigh. It would mean a journey to Brede House and a possible encounter with the impossible young woman. He knew Mrs Croft left the house infrequently these days and how to get the book to her without meeting Miss Ingram presented a problem.

He had turned it over in his mind for several days without finding a solution, irritated with himself that he had so little control over his feelings that he shirked from visiting one of his father’s oldest friends. It had been raining incessantly since the lawyer’s departure and when on the third morning, he awoke to a cloudless blue sky, it seemed a sensible time to go in search of the old lady. She was sure to have kept within doors for the last few days, but hopefully would be unable to resist the promise of such glorious weather. There was a chance that he might overtake her on her way to the busy shopping streets of the Citadel and, if so, he could take her up in his carriage and present the precious gift to her there and then.

First, though, he must keep his word by visiting Five Oaks. Although it had been cold overnight, waves of sun-warmed air were already radiating off the land and chasing away all but the finest veils of mist. He steered the carriage through the Chelwood gates into the autumn lanes and was at once enveloped by a landscape of glorious colour: coppiced trees fountained upwards and linked arms to create a cavern of russet foliage, while here and there patches of sunlight pierced the canopy and mottled gold all they touched.

Despite the difficult morning ahead, he felt more optimistic than he had for weeks, ever since that first dreadful intimation that his father was dead. It must be the blissful weather, he thought, for little else had changed. The estate was still in desperate need of renovation, his friend was still missing and his regiment still awaited his return. Yet some kind of magic was being woven for his heart felt unaccountably light as he sped his horses on their way.

* * *

At Five Oaks he was greeted with great affection, waved into the sunny drawing room and plied with refreshments. Relieved that no mention was made of the task Caroline Armitage had laid on him, he talked animatedly of the various schemes that he and Mellors were devising to set Chelwood to rights. After half an hour he rose to take his leave and remembered Sir Lucien’s bequests only when he had reached the front door.

‘I had almost forgot!’ He delved into the old carpet bag he had unearthed from the hall chest at Chelwood. ‘The will has now been proved and I have several gifts to distribute. My father wanted you to have his collection of old maps. I have them here’, and he brought forth several rolls of stained cream parchment.

‘How very kind of Lucien,’ James responded warmly. ‘He knew my interest in the history of the area. But would you not wish them to remain at Chelwood? I remember them decorating the walls of his study there. It would seem a better resting place for them.’

‘His study is now mine, Mr Armitage, and is covered in schedules for the advancement of the estate. There is even the odd illustration of a rare pig! My father knew how much you would value these—far more than I—and I hope you will accept them as a small remembrance of him.’

James clasped the younger man’s hands in his. ‘I would be honoured to have them, Justin. They will be accorded pride of place in my own study.’

Justin hesitated. He had yet one more gift for Five Oaks, but he did not know how to introduce it. Caroline saw his hesitation. ‘What is it, Justin? You have something more?’

‘Mrs Armitage, please forgive me. I am clumsy. I should never perhaps have brought it with me, but I am legally bound to carry out the provisions of the will.’

The Armitages were looking at him, puzzled expressions on both their faces. He drew from the bag a small carved wooden object. ‘It is a native Indian curio that my father purchased when he was serving in America—’

‘And it is for Gilbert,’ she finished for him.

‘Yes,’ he admitted, not knowing how to proceed.

‘How very kind of your father to remember Gil’s collection. Of course you should have bought it.’ Her voice had only the slightest tremor. ‘But will you do one thing for me before you go and take it to Gilbert’s room.’ Her voice was cracking now. ‘You know where it is, you know where he kept his collection.’

Justin sprang forwards, relieved to be doing something. ‘I promise to find the perfect place for it.’

He was past the waiting couple and up the stairs before Caroline’s tears began to flow. He felt angry with himself that so far he had done nothing to help the Armitages. He had been too busy with estate matters and, he told himself crossly, too busy with the girl. True she had taken up only an hour of his time at Chelwood, but simply thinking about her had wasted precious hours, too. He had not daydreamed like this since he was a boy and he needed to snap out of it.

Gil’s room was just as its owner had left it, just as Justin had seen it the last time he had visited: bedclothes uncreased, cushions plumped, fresh paper on the desk and a newly sharpened quill and pot of ink in the writing tray. The mirror reflected the same pictures, the mantelshelf held the same ornaments. He remembered being here three years ago, laughing and joking with his friend, twitting him over his ever-growing collection of native artefacts. You need to travel, Gil, he’d said, and not just in your mind.

He strode over to the large, wooden display cabinet that filled one corner of the room and opened its two glass doors. The shelves were already full and it took time to find a space into which he could fit his father’s small offering. He reached up to the top shelf which seemed a little less crowded and shuffled several objects closer together. There appeared to be some resistance towards the back of the shelf and with some difficulty he reached over and pulled forth a sheaf of papers that had been taped to its underside.

Immediately he saw they were part of a private correspondence. He should not look at them. They were Gil’s. He went to tape them back and by accident caught sight of the subscription which headed the first page.

‘My darling.’ My darling? Surely not. Surely not Gil. He was no ladies’ man himself, but Gil was even less of one. He could not recall a single instance when his friend had shown the slightest partiality for any woman. They must have been written for someone else. He took the papers over to the desk and flicked through them. They continued in like vein. ‘My darling’, ‘My sweetheart’, ‘Dear Heart’, followed by protestations of love and longing that the writer would soon be with his beloved for ever. His eyes scrolled to the bottom of each page. There was no doubt. He had recognised his friend’s hand, but a vague hope that Gil might have penned the letters for someone else died when he saw the unmistakable signature. But who had his friend be writing to? There was no clue. And he had not sent the letters, so what did that mean? He had written them, one after another judging by the dates, day after day, but he had never sent them. It was another puzzle. It was almost as though Gil had been leading a double life that nobody, least of all his parents, was aware of. What had James said—that he no longer knew his son?

Justin sighed. The letters did not advance his quest one iota—indeed, they complicated it and they would not help Caroline in her misery. The only thing to do was to tape them back where they had come from and forget he had ever read words meant for another. Who that other was, he had no idea and probably never would have. He was certain, though, that the unknown had nothing to do with his friend’s disappearance. Gil had been gone for three months and if he had eloped with a sweetheart, he would by now have confessed his wrongdoing and been reunited with his family, perhaps a little in disgrace, but nevertheless welcomed home with love. No, there was no sweetheart, Justin decided. It was simply wishful thinking on his friend’s part. If there were a real woman, she was a distant figure only and Gil had been worshipping from afar, lacking the temerity to approach her. Instead he wrote letter after letter, finding a release for his emotions, but saying nothing to anyone. How lonely he must have been, Justin thought, to have fallen in love with a dream and to have confided his deepest feelings to a few sheets of paper.

* * *

He was tempted to drive directly home after his unwelcome discovery, but knew it for a cowardly choice and instead pushed on towards Brede House. Not that he had any intention of calling there, but he still hoped that he might catch Henrietta Croft walking towards the town. As he neared the long, winding drive to the riverside house, keeping a careful look-out, he saw the skirts of a much younger woman disappearing in the direction of Rye. It was Lizzie Ingram, straw bonnet masking those glorious chestnut curls, and a basket swinging from her hand. Henrietta must have sent her to do the marketing, a little late in the day, but most fortunate for him. He could visit now without fear of meeting the girl.

Immediately he entered the small parlour looking out towards the river, he could see that Mrs Croft was not in the best of spirits. But her forlorn expression gave way to a welcoming smile as soon as she saw him and, getting to her feet with some difficulty, she came forward to clasp his hand.

‘How lovely to see you, Justin. And how kind of you to spare a few minutes of what must be precious time.’

He felt a twinge of guilt, but said as convincingly as he could, ‘It is always a pleasure to see you, Mrs Croft, and today especially—I have come on a very particular mission.’

She looked enquiringly and, in response, he withdrew the leather-bound book from its protective covering.

‘I have come to bring you something I think you will treasure. Sir Lucien thought so at least. Here.’ And he handed her the soft calfskin volume.

‘So many happy hours,’ she murmured, ‘so many hours gone, friends gone.’

Justin did not know what to say. His hostess was evidently feeling downpin and he had not the words to comfort her. He need not have worried. As he struggled to find a cheering sentiment, the door opened abruptly and Lizzie stood on the threshold.

She smiled saucily at him. ‘Major Delacourt! I was wondering who could have come calling and in such a very smart curricle! Is it new? And how heavenly to drive out from Chelwood on such a morning!’

He had stiffened at the sight of her, but managed a small bow. ‘Good morning, Miss Ingram.’ His face was bereft of expression. ‘The day is indeed beautiful and you are dressed for walking, I see. Were you perhaps thinking of taking the air? If so, I can recommend the coastal path—it is at its best when the sun is shining and there is little wind.’

Her smile did not falter. ‘What a delightful suggestion! But unfortunately I must engage myself elsewhere this morning. It is my ribbons, you see.’ And she pulled from her basket a shining length of jonquil satin. ‘I thought this morning to go to Mercer’s to match this very lovely yellow, but I had gone no more than a hundred yards when I realised that I had left my purse behind.’

So that was the reason for her return. Or at least the reason she claimed. But had she perhaps caught sight of his carriage and made the decision to return to Brede House? To return and torment him. He would put nothing past her—her trespass at Chelwood had been shameless. Well, he could be shameless, too, and make it difficult for her to stay.

‘I believe the haberdasher closes at noon so, if you are wishful of purchasing more ribbon, you would be wise to set forth immediately.’

She was still smiling, an uncomfortably satisfied smile, he decided. ‘That is most thoughtful of you, but I am in no hurry. I find Rye lives at a slow pace and it is necessary to match one’s own rhythm to it. Whether I get the ribbon today or tomorrow or the next week hardly matters.’

It was a brazen contradiction, for a minute ago she had insisted that she had not the time to go walking. He felt a growing exasperation, but he could press her no further without appearing blatantly discourteous. His hostess was already looking at him askance. Miss Ingram had decided that she was at Brede House to stay that morning and he must make the best of it.

‘I seem to have interrupted your conversation,’ she was saying. ‘Please accept my apologies.’ Her lips curved provocatively, lips that were full and warm and red, he noticed.

His thoughts stumbled and he felt himself growing hot—how could he allow his mind such licence? Trying to regain his equilibrium, he said in as toneless a voice as he could manage, ‘There is no need for apologies. I came only to give my father’s present to Mrs Croft.’

‘And a beautiful present it is, too,’ Henrietta intervened, obviously relieved to get the conversation back on to firmer ground. ‘But will you not stay for some refreshment, Justin?’

‘Thank you, but, no. I must return to Chelwood. There is much to do, as you will appreciate. I will call again very soon and perhaps then we can talk at greater length.’ But only when I can be absolutely sure that Miss Ingram is nowhere in the vicinity, he told himself.

‘Before you go, Justin...’ The old lady caught at his arm. ‘I think I should warn you—’ She broke off, unable to find the right words, and then with difficulty, murmured, ‘It is Caroline, Mrs Armitage.’

‘What of her?’

‘She is in great distress.’

‘I understand that, Mrs Croft, and I am aware of her suffering.’ He gently disentangled her arm from his and began walking towards the door. But she was on her feet and following him, her voice unusually urgent.

‘I am sure that you are. How could you not be? I understand that she has asked you to aid her in the search for Gilbert. But she has been here, too, to ask something similar of myself.’

Justin stopped in surprise. ‘That you should aid her? Surely not!’

‘That I should add my voice to hers in persuading you to commence your search immediately. I refused, I fear. I know how much work is before you. I know, too, that the Armitages have tried almost everything to find their son and not succeeded. How she imagines that you can perform miracles, I do not know.’

The Armitages had said nothing to him this morning of the visit. Perhaps James was ignorant of his wife’s call and Caroline ashamed now of the disturbance she had caused.

He pressed the old lady’s hand in reassurance. ‘Mrs Armitage is overwrought—understandably so—and we must not be too alarmed if she behaves unusually. But I confess that her reliance on me is worrying though Gil was, is, my friend, and I have promised to do all I can.’ He smiled wryly. ‘My promise was well meant, though I am at a loss where to start.’

‘That is hardly surprising. If all the enquiries the Armitages have sent out over these past months have come to nought, how can you, newly arrived and in the most difficult of circumstances, be expected to fare better?’ Henrietta looked searchingly up at her visitor. ‘It would not be wrong to forgo your promise, Justin, for it was unfair to have extracted it from you. Your focus must be on Chelwood and Caroline knows that. She will come to her senses soon and when she does, she will see what an impossible task she has given you.’

‘I can only hope so.’ He reached the door as Mrs Croft rang the bell for Hester. ‘But I do not want you to be worried by this business. If Mrs Armitage should call again, you must refer her to me.’

‘I doubt that she is likely to do so.’

As soon as Hester had escorted their visitor to the front door, Lizzie bounced from her seat. She had been listening intently, but made no reference to the conversation. Instead she gestured to the sun beaming its way through the parlour window.

‘As the weather remains so kind, I think that perhaps I will walk to Rye, after all, Mrs Croft, if you will be comfortable for an hour. The haberdasher will not be closed for long. My second-best reticule is badly in need of retrimming and I can buy you the new cap you were mentioning.’

Her employer nodded assent and settled herself wearily back into the armchair. In seconds Lizzie was slipping out of the front door just as Sir Justin jumped into the curricle’s driving seat. He saw her out of the corner of his eye and had no alternative but to offer to drive her into Rye. It was not at all what he wanted, but for the second time that morning, fortune appeared to favour him.

‘I prefer to walk, Sir Justin. It keeps me fit and healthy, or hale, as you would say.’ That was true enough, he thought—her slim figure filled the simple sprig muslin in all the right places. He wished he could stop noticing, but it seemed an impossibility.

‘There is something I might be able to do for you, though,’ she said pertly, ‘something you might be interested in knowing.’

Her words took him aback and he paused for an instant before reluctantly deciding to clamber from his seat to stand beside her. The reins, though, remained firmly within his grasp for, whatever it was she had to impart, he had no intention of lingering.