you asking?’
The farmer hesitated. He was not used to bargaining with girls, let alone the beautiful daughters of the aristocracy, and in truth what he was asking was inflated outrageously simply because he had come to Lazen which was famous for its fortune. He decided to brazen it out. ‘Squire at Puddletown offered me seventy pounds for her.’
‘You should have taken it,’ Campion said. ‘Feed her two pounds of oats a day for a week and I’m sure he’ll offer it again.’ She smiled at the man and held him the reins. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Trapp.’
‘My Lady!’ The farmer was blushing. ‘I thought she’d be happier here.’
Campion gave him her most beautiful smile, pleased by the compliment. She knew what the horse was worth, and so did the farmer, but it would be unthinkable to buy the mare without going through the necessary bargaining. She pushed a muddy hand at her hair. ‘You can’t expect me to pay top price for a horse that’s been out at grass this long. It’s going to take me a month just to put some muscle on her!’
‘You rode her!’ Mr Trapp pointed out reasonably. ‘Wasn’t pumping one bit when you brought her off the plough! She’ll be fit for anything in a month!’
She ran a hand over the mare’s chipped knee. ‘Did you splint this?’
But the farmer was not listening. He was staring instead at a vision that approached along the path which came from the Castle. The farmer’s jaw dropped. No one would believe him in the taproom tonight.
A middle-aged man stepped precariously between the puddles. He wore breeches of dark blue silk, above tasselled boots of white leather that had been polished to glass brightness. His tail coat was of grey velvet, and his shirt and stock of white silk. He wore no hat or wig, instead his silver hair had been drawn back and tied with a black velvet bow. His fingers were lavishly beringed. In his right hand was a tall ebony cane, topped with gold and decorated with blue ribbons. On his thin, mischievous face there was powder and, on his left cheek, a black beauty patch. He smiled beatifically at the farmer. ‘May blessings rain upon your head, dear man.’
The farmer shook his head. ‘Sir?’
‘May the light of his countenance shine upon you, and give you peace.’ He spoke with a distinct French accent. ‘Is that a horse?’
Campion laughed. ‘Hello, uncle.’
He grimaced. ‘Good God! Is that you, dear Campion? I thought it was a dairy maid. Mr Burroughs.’ He gave the slightest bow. ‘I bid you good day.’
‘Sir,’ the head coachman said.
Campion patted the mare’s neck.’ We’re buying a horse, uncle.’
‘I can’t think why. You have so many, and all they do is clutter up the stables. You should buy a unicorn, dear Campion, a white unicorn with pearls upon its horn. I might learn to ride such a beast.’ He smiled wondrously at the farmer. ‘Can you see me in a unicorn’s saddle, sir? I think reins of gold would suit me, don’t you?’ He put fingertips to his mouth. ‘You must forgive me, dear sir, for you have not the advantage of my name.’ He bowed to the farmer. ‘Achilles d’Auxigny, my most humble duty to you.’
‘Eh?’ said the farmer.
‘This is Harry Trapp, uncle, and you’re not to embarrass him.’ Campion looked at the coachman. ‘I want her, Simon, but I won’t pay more than we paid for Pimpernel.’
Burroughs grinned. ‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘You’ll forgive me, Mr Trapp?’ She smiled at him. ‘And thank you for bringing Emma here.’
‘You’re welcome, my Lady.’ The farmer was blushing again because the Lady Campion was offering him her hand. He wiped his right hand on his smock and took hers. ‘Thank you, my Lady.’
‘And make sure you get something to eat before you ride home.’
‘I will.’ Harry Trapp smiled at her. He knew a real aristocrat when he met one, not some frippery floppery like the weird Frenchman.
Campion took her uncle’s arm and led him back towards the Castle. ‘You shouldn’t be cruel to people.’ She spoke, as she always did in private with him, in her perfect French.
‘I do enjoy teasing your yokels. They are so very teasable.’ He smiled at her. ‘You do look dreadful. Do you have to dress like a peasant? And can’t you leave horses to grooms?’
‘I like horses.’
‘It is time you were married,’ Uncle Achilles said irritably. ‘A good husband would keep you out of the stables.’
She laughed at him. She liked her Uncle Achilles, her mother’s younger brother. His elder brother had become the Duc d’Auxigny, and had inherited with the Dukedom the Marquisates of a score of French villages and become Count of two score more, while Achilles, the younger brother, had inherited nothing except a minor title he refused to use, a noble name, and a clever head. Against his will he had been trained for the priesthood. His noble birth had insured a swift rise to a rich bishopric, a rise that his scandalous, hedonistic behaviour had not impeded in the least.
The revolution in France had let him slide, like Bertrand Marchenoir, out of the priesthood. He refused to take the Constitutional Oath, resigned his See, and when the burning of the great houses began, and when the stories of hacked, raped and slaughtered aristocrats spread through France, he had fled with his widowed mother to the Earl of Lazen’s London house. The Duchess still lived on Lazen’s charity, a charity she constantly criticised. Uncle Achilles, more independent, earned a living from the British government. He did not care to talk much about his work, but Campion knew from her father that Achilles d’Auxigny helped ferret out the secret agents who were smuggled into Britain as so-called refugees from the revolution.
They went through the kissing gate that led to the Castle’s gardens. Campion, holding her uncle’s arm, smiled up at him. ‘I can’t really imagine you as a bishop.’
He pretended indignation. ‘I was a most loved bishop! I used to preach a very good sermon in which I would terrify a parish into making their confessions. I would then listen in the confessional and make a note of which ladies had committed adultery. Then, if they were very pretty, I would visit them and compound the offence, though with instant forgiveness, of course.’ He laughed at her expression.
Turning Achilles d’Auxigny into a priest had been his father’s ambition. Achilles’ father had been known in France as the Mad Duke. He had believed himself to be God and, for his own worship, he had built a shrine at his Chateau of Auxigny in which, by careful mechanical contrivances, he would perform miracles. Undoubtedly the Mad Duke had hoped that his youngest son would preach the family gospel. Instead, as Achilles was fond of saying, his father had thought of himself as God and taught his children thereby that there was none. Now he looked at his niece. ‘I always told your father not to marry into our family. We’re all quite mad.’
‘You’re not.’
He shrugged as if he did not care to argue the point. ‘I just made my farewells to your father. Everyone says you did a remarkably fine thing with his leg.’
‘I just sewed it up, uncle.’
‘Just sewed it up, indeed! I couldn’t
