wish to marry you or anyone.’
‘Oh, dear, that has put me in my place.’ But he was laughing.
‘My question was purely hypothetical,’ she said.
‘Then I will answer it. Purely hypothetically, of course. The colour of a lady’s hair would not influence me if all her other attributes were favourable. And if I were in love.’
‘You believe in love overcoming all, then?’
‘Of course. Without it the world would be a poorer place.’ He didn’t know why he said that. Love had never entered his head before. Desire, perhaps, but that was not the same thing at all; one involved the physical senses and the other the emotions, and he had schooled himself not to become emotional. In his mind he related it to weakness. Still, his contemporaries James, Jonathan and Harry were far from weak and yet all three loved their wives at a time when being in love with one’s wife was considered eccentric.
‘Have you ever fallen in love?’
‘My dear, I do it all the time. At least once a month.’ His flippancy hid his confusion. Confusion was something else he did not allow himself.
‘Now you are roasting me.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What other attributes?’ she asked, going back to his reply.
‘Why, she must be good-natured, generous, sympathetic to others, well read, able to converse properly without simpering and she must love me, of course.’
‘You say nothing of her colouring, dark or fair, or coming from a good family, or having a generous dowry …’
‘A woman with all those virtues would be beautiful, whatever the colour of her hair. As for a dowry, that is unimportant. I have no need of it.’
‘And have you found such a one?’
‘No, which is why, once a month, I am disappointed.’
‘You are teasing me again.’
‘It amuses me.’
‘Perhaps you do not come up to the ladies’ expectations. Have you thought of that?’
‘It is a possibility, I suppose,’ he said, pretending to give it some thought. ‘But as I have no wish to be married, I have never asked any of them what those expectations might be.’
‘I surmise you have had many mistresses.’
‘Well, you see,’ he said with a deep sigh, ‘they flock round me. I cannot seem to help it.’
She laughed. ‘How vain you are.’
‘No, simply truthful. Now are you going to tell me why you have no wish to marry? Have you had a surfeit of lovers, none of whom has lived up to your expectations?’
‘Oh, of course,’ she lied.
He knew she lied. She had been badly hurt in the past, he decided, and it had something to do with the colour of her hair. He could not believe anyone would be so unkind as to turn her down on those grounds. Why, he thought its richness was an asset and it certainly would not deter him, if he were ever to think of marriage, which of course he would not.
‘What are those expectations, apart from liking the colour of your hair, I mean?’
It was impossible to be offended by him. They were, after all, simply enjoying a light-hearted exchange of views, a small flirtation, which, she guessed, was intended to take her mind off the problem of her cousin. ‘He should be good-natured, generous, sympathetic to others, well read, able to converse without simpering,’ she said, repeating his own words with a mischievous smile. ‘And he must love me.’
‘To distraction?’
‘Oh, definitely to distraction.’
‘'Tis a pity that we have both eschewed marriage,’ he said with another sigh. ‘We might have made a match of it.’ He paused to look at her. She was pensive, as if her mind had flown to some other place, some other time. ‘But perhaps we can be friends.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Friendship is safer.’ It was a strange thing to say, but he did not comment.
Instead he changed the subject abruptly. ‘Your aunt will no doubt be upset to think of Ben in Norwich Castle, but we shall have him out of there tomorrow, I promise you. And as you are concerned that I shall roast him, I think you and your aunt should accompany me to Norwich to make sure I do not.’
‘Both of us?’
‘I think Mrs Whiteside might be glad of your presence. She seems a rather excitable lady and I am not skilled in dealing with distraught mothers.’
‘Very well. We will put it to her.’
Augusta had been pacing the floor of the Windward House drawing room for hours, refusing to eat, drink or even sit down. As soon as she saw Pippa, she flung herself at her. ‘There you are at last. Where is he? Where is my boy?’
‘Calm yourself, Aunt,’ Pippa said, leading her to a sofa and drawing her down beside her. ‘Ben is to be let out tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow! Why not today? What have they done with him?’
Pippa looked up at Ash, who was standing looking down at them. ‘Madam,’ he said, coming to her rescue. ‘Lord Borrowdale was concerned that the more reckless of the smugglers might attempt to free the prisoners by force and lives might be lost. He deemed it expedient to send them to Norwich gaol to await trial. I have been given a paper, signed by his lordship, consigning your son into my care, which I shall present at the castle tomorrow.’
Augusta raised a tear-streaked face. ‘And they will let you have him?’
‘Oh, undoubtedly. If you wish, you and Miss Kingslake may accompany me. We could do the return journey in a day if we set out early. But if we should be delayed, there are several good hotels that would serve for a night’s lodging. I suggest we go prepared. And take something for your son to change into. He will undoubtedly be rather unkempt.’ That was an understatement. From what he knew of Norwich gaol, the boy would have been confined in a filthy cell with dozens of others. Washing facilities and a change of clothes would certainly not be provided.
‘Oh, thank you, thank you, sir. We will be ready whenever you say.’
‘I will call for you at eight of the clock.’ He bowed and left them without waiting for a servant to conduct him to the door.
‘Oh, Philippa, you have no idea how my poor heart has been rent,’ Augusta said. ‘Every minute you have been gone has been torture and still Ben is not home. How the poor boy will survive another night in prison, I do not know. He is not strong … Wait until I see that brother of yours, I shall ring the loudest peal over him he has ever heard.’
‘You mean Nat has not come home?’
‘No. No one has seen hide nor hair of him, but when I asked Joe Sadler, he as good as admitted he had been with the smugglers.’
