she had arrived in England.
“Miss, miss…” The child who had been swinging on the gate came and tugged at her skirt. “Have you brought us something, miss? I’m hungry—”
“Yes, Sam. Some broth, some bread and some preserves,” she answered, still staring after the phaeton, “and some gingerbread, if you promise to be a good boy for your mother.”
She broke off, frowning as she watched the little boy who was already running for the door, his too thin arms and legs flying in all directions. Even with what she could persuade cook to let her have from the kitchen, they were not getting enough to eat, nor were at least half a dozen other families in the village.
As farm after farm took to the new threshing machines, there would be more men out of work this autumn—and she could do nothing, since she had no control of her estate, nor access to the fortune left her by her grandfather until she was twenty-one. And five months was far too long for Sam and the other families, who would starve and freeze this winter. There was nothing she could do, nothing—heiress she might be, but she was almost as powerless as poor Jem in his prison cell.
Biting her lip, she adjusted the child on her hip again as she limped slowly up the little herringbone brick path to the cottage door. As ever when she was tired, the leg she had broken a year ago had begun to ache. But there was no time to think of that now, not when Mrs Avery stood in the doorway, her face grey and desperate.
“He’ll be so scared, miss, so frightened,” the older woman blurted out. “I’d rather it was me than him.”
“I know,” she said helplessly.
“I’ve got to go to him, miss.” Mrs Avery caught her arm. “I’ve got to!”
“I will take you tomorrow, I am sure they will let you visit,” Janey said huskily as she guided the other woman back into the little dark room, where the other four Avery children were huddled upon the box bed, pale and silent. As she looked from one thin, pinched miserable face to another, the rage in her bubbled up afresh. If Jonathan Lindsay failed them, she would not let them hang Jem! She would not! Not even if she had to break him out of gaol herself.
Chapter Two
“Great God, Jono!” Lord Derwent broke the lengthy silence which had ensued after the phaeton drew up before the edifice of Southbrook House. “You took this in lieu of ten thousand? I should not give five hundred for the whole place! The park is nothing but weeds, the woods looked as if they had not been managed in half a century and as for this—” he gestured to the ivy-masked façade of the house “—look at it! There is not a whole pane of glass in the place, and what the roof is like I hate to think…”
“Perfect proportions, though,” Jonathan Lindsay said thoughtfully as he, too, surveyed the house. “See how the width of the steps exactly balances the height of the columns on the portico. Come on, Perry, let’s look inside now we’re here.”
Knotting the ribbons loosely, he leapt lithely down from the box.
“Do we have to?” Derwent groaned.
There was no answer. Jonathan Lindsay was already striding across the weed-choked gravel of the drive.
“You are not serious about intending to live here?” Lord Derwent pleaded an hour later, after they had inspected the house from attic to cellar. “It’s damp, dusty and—” he paused, shivering in his blue frock coat “—colder than an ice house in December.”
“Nothing that someone else’s industry will not put right,” his friend said absently, as he stared up at the painted ceiling of the salon adjacent to the ballroom. “This ceiling is very fine, don’t you think?”
“It might be,” Lord Derwent said unenthusiastically, “if you could see it for dust and cobwebs. I’m sorry, Jono, but I simply can’t understand why you would wish to reside here when Ravensfield is at your disposal.”
“I never shared my late uncle’s taste for Gothic fakery, you know that, Perry.”
“Yes, but it has every convenience, it’s in damned good hunting country and the agent runs the estate tighter than a ship of the line: you wouldn’t need to lift a finger from one year end to the next. Local society’s not up to much, I’ll grant you that, but it won’t be any different here.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Jonathan smiled. “I thought the neighbourhood showed some promise of providing entertainment.”
“You mean that extraordinary young woman?”
“Ah, so you thought she was extraordinary, too,” he said, as he began to walk slowly back towards the entrance hall.
“Extraordinarily rude,” Lord Derwent replied huffily. “It is scarcely my fault some idiot boy is going to get himself turned off, but she looked at me as if she’d have preferred to see me in a tumbril on the way to Madame Guillotine.”
“I’m sure you misjudge the fair maiden—I think she’d have settled for a horse whipping,” Jonathan said drily.
“I don’t!” Derwent said with feeling. “I can’t think why you offered to help.”
“No, not like me, is it?” Jonathan agreed, deadpan. “I must have succumbed to this fever for worthiness.”
“Succumbed to a weakness for perfect proportions, more like,” Derwent said darkly, “and I’m not referring to the portico.”
“Ah, Perry, you do know how to wound one’s feelings,” Jonathan said, grinning. “But you must confess, she was very easy on the eye.”
“And to think that, only two hours ago, you were telling me that you were going to give up women along with the tables.” Derwent sighed. “But I’ll wager you’ll get not that one past the bedroom door, Jono. These radical females are all the same—they only give their affections to ugly curates or longhaired poets who write execrable drivel.”
“No gentleman could possibly accept such a challenge.” Jonathan laughed. “So, what are your terms?”
“Triton against your chestnut stallion,” Lord Derwent said after a moment’s thought.
“Triton!” Jonathan’s dark brows rose. “I’d almost contemplate marrying the girl to get my hands on that horse before the Derby. Are you so certain of my failure?”
“Positive. I chased after a gal like that once. There I was, in the midst of telling her about my critical role in defeating old Boney and waiting for her to fall at my feet in admiration, and all she says is ‘Yes, but do you read the scriptures, Lord Derwent? Spiritual courage is so much more important than the physical kind, don’t you think?”’
“Poor Perry.” Jonathan sighed. “It must be a sad affliction to lack both good looks and natural charm—” He broke off, laughing as he ducked to evade a friendly blow from Derwent.
“And,” Derwent went on, “she’ll never forgive you for not saving her arsonist. You said yourself the local men were determined to make an example, so they’re not likely to listen to a newcomer to the district, not even you, Jono.”
“Who said
