hack his way through the brambles that surround me and meanwhile I have no contact with the outside world? I am perfectly capable of employing my own enquiry agents. I know a great deal about you, Jack Ransome.’
‘You employed—who?’
‘On the advice of my man of business I used a Mr Burroughs of Great Queen Street and the Dawkins brothers of Tower Hill. And my legal advisers also made enquiries.’ The little smile that had seemed so tentative was suddenly sharp. ‘What is the matter, Mr Enquiry Agent Ransome? Do you not like it when the boot is on the other foot?’
‘Not so much,’ he admitted. She did not appear to be either feeble-minded or delusional. It seemed Miss Aylmer had a quick wit and perhaps a sense of humour. He tried to see that as a good thing and found his own sense of humour had utterly deserted him. ‘You were well advised. They know their business.’ Anyone who knew him could have told that tone signified danger—but then, she did not know him. Not at all, whatever information she had been given.
So, what had his competitors told her? That he was ruthless, although he kept within the law—mostly? That he had recently ended a very pleasant liaison with a wealthy widow two years older than himself? That he had no debts to worry about and gambled within his means, but that he could be reckless when it came to a sporting challenge? That he had a short fuse when it came to attacks on his honour and had met two men on Hampstead Heath at dawn as a result? He was damned if he was going to ask, because the infuriating female would probably hand him the reports to read. Whatever was in them, it had not been bad enough to turn her from this course.
Time to shift the balance of this interview—time to see whether he could tolerate this woman as his wife and to try to make a rational decision. Everything had its price and some costs were just too high to pay.
‘Have you made your come-out? Been presented at Court? What do you know of the world beyond that moat?’
Madelyn made a small, betraying movement, the smile quite gone as she rose to her feet. ‘Come into the garden,’ she said and walked away towards a small door in one corner before he could reply. ‘I think better outside. In the summer the Great Hall can feel rather like a vault.’
Jack strode after her and caught up in time to reach the door first and open it. ‘Is it better in the winter?’ he hazarded. ‘With fires and hounds and good food?’
‘Hounds? I agree, that would be authentic,’ she said, glancing back as though to reassure herself that he was following along the passageway. ‘We do have them, of course. But they are never allowed inside because of the tapestries. Do you like dogs?’
‘Yes, although I do not have any at the moment. You do not own one? I thought medieval maidens always had small white lapdogs or miniature greyhounds.’
‘I have an Italian greyhound called Mist. Father allowed that because she is very well behaved. She is shut up in case you did not tolerate dogs.’
‘And if I do not?’
‘I suppose I would have had to leave her here.’ For the first time he heard real uncertainty in her voice.
We are not following her careful script, Jack thought, wondering if she saw everything as a stage setting with each piece in its place, every character performing their preordained actions, reading from their script. If that was the case, then life outside these walls was going to come as a severe shock to Mistress Madelyn.
‘There would be no need,’ he said. ‘If we wed, that is. I like dogs. You were about to tell me…’ And then Madelyn opened the door at the end and he lost the thread of whatever he had been about to say and stood silent, staring.
‘Come in.’ Madelyn held out her hand, and he stepped out into paradise. He must have said the word aloud because she smiled. ‘Yes, that is what the Islamic gardens were called. A paradise. Technically this is a hortus conclusus. But you do not want a lecture. Wander, relax, think: that is what this place is for. I will send for refreshment before we talk further.’
By the time Jack had pulled himself together in the haze of perfume and colour and warmth, she had gone and the door was closed. He began to explore, still faintly bemused, strolling along grass paths between knee-high hazel hurdles that held back over-spilling colour. There were roses, ladies’ mantle, banks of herbs that were smothered in bees, banks of lavender where the buzzing was almost deafening.
He looked around and realised that this was the interior of the castle, walled on all sides, a sheltered suntrap. In the centre a circular pool held a fountain and he passed intricate knot gardens as he made his way towards it. A wave of lemon scent assaulted him as he brushed past a bushy green plant, then his feet were crushing thyme underfoot.
The fountain was surrounded by low grass banks, and he sat down, wondering if he was drunk on scent or whether he had been transported back five hundred years. He had to make a decision about the woman who dwelt in the middle of this fantasy and he was beginning to think that she had put a spell on him and that he was in no fit state to decide anything. Or perhaps it was simply shock.
The ends of the turf seats were marked by tall wooden posts painted in spiralling red and blue and white, each topped by some heraldic beast. He leaned back against the unicorn post, closed his eyes on the sun dazzle from the fountain and tried to think.
What do I want? What do I need? What would be the right thing to do?
Jack Ransome was asleep in the midst of her garden when Madelyn returned, and she indulged herself for a moment, watching him relaxed in the sunlight. Long dark lashes lay on those high cheekbones, the deep blue eyes were shuttered, that expressive mouth relaxed. He appeared about as safe as a sleeping cat must look to a sparrow, she thought, gesturing to the maid to put down the tray on the turf seat a few feet away from him.
When she put one finger to her lips the girl flashed a smile in response and tiptoed away. Madelyn sat on the fountain rim and looked, not at Jack Ransome, but at her own reflection in the edge of the pool. Occasional water drops broke the image into fragments, but she knew what she was looking at well enough.
She was not attractive by the fashionable standards of the day—she understood that perfectly from the journals and newspapers and books she’d had brought to her in the months since her father’s death. She was too tall, far too blonde—brunettes were most admired, she gathered—and far, far, too pale. Pale skin was a sign of breeding, of course, but pink cheeks and rosebud mouths were admired. Her hair was straight, her bosom too lush, she had realised as she studied the portraits of fashionable beauties and scanned the fashion plates. She had no idea how to dress, what to do with her hair, how to behave. She had no conversation. The very thought of a crowd of people made her feel a little ill.
Fish began to rise at the sight of her, but she had brought nothing for them, so she trailed her fingers through the water, breaking up her reflection, sending them flickering away with a flash of sunlight on fin and scale.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Jack Ransome said from behind her. He had woken silently and picked up the conversation almost where they had left off.
Madelyn nodded without looking round. What else was she going to do? She was fitted for nothing but to live in a time long past and she knew she was not going to fall in love—that chance had gone two years ago. She might as well marry this handsome
