stubble. I will change too, and meet you at the stables."

"I want to ride with Jem. Can I ride with Jem, Aunt Sena? 'Cos Jem says 'Rion is a lady's horse and I'm not a lady. So can I?"

"Jem's cob is so very large," said Lady Whitton anxiously. "I think Peter will be safer with you, Selena."

"Jem is very trustworthy, and Pippin is a docile beast, not to say phlegmatic. Peter will come to no harmif he behaves himself.""I'll be good, Grandmama. You can come and see me riding Pippin, will you?""Off you go to Nurse, young man, or you'll not be riding at all!"

* * * * Not long after Pippin and Orion trotted out of the stable yard, Lord Iverbrook's curricle drew up at the front door of the Manor. He sat for a moment looking at the house, before tossing the reins to the postboy. Close up, it seemed even more attractive. It was built mostly of a fawn-coloured stone, embellished with decorative red brick, though parts of the facade were Tudor style black and white. A curious mixture, but somehow the whole was harmonious. The mullioned windows gleamed and the open door offered a welcome.

The butler who answered Iverbrook's ring invited him into the cool hallway, redolent of lemon oil and beeswax.

"Miss Whitton is out, my lord," he said apologetically. "I fear she is not expected to return for some time. If your lords.h.i.+p would wish to see Lady Whitton, I shall enquire as to whether her ladys.h.i.+p is at home."

"My business is with Miss Whitton . . . but I daresay I ought to pay my respects to Lady Whitton," responded the viscount with annoyance. As the butler bowed and withdrew, he wondered a shade anxiously whether he would recognise Gil's mother-in-law. He had no more recollection of her than of her daughters, except for Phoebe, though they must certainly have been introduced at the wedding.

The butler returned.

"It seems her ladys.h.i.+p is also out, my lord. I had thought her to be in the stillroom but Mrs. Tooting says she walked down to the village, and Miss Delia with her. Will your lords.h.i.+p wait?"

"Dash it, I've no alternative! Is it customary in this household for everyone to leave when a visitor is expected? I suppose my letter was received?"

"I cannot take it upon myself to say, my lord," reproved Bannister.

"What about my nephew? Mr. Carrick's son. At least I can go up to the nursery and see him!"

"I understand, my lord, that Master Peter rode out with Miss Selena. Miss Whitton, that is. Perhaps your lords.h.i.+p would care to take some refreshment in the drawing room? Or, the gardens are particularly fine at this season."

The irate viscount had no desire to see the gardens, but the thought of being shut up in a stuffy drawing room to cool his heels was still less bearable. "Bring me some ale in the garden, dammit," he growled, then smiled his sweet, rueful smile. "I beg your pardon! I should not come to cuffs with you only because your mistresses' notions of courtesy do not suit mine. Refreshments in the garden, if you please, and if possible, a newspaper. And notify me the instant Miss Whitton returns!"

The gardens were peaceful, full of humming bees and the fragrance of roses and spicy marigolds. Brick steps led down from terrace to terrace to the river bank, where Lord Iverbrook found a comfortable bench in the shade of an oak. The Thames slid by, green-brown, smooth, hypnotic.

A pretty maidservant in white cap and ap.r.o.n appeared, bearing a tray. "Here's your ale, my lord," she said, bobbing a curtsey, "and a bit of lardycake. Cook baked it just this morning and it's right good. Oh, and the paper. Mr. Bannister said to tell you it's just Jackson's Oxford Journal and is there anything else I can get you, my lord?"

"Not unless you can produce your mistress."

"Oh no, sir. Miss Selena's at the harvest and my lady's took a salve to Miss Pauley's cookmaid as burned her hand. My lady's better nor any 'pothercary. Excuse me, my lord. Mrs. Tooting said to come straight back."

So Miss Selena had gone to watch the reapers, had she? She had not even the excuse of a prior social engagement to plead for her absence. My lord sank his teeth into the sticky lardycake, full of plump raisins, as if he were a mastiff and the sweetmeat Miss Whitton's ankle.

Chapter 4.

By the time Selena returned from the fields, her headache was back in full force. The dust raised by the reapers had, as usual, made her sneeze till her nose and eyes were red; Peter had fallen over and scratched his hands; and a gypsy had come to blows with one of the locals, leading to the premature departure of all the itinerants.

"Good riddance," Jem had snorted, but John Peabody had c.o.c.ked a weather eye at the sky and muttered forebodingly, "Hope it holds fair."

Selena entered the house through the side door from the stables. As she and Peter pa.s.sed the butler's pantry, Bannister popped out.

"His lords.h.i.+p's here, Miss Selena."

"Iverbrook? I'd forgot him! I'll go and change and be with him shortly."

"He's been waiting near two hours already, miss. He's in the garden, pacing up and down like a tiger in a cage."

"Oh dear! Perhaps I had best go straight out. Thank you, Bannister. Peter, you run up to Nurse and have her put some of Grandmama's ointment on your hands."

Selena glanced in the gilt-framed mirror in the hall and poked ineffectually at her hair. It would take more than a couple of minutes to set the flaxen curls to rights, without considering her shabby riding dress. It was six years since Phoebe's wedding, when the viscount had displayed an arrogant disregard for her person. If she had been beneath his notice then, the intervening time could hardly have raised her in his esteem. Her chin tilted defiantly, Selena went out into the garden.

His lords.h.i.+p was indeed pacing up and down, but his tall, lean form brought to mind a picture she had once seen of a giraffe, not the moth-eaten tiger that had come with the fair to Abingdon last year. She stood at the top of the steps for a moment, watching him. Certainly not romantically handsome-Delia's memory had been looking through rose-coloured spectacles. How he might look without the wrathful expression that presently distorted his regular features, she could not guess.

"My lord!" she called.

He came towards her eagerly, relief at the ending of his long wait overcoming his resentment. As he reached the terrace below her, he took in her unkempt appearance and hesitated.

"Miss Whitton?"

"We have met before, sir." Selena's voice was cold. "I must apologise for having kept you waiting."

"I should dashed well hope so!" exploded the viscount. "I've been here forever. I informed you that I was coming, did I not?"

"You did not specify the hour. I waited for you for two hours, but I had pressing business elsewhere and could not spend the entire afternoon attending your convenience. Enough said. We must not quarrel when we are scarcely out of mourning. I most sincerely condole with you on the loss of your brother, my lord."

"And I with you on Phoebe's death."

"Gil was a gentleman of superior understanding and morals, and he made my sister very happy. I expect you will wish to see their child?"

"Such was my purpose in coming here today. I intend to relieve you of the responsibility of caring for my nephew, Miss Whitton. He will reside at Iver, as befits my heir."

Selena thought she must have misheard. Then she wondered if he could possibly be jesting on such a subject. She descended a few steps, trying to read his face.

"Surely you cannot be serious?" she said uncertainly.

"Never more so. You cannot expect me to allow him to be bred up among the petty squirearchy, and in a household of females besides. It was generous of you to give him a home during my absence, but now that I am returned he should be under my protection."

"I suppose you will concern yourself intimately with his upbringing? You are going to make your home at Iver, I collect?"

"I shall set up his nursery there, and visit him frequently. My mother is in residence, of course."

"A household of females, in fact, and indifferent females at that! Lady Lavinia has not once sought to see her grandson since Gil died. Peter is an orphan, Iverbrook. He needs affection and stability, not to be left with servants!"

"I have no intention of abandoning him. Properly chosen servants are perfectly capable of bringing up a child. That is how Gil and I were brought up, and you expressed your admiration for Gilbert not five minutes past."

"But none for you! Believe me, my lord, I have heard tales of your rakish life, and if only the half of them are true you are no fit person to have charge of a small boy!"

"So now we come to the meat of the matter! On the basis of scandalmongers' gossip you would deny me the right to be guardian of my heir!"

"You have no such right. Peter is legally my ward, and I shall never betray the trust your brother and my sister reposed in me."

"I shall contest the will. The law cannot but consider a Peer of the Realm a more fitting guardian than a totty-headed female."

"This is Peter's home. There is no more to be said. As his uncle you may visit him as often as you wish, I a.s.sure you. I shall take care to be absent when you call! Good-bye, my lord."

Selena's head was pounding, blinding her. As she turned to leave, she tripped on the step. The viscount's hand was instantly on her arm, steadying her.

"Let me go," she said icily, and stumbled into the house.

Iverbrook watched her go, torn between fury and admiration. The last thing he wanted was to go to law over the boy, for he was as aware as his lawyer that the case might drag on for years. d.a.m.n the wench for forcing him to it! All the same, she was a well-plucked 'un! Amabel would have coaxed, his mother would have collapsed in hysterics, but Miss Whitton rattled in, game as a pebble, and gave as good as she got. He followed her into the house.

After the suns.h.i.+ne, the room seemed dark. He stood blinking, letting his eyes adjust.

"Borage!" said a voice suddenly. "You must be Gilbert's brother Hugh. You look hot, and I certainly am. There's nothing more refres.h.i.+ng than a gla.s.s of lemonade with a sprig of borage. Do sit down, Hugh, while I ring the bell."

A small, plump lady, her face very pink under a bonnet cap of Honiton lace, tugged on the bellpull and came towards him with her hand held out. He bowed over it.

"Lady Whitton, how delightful to see you again."

"Flummery!" she said, a twinkle in her brown eyes. "I believe you had quite forgot my existence. As though a good-looking young man had not better things to think about!"

"I plead guilty, ma'am," said Lord Iverbrook, laughing, "to the forgetfulness if not the looks! But I see now that I was mistaken not to further our acquaintance. It must be from you that your daughter got her talent for plain speaking."

"You have seen Selena already then? Oh dear, I hope she behaved unexceptionably. It would be quite useless to try to teach her a maidenly reserve, for she has no idea of hiding her feelings, and I expect she was not quite well. In fact, haymaking and harvest always make her ill, but she will insist that she must be there to oversee the men."

"Miss Whitton was supervising the harvest? I had thought her gone out merely for pleasure, as a spectator."

"Oh no, Selena has been running the farm since she was eighteen. Sir William bred her up to it, not having any sons. I must make her a tisane for her headache, Hugh, so pray excuse me. Bannister shall bring you some lemonade and if you should like it, I will have Nurse send Peter down to see you. You will stay the night of course."

"Thank you, Lady Whitton, but I left my luggage and my man at the Crown and Thistle in Abingdon. And besides, I rather doubt that your daughter would welcome my presence."

"Nonsense! The farm may belong to Selena but I am still mistress in my own house, I hope! Bannister shall send to Abingdon for your things, so do you make yourself comfortable and Peter will be with you at once." Not waiting for an answer, Lady Whitton bustled out.

Lord Iverbrook sat down in a comfortable chintz-covered chair. The whole room looked comfortable, not shabby but lived in. Here was no fas.h.i.+onable bamboo furniture in imitation of the Chinese, just solid, well-polished English oak. The French doors through which he had entered provided a wide view of the sunny garden, the river, and the brilliant green of the watermeadows on the far side.

Bannister brought in a tray with a pitcher and three gla.s.ses. He was followed by a small boy, tawny-haired and neatly dressed in nankeens and a frilled s.h.i.+rt, who came to stand before his lords.h.i.+p and bowed gravely.

"How do you do, sir," he said. "Are you my Uncle Hugh?"

"That's right, Peter. Don't you remember me?"

"Not much. I was only a baby when I sawed you, Finny says."

"Who is Finny?"

"My nurse. Her real name is Mrs. Finnygone but she's not gone so I call her Finny. Do you want some lemonade?"

"Yes, thank you. Shall I pour you some too? Here you are."

"Grandmama put some blue flowers in it. That means it's good for you. My grandmama is Lady Whitton."

"What about your other grandmama, Lady Lavinia?"

Peter sat down on a footstool and considered this carefully, sipping his lemonade. "Does she live in a great big house with pigs? My papa taked me to see her once, when I was little."

"How should you like to go and live with me and Lady Lavinia in the great big house?"

"I liked the pigs," said Peter, "but it's better if you come to live with me and Grandmama and Aunt Sena in this house. And Auntie Dee and Finny. I scratched my hands today. I was helping Aunt Sena cut the

barley. Do you want to see them?" He carefully set his gla.s.s on a small table and displayed his palms. "I only cried a little bit and Aunt Sena said I was a big, brave boy. Finny put witch hazel on."

The viscount could think of no suitable response to this revelation. Fortunately, they were interrupted at

that moment by the arrival of an excessively pretty girl. She was charmingly arrayed in pale green muslin, looked to be eighteen or nineteen years of age, and knew just what to say.

"Did it sting, Peter? I'll wager you squealed."

"I did not! Timmy says only girls squeal."

Iverbrook rose to his feet and bowed.

"I'm Delia Whitton, sir. How do you do." Her face took on a soulful look as she curtseyed. "How romantic that you rushed home from half a world away to rescue your orphaned heir, my lord!"

"I hardly think Peter is in need of rescue, Miss Delia!" His lords.h.i.+p revised his favourable impression. He had no opinion of sentimental young ladies who looked on life as an extension of the fantastical novels to which they were invariably addicted. The merry tease who had entered the room was more to his taste.

Delia was also revising her idea of the viscount. No gentleman of a truly heroical nature would have said anything but "It was my duty!" in thrilling tones. Lord Iverbrook's tone was indisputably commonplace, not to say damping. On closer inspection his face, though good-humoured, held neither the ethereal spirituality nor the fiery pa.s.sion to be expected of a genuine hero.