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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Chapter One

Having raised all her children to the age of dressing themselves, Mrs. Spencer had ceased to take a lively interest in them. Accordingly, the housekeeping duties at the vicarage of Lesser Chipping fell to her second oldest daughter Honoria, a tall, handsome girl with a square chin and high forehead and a generous, if managing disposition.

On Sunday morning, Honoria rose from her bed at eight and put on her Sunday gown. The cranberry muslin round gown had given good service until fashion finally overtook it and left it behind. A new gown was out of the question. Money had been scarcer than ever since her brother Merciful had enrolled at Cambridge. Honoria peered into the age-warped mirror over her dressing table. The glass turned her face a mottled green. She ignored the grotesque coloration and picked a few wispy curls down to soften her angular cheeks.

Satisfied with her own preparations, Honoria crossed the hall and rapped at her father's door. Mr. Spencer replied rather sharply, "Who is it? Come in."

Honoria peeked into the room. She was relieved to see her father seated on the side of the bed, wrestling with his boots. Her greatest fear each Sunday morning was that the vicar would become so absorbed in revisions to his sermon he would forget to dress himself.

Honoria said, "Good morning Papa."

Mr. Spencer looked up. "There you are, Hony. My fingers are all stiff as carrots, and I have forgotten my sermon."

"You will find it comes to you when you begin to speak. Pull up your boots while I do the collar. Point your toe and pull."

Mr. Spencer mumbled over his sermon as he squeezed his feet into the boots. "As the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, said on the occasion...."

Honoria interrupted him. "Comb your hair, Papa. I'll see if Becky has breakfast ready."

Mr. Spencer's eyes focused on her. "What? Oh, yes, Hony. Go on then."

On her way downstairs, Honoria opened her sister's door. She saw Charity bent double at the waist, struggling to fasten her gown. Charity straightened. She had a petite figure and small-boned face Honoria tried not to envy. "Hony, my hair is all wrong, and Eliza was supposed to help me with my buttons."

Honoria sighed. "Goodness, Charity, what would you have me do about it? If I see Eliza, I will send her up to you."

Charity pulled at the shiny, brown curls around her face. "Tell her to come right away. I wish Mama would sell her to gypsies."

On that point, Honoria entirely agreed with her sister. "I'll suggest it to Mama after church," she promised.

In the kitchen, she cleared her throat to catch the attention of the housekeeper, and demanded, "Becky, where is Eliza?"

The spindly housekeeper wiped her hands on her apron. "I sent her up to help Miss Charity to dress."

"She is not there."

Becky glanced about the kitchen as if Eliza might pop from behind the cast iron stove. "You don't think she's run off, Miss Hony. I never thought she could get in any trouble just from here to Miss Charity's room."

Honoria sighed. "How I loath orphans. Search the house, Becky. I will go out through the garden. Likely, she is just hiding from her work."

Dew beaded the flagstones and soaked Honoria's skirts where they brushed the ruins of last month's daffodils. A brown sow nearly as large as a pony looked up from her pen. The living at Lesser Chipping was not generous, and the sale of the sow's numerous piglets financed such luxuries as new clothing or, more recently, expenses at Cambridge for Mercy.

A flash of light on golden hair caught Honoria's eye. She spied the housemaid scurrying across the fields where the vicar raised barley. "Eliza, Eliza come out of that field this instant. What are you doing?"

Honoria fully expected Eliza to return and confess a villainous plot to avoid her morning chores. Instead, the girl let out a shriek and bolted toward the far hedge.

Stunned, Honoria stood stock still for a moment, staring after the fleeing housemaid. Clearly, the girl was not about to stop and return. Honoria hitched up her skirt and broke into a run herself. Wet grass lashed her ankles, and she stumbled on uneven ground.

Ahead, Eliza struggled over the fence and into the pasture. To the right, a stile broke the line of the fence. Honoria steered toward it. The fence scraped her palm and caught at the hem of her gown, but she gained a few yards. Eliza still had a considerable head start, but instead of making a dash for the far hedge that bordered the road, she darted first one way then the other, stopped and reversed direction entirely. She seemed likely to smack directly into Honoria before she let out a little shriek and changed direction again. In one final sprint, Honoria laid hold of Eliza's braids and brought her flight to an end with a yank.

"Let me go," the housemaid shrieked. "You let me go. Ow."

Honoria's left boot was muddy. The right one had disappeared. A tedious search through the clover and heartsease might turn it up again. Had better, in fact, as Honoria could ill afford to buy her a new pair. "Eliza, you widgeon, look what you've made me do to my gown." She gathered up her stained and trampled hem.

"I ain't done nothin' wrong," Eliza said. "You can't keep me here."

Taking a firm grip on the housemaid's ear, Honoria marched her prisoner back to the house and into the kitchen where Becky waited.

"There you are, you ungrateful wench," Becky said. "You're lucky Missus don't hold with beating servants."

Honoria placed the housemaid in a chair. "Now, Eliza, why were you running away?"

Eliza's eyes overflowed, and her mouth trembled. "Oh, Miss, I daren't tell you. You will not believe me, but it is not my fault, truly."

"When you tell me what you were doing, I will decide whether to believe you or not," Honoria said.

"He said he would kill me if I ever told."

Becky snorted. "Well it's doubly foolish of ye, and you had better out with it."

Eliza clasped her hands before her bosom and lifted her face, a picture of martyred innocence. "It was Master Merciful," she cried.

That seemed a very unlikely beginning to Honoria, but she said, "What about Mercy?"

"I cried and told him he mustn't, but he kissed me, and he said he would kill me if I told."

Becky gaped. "Kissed you?"

"Mercy?" Honoria said.

"You see," Eliza continued, "I must leave, for I am compromised, and if anyone should learn of it, I am ruined."

Becky recovered her voice. "Well I never.. Missus ought to turn you off without a reference she should."

Honoria said reluctantly, "I don't see any help for it; we must fetch Papa and Mercy."

"Miss Hony, you don't believe this baggage."

"Of course not, but what else can we do?"

"Put her in the cellar and forget she said any such thing."

"Becky, we do not lock orphans in the cellar. We lock them in your room."

Becky snorted. "Well, it ain't right to bother the vicar before his sermon."

"It is hard on Papa, but you know how cranky he is on Mondays when we keep things from him on Sunday."

"I see your point, Miss Hony, but I don't like it. You sit right there and don't take your eyes off her for a minute." Becky went away mumbling to herself.

The housemaid sniffled sullenly until Mr. Spencer threw the kitchen door open with the sort of dramatic gesture he used only when he was interrupted while rehearsing a sermon. "What," he demanded, "is this about?"

Mercy arrived with Charity trailing along in hopes of a tidbit of gossip to exchange with the shop girls and farmers' daughters who attended Sunday services.

Mr. Spencer waved his hand at his youngest daughter. "Charity, be a good child and go for a stroll in the garden until you are called for."

"But Papa, what has Eliza done now?" Charity possessed a foolhardy courage in the pursuit of gossip, but it withered under her father's glance. She pouted and bounced her curls on her way out.

Mr. Spencer said, "Will somebody please explain to me why I have been interrupted just when I had almost got my sermon straight in my head."

Eliza cast a look of highly dramatized terror at Mercy. He was a slender boy of medium height with an athletic figure and gentle, brown eyes. He had combed his curly hair into his personal interpretation of a Windswept style and severely mangled his cravat in an attempt to produce an Oriental knot.

"I say," Mercy said, "have I got to be here? I have yet to polish my boots."

"Quiet, Mercy," Honoria said.

Eliza threw herself to her knees before her employer and clasped her hands. "Oh please, I cannot speak before him. Pity me."

Mr. Spencer lifted the girl by the elbow and returned her to her chair. "I am sure you have nothing to fear if you tell the truth," he said gently.

Mercy said, "If it's me she doesn't want to talk to, I don't mind leaving. Don't know why I am here at all."

"You had better stay," Honoria said.

Eliza interrupted. "Oh, Mr. Spencer, I cannot keep it hid no more, though the shame should kill me. I don't wish to get Master Merciful in any trouble. Indeed I don't."

Becky muttered something about brazen hussies who couldn't melt butter in their mouths.

Eliza raised a tear-stained face and fixed her blue eyes on her employer. "It was Master Merciful. I knew he had wicked thoughts about me from the moment he came home from that college, but I'm only a poor servant girl as needs her job and he," she turned a tragic face to Mercy, "he said he'd get me turned out."

Becky emitted an outraged gasp.

Eliza's cheeks flushed with excitement as she delivered the climax of her drama. "He had his way with me and swore me never to tell or he would kill me, but I don't care. I have told the truth, and he may kill me if he likes."

Merciful listened to this speech with his mouth open and turned to Honoria. "I say, sis, is she saying I did all that?"

"I am afraid so."

"I bloody well didn't!" he exclaimed.

Honoria said, "Mercy, don't use that language in the house."

Mr. Spencer intervened. "I will speak to Eliza alone for a moment," he said.

Honoria, Becky, and Merciful retired to the parlor where Becky addressed a muttered remark to a table to the effect that some people were too good for their own good, if one knew what she meant.

Honoria said, "I declare, I am so tired of orphans, if I never see another one in my life, I could be perfectly happy."

Mercy disordered his Windswept into something like the Cherubim which became him better. "You don't think Father believes I did what she says," he said at last.

"No," Honoria said thoughtfully, "It is only one of the peculiar starts that Mama's orphans are prone to, but he is going to be put out it happened on a Sunday."

The wait dragged on for what seemed a very long time before Mr. Spencer emerged from the kitchen with haggard lines drawing down the corners of his mouth. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Well, Merciful, you are vindicated. It seems Eliza has been speaking to women of doubtful character and has got quite a muddled idea of...well we will not hear of it again. We have no time for breakfast today, Becky. Eliza is to be locked in your room until Mrs. Spencer returns." Becky opened the kitchen door, and Honoria caught a glimpse of Eliza still in the chair and wearing a stunned expression. It served the henwitted housemaid right, Honoria thought, to have caught the rough edge of the gentle vicar's tongue.

They walked briskly the half mile from the vicarage to the church. Mr. Spencer took the lead, still muttering over the sermon. Mercy brought up the rear in a cloud of outraged innocence while Charity flounced along beside Honoria and made remarks about the low character of people who keep secrets.

St. Gregory's of Lesser Chipping stood within sight of the village. The building looked like nothing so much as a clutter of rubblestone boxes stuck together in the shape of a rough cross. Albert Figswort, the Churchwarden and local poet, met them at the porch. "Morning, Vicar. Orphans 'ave got the candles lit up, and the folks are waiting." He shuffled in ahead of the Spencers.

"Send your mother in to the transept, Honoria," Mr. Spencer said just before he hurried down the right-hand aisle. His children took the center aisle. Candles lit the church with a little assistance from the modest, leaded-glass windows.

Charity pinched Honoria's elbow and hissed, "Hony, what happened to Eliza this morning?" she demanded. "Why does Papa want to talk to Mama?"

"Hush," Honoria said in a half-whisper. She edged into the Spencer pew and bent to address her mother, a handsome woman from whom Honoria had inherited her face and figure. "Papa wishes to see you right away," she whispered.

Mrs. Spencer particularly hated to be annoyed with domestic troubles when she was busy with her orphans. "Now? Oh for Heaven's sake. Watch the orphans, Honoria, and rap Douglas very smartly on the knuckles if you see him with a snake. And this time, don't forget to take the snake away first."

Mrs. Spencer left the pew, and Honoria resumed her accustomed place on the opposite end of the row. She glared across her brother and sister at Douglas--a scrubby boy who wriggled almost as much as his pets.

On the very day that Charity, her youngest child, learned to toddle without assistance, Mrs. Spencer had announced the launching of her great enterprise. She intended, she told her husband and young children, to establish a hospital for the orphaned children of Lesser Chipping and surrounding villages. The children would be housed, fed, educated and trained to perform useful and productive work.

In the fourteen years since this announcement had rocked the Spencer household, Honoria had, through sheer self-defense, learned to arrange her features in a leer so hideously menacing it subdued all but the most hardened orphans. The leer was necessary because despite the best efforts of the vicar's wife and her aids, a surprisingly high percentage of the children in her care seemed determined to embark on lives of crime.

With the orphans temporarily subdued, Honoria leaned back in her seat and looked around to see which of her neighbors and friends were present. The Allenbys occupied the pew opposite the Spencers. Mr. Allenby's daughter Louisa sat in her usual place, but Honoria did not recognize the gentleman at Louisa's side.

In a village the size of Lesser Chipping where neighbors knew one another virtually from birth, a stranger was an event, and Honoria was by no means the only female rolling her eyes to examine the gentleman.

Louisa Allenby gazed up at the stranger through her lashes and tossed her head so the pink ostrich plume on her new bonnet bounced on her cheek and curled about her ear.

Mrs. Spencer returned from consultation with her husband and swept back to her seat beside Honoria with two sharp raps on the top of the head for a pair of orphan boys who had been scuffling in the aisle.

"Did papa tell you?" Honoria whispered.

Her mother sniffed. "Tempest in a teapot. Nothing to make such a fuss for."

Honoria sighed. In her view, the housemaid's behavior that morning deserved a little fuss. Her brother's reputation might have been irreparably stained if the girl had blurted her ridiculous accusations to someone outside the family.

Mr. Spencer emerged from the transept and began the worship service. Mercy, who sat beside Honoria, habitually slept through the service with his eyes open. Honoria seldom devoted more than half an ear herself. Instead, she strained her eyes to the left the better to watch Louisa share a hymn book with the handsome stranger and whisper in his ear at intervals.

The service ended at last. As the congregation filed out of the church in a stream of jostling bodies, Honoria tried to slip forward to Louisa's side. Ahead, Louisa tucked her arm through her companion's and ducked behind her mother. The orphans pushed past Honoria, and fled for the doors in a squealing stampede. Struggling to keep her feet, Honoria lost sight of Louisa and her gentleman friend.

"Yoo hoo, Miss Spencer dear." Mrs. Farnsworth edged around the flood of orphans. Her lavender and grey-striped gown hung on a wiry body wrinkled and browned by hours in the garden. "The vicar was so late this morning, I thought he had taken ill and we would be forced to have a Quaker meeting." The old woman giggled.

"How dreadful, Mrs. Farnsworth. I am sure you would have found someone to give a sermon." Together, Honoria and Mrs. Farnsworth followed the orphans toward the door.

"Nothing like Mr. Spencer's, dear. Now do oblige me with your opinion of this gown. I have changed the bodice and added these ribbons to the sleeves."

Honoria saw where the stitches had been taken out and reset several times, and the ribbons were crooked. "How very flattering to you. I always admire your gowns."

They stepped out onto the front porch. "Thank-you, Miss Spencer, dear. You have such exquisite taste in these matters. Oops, I must be off. You go visit with your friends, Dearie." Mrs. Farnsworth hailed a military gentleman. "Major Harbinger, dear, are you walking my way? Will you give me your arm, there's a duck."

A sharp voice behind Honoria said, "Move out of the way, girl. People are trying to get by."

Honoria squeezed against the porch rail. An elderly woman passed her, clutching a shawl and leaning heavily on her cane.

"Good morning, Mrs. Mander," Honoria said.

The old woman grunted and shuffled down the stairs.

A faded woman in a shabby gown followed in Mrs. Mander's wake. She was hardly older than Honoria's sister Prudence. Honoria supposed it was her years of service to Mrs. Mander that reduced Miss Jimson to a grey shadow. "How are you today, Miss Jimson?" Honoria said.

Mrs. Mander snapped, "Hurry up, Jimson, I haven't got all day to stand about while you chatter to your friends."

Miss Jimson trotted down the steps at her employer's heels.

The crowd fanned out into the churchyard, and Honoria spied Louisa in the yard. Miss Allenby stood alone and waved. Honoria gathered she was now welcome to join Louisa. She made her way down the stairs to the younger girl's side. Louisa's black hair set off a plumed chip hat which drew attention to a flawless complexion faintly dusted with rose.

Honoria surveyed Louisa's round gown of pale pink muslin. "Why Louisa, never say you have bought yet another gown. I declare, you must be positively buried under your wardrobe."

Louisa tilted her heart-shaped face. "Dear Hony, so brave about your poverty. You do not think this shade of pink too fast do you? This strong color might be very well for you, but I have the greatest horror of dressing beyond my age."

Honoria certainly entertained every intention of turning the other cheek, but her mouth betrayed her. Knowing Miss Allenby took great pains to cultivate an air of sophistication, she said, "Nonsense, Louisa, I am sure no one would believe you had left the schoolroom."

Louisa sidestepped the jab by changing the subject. "Lud, where is my head today? You are such a bad thing, Hony, to make me forget the very news I wanted to tell you. Roland, or I should say, Mr. Carstairs," she corrected herself with a giggle. "The very handsome gentleman who shared our pew has purchased Riverview."

In theory, Honoria deplored gossip as any well-brought-up vicar's daughter should, but faced with this morsel, she succumbed to temptation. "How is that possible, Louisa? I thought it was entailed."

"No, it never was. Lord Barrowby, who had it at the old lord's death, was the second son, you remember."

Honoria vaguely remembered Lord Barrowby as a plump tulip who shocked the entire parish by entertaining at home a number of garishly dressed ladies who, the people of Lesser Chipping were convinced, were members of the demi-monde. Honoria had been at the romantic age of sixteen at the time of his only visit, but even his title had not imbued him with any heroic qualities. "How did Riverview happen to be sold?"

Louisa rattled blithely on. "Young Lord Barrowby was in Dun Territory from gambling debts, and Mr. Carstairs bought it from him and is this very moment moving in. What do you think?"

"Dun territory, Louisa? Where do you hear these terms?"

The younger girl was immune to distraction. "I forgot to tell you the most important thing: Mr. Carstairs is rich as a Nabob, although of course he is really a gentleman. Madame Blanche says he is down from London, you know, and wanted a house in the country."

Honoria's lips twitched. "Thank goodness. A Nabob would be sure to fill up the house with elephants' feet and stuffed snakes and other nasty artifacts."

Louisa nodded seriously. "Mama says perhaps with all his money he could buy a title. She means to mention it when we have him to supper."

Honoria said, "What a cunning idea. If he is rich enough, he might become a duke, and his wife would be a duchess."

Louisa's eyes opened very wide. "Do you really think he might?"

Honoria rolled her eyes. "No, you goose. How have you managed to invite him to supper so soon?"

"Oh, Mama had the cleverest idea; she and Papa went to call yesterday, and as he does not have his cook yet, they have asked him to take pot luck with us. Mama has already told Cook to put supper back until eight o'clock as he will most likely keep town hours."

"Did they invite him to share your pew as well?"

"Of course. He liked my new bonnet prodigiously, and he shared my hymn book."

"How long has he been here? It can't be very long or I should have heard before now."

"Three or four days I think," Louisa replied.

"Heavens, your mama is quick off the mark."

Louisa nodded happily and proceeded to list for Honoria the bonnets and gowns she had commissioned from the modiste, the better to secure Mr. Carstairs' affections. Bored, Honoria was about to break into Louisa's monologue and excuse herself when Mr. Carstairs himself returned to Louisa's side. "There you are, Miss Allenby, I hope you will introduce me to your friend."

While Louisa rather sullenly performed the introductions, Honoria decided the gentleman was unusually handsome, though not in the common way, and though some might describe his features as coarse, Honoria fancied he possessed a wicked charm.

She found herself smiling up through her lashes for all the world like Louisa at her most flirtatious. "How do you do, Mr. Carstairs. I own I have been all curiosity to meet you. Louisa has talked of nothing else."

The gentleman bowed. "I believe I may be flattered, Miss Spencer."

Honoria said, "In that case, you must be on guard against the sin of vanity; you will find everyone in Lesser Chipping eaten up with curiosity about everything you do."

Mr. Carstairs broke into a chuckle which caused Louisa to protest, "Oh, you must pay no mind to Hony, Mr. Carstairs. Her father is the vicar."

Mr. Carstairs said to Honoria, "Then I have just made the acquaintance of your father and been invited to call at the vicarage. Very kind, I must say, for my own house is in no condition to receive visitors."

Honoria said, "You will be very welcome to call upon my family, Mr. Carstairs. My sister will be in love with you at once."

"I see I must take your advice on vanity very much to heart, Miss Spencer."

Louisa tittered and slapped his arm with her fan. "La, Mr. Carstairs, I am sure you could never be vain."

"Perhaps," Honoria said, "if you feel yourself weakening, my father could write a sermon on the subject for your benefit."

Carstairs bowed. "He could deliver it at a select dinner party to which I have invited your family on Tuesday, and you may judge its effect upon my character."

"I will be pleased to oblige," she assured him.

"You are kindness itself, and I am desolated to take leave of you charming ladies, but I see a tenant of mine, John Sowerby, and I had a particular question regarding sheep."

Louisa cried, "Oh, let me join you. I always ask after dear Mr. Sowerby's wife and their darling children." She followed in Mr. Carstairs' wake.

Honoria might have pointed out that Mr. Sowerby lived with his spinster sister and had never married, but Louisa took herself off in haste, and Honoria lost her opportunity. Preoccupied with Louisa's antics, Honoria had failed to note the approach of a lantern-jawed gentleman built along the lines of a classical Apollo, though he already showed signs of dissolving into a dissolute Zeus as he grew older. "My dear Nory," the gentleman said.

Honoria jumped at the voice behind her. "Oh, bother. I mean, good morning, Mr. Whitham."

He sucked in his belly and threw out his chest in a way that strained the seams of his indifferently-tailored coat. "I see you have met our new neighbor. You will, I hope, attend his dinner party Tuesday week. He made a particular point to me that you were invited."

Honoria rather thought Louisa had been the author of Mr. Whitham's invitation; ruefully, Honoria saluted a masterful ambush by the enemy.

Chapter Two

The Spencer offspring walked home from St. Gregory's by the brook path which had only recently turned dry enough for Sunday shoes. Charity bounced along at Honoria's side until the church disappeared from sight behind the trees.

At last she clutched Honoria's elbow. "Hony, Hony, the greatest news!"

"Yes, I know. Our new neighbor, the fabulously wealthy Mr. Carstairs from London, is to dine with Squire Allenby and his family at eight this evening."

Charity pouted. "Hony, you are monstrous unfair. I meant to tell you all about it."

Quicker of wit than Charity, Mercy said, "So Louisa's mama has already called on Carstairs."

"I am afraid so, but never mind, Charity. We have been invited to dine with Mr. Carstairs next Tuesday."

Charity sniffed. "I will not be allowed to go. Mama will say I am not old enough."

"Louisa has been invited. She is the same age as you."

"Louisa has been out for just ages. It is not fair."

"If life were fair, Louisa would have puppy fat and spots. I will remind Mama you are old enough to be out."

Merciful, too, had been ruminating on the subject of their new neighbor. "Say, Hony, if this Carstairs fellow has got a decent stable do you suppose he would let a chap borrow a mount?"

"I would not rest my happiness on it," Honoria replied.

He sighed. "A fellow gets tired of nags like Nightshade." He referred to the vicarage's single riding animal.

"Nightshade and I take exception," Honoria said.

Mercy shrugged. "I suppose he's well enough for you, but I can't be seen on a broken-down animal."

"But he is well enough for me. I understand."

"Now Hony, you know I don't mean anything except a lady needs a quiet mount like Nightshade while a gentleman wants something a little more lively."

Charity interrupted pertly. "Is that what Miss Nutley says?"

Mercy glowered. "She hasn't got a thing to do with it."

"Naturally not." Honoria smothered a smile. Her brother had been smitten with the squire's daughter since he was out of short pants.

"It's just a gentleman has got an image to maintain if he means to get anywhere in life, and he can't maintain his image on a broken-down horse."

Honoria relented. "I haven't any idea if the gentleman will like to loan his horses, but if you must convince Miss Nutley's father of your eligibility as a son-in-law, see if our new neighbor can find you a post of some sort after you matriculate. He ought to know any number of places where you could do very well if you worked hard."

Mercy absorbed this new idea. "I say, Hony, do you think so? Maybe he could get me a living somewhere."

* * *

The day had begun in such a flutter of excitement that none of Honoria's common pastimes at all satisfied her. She tried to read a novel, failed, attempted to stitch a shirt for the orphan hospital, threw it aside, began to groom Charity's rabbits and gave up in disgust when Duchess bit her finger.

Afternoon had lost its glare to the beginnings of evening when Honoria passed through the parlor on her way to dinner. Her father looked up from a biography of Thomas Cranmer and beamed. "Had a lovely afternoon did you?"

"Yes, Papa." Honoria slipped her hand into her father's arm as he rose.

"Pity about that new fellow Carstairs," her father said. "Ought to be a law against wealthy bachelors."

"Don't be silly, Papa. If there were no wealthy bachelors, who would marry all the young ladies of good family and no prospects?"

"Well, I don't have anything against steady fellows with modest fortunes. It's these Corinthian types who show up in quiet villages and get all the females in an uproar. I'm glad you have too much sense to carry on like your sister. Three women chattering day and night about this Mr. Carstairs would be insufferable."

Honoria patted her father's hand. "Is Charity still carrying on?"

They passed into the dining room. "All a twitter," he confirmed.

They were taking their seats at the dining table as Charity said, "It is not fair, Mama. I have as much right to marry a rich husband as Louisa does."

Becky brought in the soup tureen and ladled turtle soup into the bowls. Mrs. Spencer sighed. "I declare, I don't know where I came by such a worldly daughter. Prudence and Honoria never behaved so."

Honoria ascribed this outrageous falsehood to her mother's general inattention to her offspring.

Becky returned to the kitchen, and for a few minutes, conversation gave way to the sound of spoons on china. Charity, however, had not forgotten her grievance. She finished her soup and said, "Anyway, Mama, Prudence has already got a husband, and Hony don't want one so it's not the same."

Honoria set her spoon against the dish with a clank. "Well, I don't see why you should think I do not wish to marry only because I haven't done it yet."

"Do you?" Charity asked. Her hazel eyes opened very wide, as if her sister had confessed a desire to wait tables at the Beer and Cony. "I thought you meant to live here and keep house for Mama and Papa."

"What a dreadful thing to wish on our poor parents," Honoria said.

"Fiddle," Charity said. "You can marry whenever you like if you will only bring Mr. Whitham up to scratch."

Mrs. Spencer looked reproachfully at her youngest. "Charity, don't be vulgar."

Eliza came in to retrieve the soup bowls with much fumbling and clattering.

"Hony's got too much sense to marry Whitham," Mercy observed.

Mrs. Spencer said, "In any case, there is no need for Honoria to marry anyone she does not wish to. I have received another letter from Prudence in the post, and she has included...."

Mr. Spencer said, "Now Mrs. Spencer, Hony does very well right here. I should not like to lose her."

Becky stomped from the kitchen with a saddle of mutton surrounded by potatoes. Mrs. Spencer leaned around the housekeeper. "Please do not interrupt me, Mr. Spencer. As I was about to say, there is certainly no necessity for Honoria to marry Mr. Whitham. Employment as a governess or companion would be perfectly suitable."

"How romantic," Charity sighed. "She could be the governess for a mysterious, widowed Duke with two tragically motherless children. They would fall in love, and he would marry her despite her station. Oh Hony, you must do it."

Honoria said, "Goodness no. Motherless children are practically orphans."

Mrs. Spencer scowled. "Honoria will work in a decent home with good Christian people. Prudence has included a note from her friend Mrs. Fitzkirk regarding Honoria. Let me just read it to you." Mrs. Spencer fished the letter out of her sleeve and read aloud. "This is what she writes to Prudence: 'Dear Mrs. Cross, Regarding your sister who wishes a post as a companion, I am willing to try her as long as she is a good girl, not too pretty, but obedient and helpful for as you know, I cannot abide the silliness of most young girls. Send her to me in a fortnight or so, and I will try her out.'"

Mrs. Spencer folded the letter and stuck it back into her sleeve. "There you are. I am sure no one could accuse Honoria of silliness."

Mr. Spencer looked unhappy. "My dear, there is no need for Honoria to earn a living. We are going along quite well and will have money again when Merciful finishes at Cambridge."

"That is not the point," Mrs. Spencer said. "Prudence says Honoria needs her own establishment, and in case Mr. Whitham does not ask her to marry him, she ought to have something to occupy her."

Honoria said, "Perhaps I might marry someone besides Mr. Whitham."

The family viewed her skeptically.

"Well I might."

Her family seemed likely to argue the point until the appearance of Eliza from the kitchen drove all thoughts of her children from Mrs. Spencer's mind. She turned to the housemaid, "Eliza, did you polish the silver today?"

Eliza surprised the entire household by letting out a yelp and dropping the pudding on her own foot. The Spencers regarded the girl in astonishment. She burst into tears and clutched her toes.

"Heavens, Eliza, were you woolgathering? Are you ill?" Mrs. Spencer took the girl's arm and pulled her away from the scene of the accident as Becky arrived to whisk the mess back to the kitchen.

"Go get your wits about you," Mrs. Spencer said to Eliza. "I declare you are such a henwit these days, I will send Mr. Spencer to you to deliver a sermon on the virtues of a sober mind."

Charity cried, "Ooh how vexing. Why can we not hire a real housemaid like everyone else?"

Mrs. Spencer regarded her offspring in genuine astonishment. "But then who would train the orphans to earn their living?"

"I don't care," Charity announced in a fit of recklessness.

Mercy and Honoria looked at one another and shook their heads. There were limits beyond which one did not go. Not in the presence of Mrs. Spencer at any rate.

Mrs. Spencer folded her hands and said mildly, "Charity, if you have finished your dinner, you had better go to your room and meditate on Feeding the Lord's Sheep."

Charity rose with much flouncing and sniffing and left the dining room.

Honoria, eager to avoid the subject of her future employment, laid down her silverware and said, "I think I'll go meditate, too, Mama."

Mrs. Spencer frowned. "You, Honoria?"

Honoria said meekly, "I thought I might meditate on my future."

Mrs. Spencer brightened. "That's good dear. I'm sure you will find it very uplifting."

Honoria ducked into the parlor and retrieved a pair of marble-covered novels from a table in the corner. She knocked on Charity's door. The door opened a bit, and Honoria thrust one of the novels through the crack. It was seized from the other side. Having done her good deed for the day, Honoria retired to her room.

Chapter Three

Mrs. Spencer was too busy with her orphans to pursue the other duties of a vicar's wife. Honoria's sister Prudence had undertaken those duties out of a passion for oppressing the less fortunate. After Prudence's marriage, Honoria had taken up the reins of charity out of boredom.

In the morning, she sewed for the orphans, gardened, and visited the poor and sick. Her errand Thursday morning was the widow Hassock and her brood of unkempt offspring. Honoria would have preferred to call on Mrs. Farnsworth who was just as unfortunate and better company than the slatternly widow, but Mrs. Farnsworth really managed very well for herself whereas the widow Hassock had all those sullen children rolling in the dirt. The garden needed weeding, and someone had left a baby in the cabbage patch as if in hope the fairies would come and take it back.

The door opened to her knock and revealed the widow Hassock, a short, stout person with reddish hair and a squint. Yet another grubby child hung upon the widow's black skirt as on a rope swing and glowered at Honoria. "What are you wanting?" the widow asked.

"Nothing," Honoria said quickly. "I mean, nothing to inconvenience you."

"My children ain't sick, and I don't need any preaching, so you can spare yourself the trouble."

Prudence Spencer had made such an impression on the neighborhood that five years after her departure, some of her most tormented victims still regarded Honoria with suspicion.

"Nothing like that. It's the potatoes."

The widow grunted.

"We have a great many more than we need because Charity and I like to dig them, and we wish you would have some."

The widow's eyes dropped to the basket Honoria held out to her. "That's them?"

"You will take them, won't you?" Honoria tried a winsome smile.

The widow nodded once, sharply. "I'll take them off yer hands if it's so important to you." She took the basket and closed the door.

Honoria called, "You can send the basket back by one of the children."

No response came from the cottage, so Honoria retreated. The fairies had evidently come for the baby.

Honoria returned to the vicarage and hurried to her room to change her gown. She had just donned her riding habit when she heard the rattle of carriage wheels outside.

"Oh bother." She twitched aside the curtain of her bedroom window to confirm the evidence of her ears. "There is George in the drive, and Becky won't think to say I am not at home."

Honoria slipped out of her room and down the back stairs. She opened the side door and froze against the side of the house. Mr. Whitham had his back to her while he instructed his groom to hold the horses. Honoria risked all in a furtive dash toward the chicken coop.

"Miss Spencer."

Honoria pretended not to hear.

"Miss Spencer, it is I, Mr. Whitham."

There was no help for it. Honoria stopped. She turned. "Hello, Mr. Whitham. I did not see you arrive."

"Plain you didn't," Whitham said amiably. He looked magnificent in gleaming top boots, skin-tight buckskin, a riding coat that strained at the seams about the shoulders and a cravat of such height and stiffness his head seemed to rest upon it disembodied as on a pillow.

"My dear Nory," he began. His eye paused on Honoria's riding habit of hunter green, a castoff from Prudence with the skirt altered so Honoria could ride astride. He fell silent.

Since it was too late to declare herself "not at home", Honoria said. "Will you come into the sitting room, Mr. Whitham?"

Mr. Whitham made his own way around the outside of the house and through the French doors into the Spencers' parlor where shabby damask and scratched furnishings scrabbled for space in the tiny room. Mr. Whitham cleared his throat and fixed Honoria with a patronizing gaze as she sat down. "You know, Miss Spencer, I hold you in highest esteem, but as your parents are absent, I feel my friendship with you and indeed with your entire family obliges me to speak plainly."

Honoria debated whether rudeness to Mr. Whitham would be un-Christian, or if the Almighty would excuse her on the grounds of extreme provocation.

Mr. Whitham assumed an arch and jovial manner. "In short, I must believe you are unaware of the impression given when you ride in an unfeminine style, and I hope I will soon see you mounted on a lady's saddle. Indeed, if you have not one of your own, I flatter myself I am not too much a stranger to loan you one from my stable."

Nothing set Honoria's back up like Mr. Whitham's perfectly proper opinions. She fixed her visitor with an icy stare. "Mr. Whitham, I have ridden astride these twenty years, and my Papa taught me to do so."

"Indeed, but though I hold your father in high esteem, as should any man who hoped to have as close a kinship as that to which I aspire, you must acknowledge his very unworldliness might allow him to direct his daughter onto paths which bring censure upon her."

Thou shalt not kill, Honoria reminded herself as the desire to wring Mr. Whitham's neck, cravat and all, overwhelmed any other impulse.

Unaware of his danger, Mr. Whitham said, "Remember, my dear, you are of an age to consider the opinions of a husband."

Honoria called to mind several more commandments and her mother's injunction against strong language. "I will never marry a man whose opinions differ from my father's."

Mr. Whitham favored his Nory with a melting look. Other females had been known to drop their market baskets when that smile turned their way; Honoria decided that by dismissing her visitor she could do him the Christian service of saving his life. All she lacked was a plausible excuse. At that moment, Eliza wandered into the parlor and dabbed with a rag at a wobbling table.

Honoria said, "Eliza, have you finished the silver already? I can hardly believe it."

The girl whisked the rag behind her. "Was I supposed to do the silver, Miss?"

"Yes, Eliza, is that not what all the hubbub was about last evening?" She turned to Mr. Whitham. "I must see to her. Mama and Papa will be sorry to have missed you." She was bearing false witness, but considered it a small sin when compared to murder.

Mr. Whitham bowed. "The pleasure was entirely mine, Miss Spencer." Honoria heroically withheld her agreement, and Mr. Whitham added, "I will call again when Mr. and Mrs. Spencer are at home."

Honoria hoped to slip out to the stable unnoticed, but Charity surprised her coming around the chicken pen in the back garden.

"Where are you going, Hony," Charity asked.

Honoria indicated the skirt of her riding habit. "Out for a ride."

Charity set her basket of eggs on the flagstone walk and dogged Honoria's footsteps to the stable. "Where are you riding to?"

"Nowhere in particular."

"Are you going to Riverview?"

"I have not decided." Honoria greeted Nightshade, a chestnut gelding of advanced age, and set to work with the saddle and bridle.

Charity seated herself on a mounting block. "Do you think he is in love with Louisa?"

"I don't know what you are talking about. Why would he be in love with Louisa?"

"He dined at the Alders last night. Do you think he will be at home?"

"Who?"

"Mr. Carstairs, stupid," Charity said.

"Is that what we were talking about?"

"You are going to see him, aren't you?"

"That would be very improper," Honoria loftily informed her sister.

"I don't care what you do anyway." Charity stood and flounced out of the stable.

"Charity is really impossible," Honoria remarked to Nightshade. She bumped the gelding's belly with her knee to discourage him from puffing out his ribs and loosening the girth. "Imagine her thinking I would call on Mr. Carstairs alone."

Nightshade turned his head. Honoria had the habit of consulting his advice because, in addition to possessing a large fund of horse sense, he never offered unsolicited opinions.

Honoria led the gelding to the mounting block, swung herself to Nightshade's back and turned him onto a little-used wagon track which would, after many windings, lead her past the Riverview estate.

"I am not," she informed Nightshade, "going to look at Mr. Carstairs. This is one of our very favorite rides."

Dunswallow Lane was in fact a particular favorite of Honoria's. It followed a little stream, crossing and recrossing the waterway until it ended at a wider carriage road with tall fountains of yellow broom growing on either side.

Mindful of Nightshade's aging limbs, she held him to a trot until the road stretched dry and straight between fields of meadow buttercup and heartsease. She finally allowed him to canter, setting the blackbirds and finches to flight until fields gave way to the sloping, sheep-cropped lawns of Lesser Chipping's gentry.

She dropped once more into a trot when they reached the park attached to the Manderhaven estate, the home of Mrs. Mander and her companion, Miss Jimson. The hedge beside the road was patchy in some places, overgrown in others. Lawns straggled, and the paths between the trees were all but invisible under a blanket of leaves and fallen branches. Beeches and oak trees leaned over the road in a clutching sort of way.

Honoria was reflecting sadly on the decay of the park when she observed a team of bays coming toward her. A moment later, she recognized Louisa, resplendent in a pink spencer and bonnet, clinging to the arm of the driver. A moment after that, she recognized Mr. Carstairs.

Honoria cried, "Louisa dear, how pleasant to see you."

Mr. Carstairs drew up. Honoria reigned Nightshade by Carstairs' side. Louisa's eyes narrowed. "Darling Hony, how sweet you look in that funny saddle." She turned to Mr. Carstairs. "It is amazing to me how dear Hony always appears so ladylike even in such unconventional circumstances. I suppose it is because she is a clergyman's daughter."

"What a dreadful flatterer you are, Louisa. And you have coaxed Mr. Carstairs to take you driving already. Take, care Mr. Carstairs. Louisa is quite insatiable for a curricle and a handsome team."

Louisa said, "Poor Hony, what a pity you cannot indulge in a handsomer mount yourself."

"I assure you I have no such worldly ambitions."

"I am in awe of your humility. I am sure I would be dreadfully bored."

"I suppose you would be. A lack of worldliness does require imagination."

Louisa tittered. "Hony, you are droll. I should much rather have the horse."

Mr. Carstairs interrupted. "But imagination is a charming trait; the essence of sensibility. I am certain, Miss Allenby, you must possess a surfeit of it."

Louisa slapped his wrist lightly with her fan. "You are so clever. I feel just tongue tied beside you."

Clever indeed, Honoria thought, to find imagination in Louisa. "And have you a great deal of sensibility, Mr. Carstairs?"

"Are you trying to betray me into immodesty, Miss Spencer?"

"I am trying to discover your views on sensibility."

"I am in favor of it."

Honoria laughed. "Are you returning to Riverview or coming from it?" she asked.

"Going," Louisa said immediately. "What a pity we are not going your way."

Mr. Carstairs said "But we can turn around, or Miss Spencer could join us."

Louisa shook her head. "We are taking such a roundabout route, poor Nightmare would be just dropping with weariness. How is his arthritis, Hony?"

Carstairs was unflatteringly easy to persuade. "I am desolated to miss your company, Miss Spencer, but I mean to call on your family very soon."

"It cannot be soon enough. My sister Charity is in a fever to meet you."

Before Honoria quite knew what was what, the carriage went one way, and she was obliged to go the other.

"What a nuisance Louisa is," she said to Nightshade. "I suppose there is no use going on to Riverview now." She thought for a moment. "Except, of course, that this ride is a particular favorite of ours. Oh bother, there is Miss Jimson in the road just when I am not in a mood to be cheery."

Honoria raised her voice. "Miss Jimson, my dearest creature. Do let me walk along with you for a bit." She dismounted.

Miss Jimson turned. Her hair was of an indeterminate shade which might be called blonde, her eyes of a vague color that might be called blue, and her skin could be described as fair, but the entire portrait was the gray of old driftwood cast up on the beach. "How do you do," she said coolly.

"Very well, thank you. You have chosen a lovely afternoon for a walk." Honoria matched her pace to the other woman who trudged along with a basket over her arm.

Miss Jimson said, "Yes, unseasonably warm." She stumbled and gave a little gasp of pain.

Honoria grasped her arm. "Are you all right? You have not twisted your ankle I hope."

"It is nothing." Miss Jimson tugged at her skirt, and Honoria pretended not to see the patch above the knee.

Honoria said, "I suppose you saw Miss Allenby pass with Mr. Carstairs. He is a very amiable gentleman."

Miss Jimson sniffed. "I saw them, of course. They did not stop. Who is Mr. Carstairs?"

"Did you not see him in church yesterday? He sat in the Allenby pew."

"What I meant was, is he a gentleman? He has turned up very suddenly in the neighborhood, and has no one to recommend him."

Honoria gave these concerns as little heed as Louisa had done. "The Allenbys are satisfied with his respectability, so I suppose we need not cut him."

"Perhaps the Allenbys are less particular than some." Miss Jimson paused and nudged her spectacles higher on her nose with her forefinger. "I turn off here. Very kind of you to keep me company, Miss Spencer. I hope you will have a pleasant afternoon," she added without much conviction.

Miss Jimson walked quickly down the Manderhaven drive, and Honoria remounted and said to Nightshade, "Ugh, what a fate to be a paid companion. It makes Mr. Whitham seem almost bearable, though if only I can get around Louisa I think Mr. Carstairs would suit me better."

Honoria rode another twenty minutes at the shuffling trot which was Nightshade's best pace. She paused at the open gates a Palladian manor house. Half a dozen wagons stood in the courtyard.

Under the pedimented pillars of the facade, laborers carried furniture, rugs, and bales into the house itself. A second stream of laborers carried similar objects back out and deposited them on the stairs to trip the men going up.

"What do you suppose is going on?" she said to Nightshade.

A voice said at her elbow, "They are removing the original furniture, which is prodigiously ugly, and replacing it with something more tasteful."

Honoria gave a little gasp of surprise.

A tall, sallow man in morning coat and boots laid a hand on her reins to steady Nightshade in case he should startle--not that the elderly animal had any such ambition. The gentleman had a narrow, whip like figure and a humorous face. "I beg your pardon. I thought you were speaking to me."

"I was talking to my horse," Honoria confessed. "And for a moment, I thought he had answered me. Which would be entirely out of character."

The stranger nodded as if talking to one's horse were a perfectly sensible thing to do. "I am afraid the owner, Mr. Carstairs, is out," he informed her.

"Yes I know. I just met him on the road with Louisa Allenby, but I thought I would come ahead anyway and look at the house. Oh no, that sounds dreadful, but I was curious to see the house again now someone will be living in it."

"Very natural," the gentleman said. "My name is Bowes; I am something in the way of being Mr. Carstairs' man of business."

"I am Honoria Spencer from the vicarage. I ought to go. It was very rude of me to come."

"Not rude at all. Now you have come all this way, you deserve at least a tour of the house."

"I couldn't."

"But you are welcome."

"Do you think so? I must confess I have the most pressing desire to go inside."

"Then lead this, er, handsome animal around to the stable, and leave him with the groom."

Honoria laughed as she dismounted. "I believe you are disparaging my mount."

"I beg your pardon."

"I should think you would. Nightshade is a very faithful companion and deserves no-one's contempt." Honoria took the reins and followed Mr. Bowes around the side of the house.

A groom met them in the stable yard. "I'm hoping you weren't looking for a horse, Mr. Bowes, for there's none but the bays come down from London yet, and the master's got them hitched up to the curricle."

"Hobs, this is Miss Spencer. She would like you to put her mount up while she sees over the house."

The groom eyed Nightshade.

Mr. Bowes said, "Don't be high in the instep, Hobs, I am informed this fine animal is entitled to all the honor due his years."

Honoria delivered Nightshade into the groom's hands. As she and Mr. Bowes turned toward the house, she said, "My brother will be sorry to hear the horses are not arrived. He has been counting on borrowing a mount."

"He has only to ask. I am afraid Carstairs is the most generous soul in nature."

"Is that a fault?"

"Only in excess. Mr. Carstairs is, in fact, too likely to try to give your brother a horse from his stables. We must go in by the side door I am afraid."

Honoria raised her brows. "The side door indeed. Just as if I were a tradesman."

"Better to slight your consequence than allow you to be trampled under an armoire at the front door."

"I quite see your point," Honoria admitted, highly diverted by her guide.

Mr. Bowes held the door. "The kitchens are in arrears. We have been having our meals sent up from the Beer and Cony."

"Which explains Mr. Carstairs dining at the Alders," Honoria said.

"Miss Allenby is a friend of yours I take it."

"If one applies the term rather loosely." Honoria opened a door off the kitchen and sneezed at the dust. "And this is what, exactly?"

"The butler's pantry, also in arrears, which is to be expected, considering there is, as yet, no butler."

"And Mr. Carstairs plans to hold a dinner party in less than a week?"

"We expect a butler at any time."

"Who is there?" The kitchen door opened, and a short female in a cap and apron peered into the room. "Mr. Bowes, who is this? Have we a guest?" The lady looked peevish.

"Mrs. Lynnwood, may I present Miss Spencer from the vicarage. She will be coming to our dinner party on Tuesday. Mrs. Lynnwood is a cousin of Mr. Carstairs. She is to lend us countenance so we may entertain ladies at Riverview."

The lady accompanied her smile to Honoria with a worried wrinkling of her forehead. "How lovely to meet you, dear, but I wish you had not come upon us unexpectedly and us in all our dirt."

Mr. Bowes said, "Mrs. Lynnwood, remember you are not to do anything yourself. That is what the servants are for."

The woman shoved at her cap, leaving a smudge of dust on her forehead. "No indeed, Mr. Bowes, I never thought of such a thing."

Honoria cleared her throat. "I do apologize, Mrs. Lynnwood. I ought not to have come unannounced."

Mr. Bowes said to Mrs. Lynnwood, "Don't blame Miss Spencer; she showed a becoming reticence, but I bullied her severely."

Mrs. Lynnwood tittered. "Oh, Mr. Bowes, I am sure you didn't do any such thing. I know how high-spirited girls can be. Take care you do not say anything peculiar to our guest."

Mr. Bowes bowed gravely. "I wouldn't think of it."

Honoria said, "But you are not going, are you, Ma'am?"

Mrs. Lynnwood shook her head. "I am run off my feet with everything at odds as they are, but Mr. Bowes can show you around the house. If you see my Phyllis here or there, you may say hello. She will be pleased to meet a friendly young person."

The little woman left the kitchen, and Mr. Bowes said, "If you come up the stairs here, I will show you the dining room."

Honoria maneuvered her way around a mop and coal scuttle propped higgelty-piggelty in the middle of the hall. "Is Mrs. Lynnwood displeased I called?"

"Rather the opposite I believe. Did you catch the remark about young people of a friendly disposition? The Allenbys called last week with Miss Allenby."

They came to the paneled dining room, and Honoria looked around. The furnishings were half of a mock Egyptian style popular in the last decade and half of a classically simple design in glossy, dark wood. She said, "I see what you mean about the furniture; I hope you will tell me it is that dreadful Egyptian stuff you are getting rid of and not the other. It is a very handsome room otherwise. The plaster is quite astounding." She craned her neck to survey the heavily-plastered ceiling.

"Astounding is an excellent word. Tell me, Miss Spencer, how is it you are not in London at this time of year?"

"That is simple; we cannot afford it."

"A pity. I suppose you were unable to have a season then."

"It would have been beyond our means, and there was Mercy to think of. Papa did so want to send him to Cambridge. Like Thomas Cranmer you know."

"The martyr?"

"He is Papa's hero."

They passed through the dining room and strolled through a series of salons which had been stripped bare of furniture right down to the floorboards. Honoria remarked, "It is shockingly large, a regular warren. I had not realized how very cozy we are at the vicarage."

"Fortunate for you, perhaps. This will be too large for Carstairs, but it will add to his consequence, and that is the main point. We have come now to the library."

He held the door, and Honoria entered. She was fond of books, though she was not a very intellectual reader, and the high-ceilinged room delighted her with its walls lined with books of every size and description. She sneezed. The library had not yet been touched by the maids.

Mr. Bowes said, "The books came with the house. They do not reflect Carstairs' reading habits."

Honoria handled at random a history of the crusades, a religious treatise she thought would amuse her father and a cunningly illustrated bestiary. She rubbed the dust from her gloved hands. "They have been shamefully neglected. I expect they did not reflect the previous owner's habits either. Why has Mr. Carstairs come away from London in the middle of the season himself?"

Mr. Bowes smiled at her from under his brows. "Well you might ask. The fact is we are here to find Mr. Carstairs a bride."

Honoria blushed. "You are hoaxing me. If Mr. Carstairs wanted to get married, he would be in London."

"We are playing a deeper game. The unfortunate truth is that Mr. Carstairs is a little too well known about London."

"Smuggling," Honoria guessed. "Eluding the runners?"

"You have a sinister mind, Miss Spencer. No, the problem is that for several generations, the Carstairs family has been, well, not to put too fine a point on it, in trade."

Honoria chuckled. "For shame, Mr. Bowes, and to accuse me of having a sinister mind, too. Miss Jimson was right all along."

"Miss Jimson?"

"You are passing Mr. Carstairs off as a gentleman."

"Not at all. I am making a gentleman of him."

"By having him purchase a house and marry a gentlewoman."

"Precisely. You do not think it will work?"

Honoria pursed her lips. "On the contrary, it is how half the gentry in the country are made."

"But you will be put off by him."

"I think not. I told Miss Jimson not half an hour ago that if the Allenbys took him up, there could be nothing to say against him."

"You are baiting me," Mr. Bowes said.

"Only a little," Honoria assured him. "Are you really his man of business?"

"I do perform that service for him. It lends a cachet of respectability to the household."

Honoria spied a trunk full of books against the wall. The lid stood open, and atop the pile, she saw a familiar title. She pounced on it. "The Mysterious Visitor," she read aloud.

Mr. Bowes winced. "Carstairs will insist on reading such stuff. You are looking at his private collection."

Honoria laughed. "I see several titles I have borrowed from the library."

"Miss Spencer, I am badly disillusioned."

"Imagine my feelings. How lowering to find you do not approve of my reading habits."

"I make a dispensation in your case, Miss Spencer. Come now, I would like to show you the gallery which I consider a particular triumph of my own."

Honoria obediently followed her guide to the gallery. Windows illuminated one wall. Opposite the windows, a row of portraits marched down the room. "Are these Mr. Carstairs' ancestors?" Honoria asked.

"Complete and utter strangers, every one. We are creating a family history which will include them all."

"Really? With horrible family secrets and melancholy peers brooding over dark passions?"

"That was Mr. Carstairs' contribution. I was thinking in terms of a small but respectable family from the north."

"How practical."

"You wound me. We can go no further in our tour as the maids have gone no further in their labors. I wish I could show you through the parlor and perhaps serve you tea, but the house is not equipped at the moment for guests."

"I perfectly understand. Indeed, I must go now, or I will be late for dinner at home."

"Out the side door, Miss Spencer. I hope to see you enter through the front very soon. As soon, in fact, as Carstairs is prepared to entertain."

"It would be my very great pleasure," Honoria replied. "Will you be staying here yourself, Mr. Bowes?"

"For the foreseeable future. The prospect becomes more pleasing every moment."

Mr. Bowes went with Honoria to the stables where she recovered Nightshade from the groom, and Mr. Bowes assisted her to mount.

Honoria said, "Give my apologies to Mrs. Lynnwood for inconveniencing her."

"She was delighted. Remember, I am depending on you to keep Carstairs' secret."

Honoria put her finger to her lips, winked and rode out through the gates, very well satisfied with her day's adventure.

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