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“I’ll send for some. Arnold! Drat that man! Where is he? Always kissing the maids when you want him.” Amber walked toward the door of the next room. “Arnold!”

The Baroness watched her, envy and disapproval in her eyes.

She had never been able to reconcile herself to the fact that the days of her own youth and beauty had occurred so unpropitiously. First there had been the Civil War and her husband gone most of the time, then finally killed, leaving her condemned to live out her best years in the country, impoverished by taxes and forced to do part of her own housework like any farmer’s wife. The years had slipped treacherously by. She had not realized until today how many of them were gone.

She had had no opportunity to marry again, for the Wars had left too many poor widows, and she had Gerald and his two sisters to rear. The girls had been fortunate to marry country squires, but Gerald—she had been determined—must have a better opportunity. She sent him on a trip to the Continent and bade him stop in London on his return to see if he might catch the King’s eye and perhaps bring the sacrifices and loyalty of the Stanhopes to his attention. He had succeeded better than she had ever dared hope. One month ago, a letter had come from him saying that the King had not only raised the family to an earldom but had found a great fortune for him to marry, and that he was already both Earl of Danforth and bridegroom.

Overjoyed, she began immediately to make arrangements for closing up Ridgeway Manor and moving to London. She saw herself frequenting the Court, admired and envied for her clothes and jewels, her lavish hospitality, her charm and, yes, her beauty too. For Lady Stanhope had eagerly consulted her mirror and persuaded herself that for all most women of forty-two were considered decayed she was still a fine person and might—with new French gowns, ribbons and curls and jewels—very reasonably be taken for a beauty. She might even marry again, if she found a gentleman to her taste.

The letter from Lady Clifford came as an unpleasant shock.

“My dear Lucilla,” it read. “Pray accept of the good thoughts and best wishes of all of us who are your friends. We were both surprised and pleased that your family should have been given an earldom. For though none has been more deserving it is too well known by us who have been in London these seven years past that nowadays reward is not always conveyed where it is most due or honour shown to those who best deserve it. There is no use dissembling, the old ways have changed; for the worse, I fear.

“We were all quite astonished at the news of Gerald’s marriage, happening so suddenly as it did, and for my part I first knew he was in town when I heard that he had married the former Countess of Radclyffe. No doubt you’ve heard that she’s thought a great beauty, much frequents the Court, and is said to be in some favour with his Majesty. For my part I seldom go to Whitehall nowadays, but prefer the company of our old friends. The young and giddy have taken over the Court and persons of quiet manners are in no request there. But perhaps a time may come again when the old virtues of honesty in a man and modesty in a woman will be more than an excuse for coarse jesting and laughter.

“I hope to have the pleasure of your company soon. No doubt you will be coming to London as soon as Gerald and his wife begin to occupy lodgings together.

“Your very humble and obedient servant, madame,

”I am,

“Margaret, Lady Clifford.”

There it was. Like a rock dropped in the middle of a quiet pool. “As soon as Gerald and his wife begin to occupy lodgings together.” What did her Ladyship mean?

Were they married and not living together? Where was he living then? Where was she living? She read the letter over again, very carefully, and this time she could pick out several more ominous suggestions. She decided that she could not get there too soon for her son’s welfare.

And now here she was, in the very presence of the hussy, all her outraged virtue seething within her—and she found that in spite of herself she was embarrassed and uneasy. Twenty years of living secluded, of seeing only her children and the villagers and near neighbours, of scraping to keep them in food and clothes and trying to save money enough so that Gerald could cut a figure at Oxford and abroad, watching her good looks grow overblown and begin to fade, had not prepared her for this moment.