‘Good morning, Jon.’

Startled, Jon put his cup down with a clatter and sprang to his feet. ‘Good morning, Mama.’ As Jon helped her to the seat next to him, the butler disappeared to fetch her usual pot of chocolate. ‘May I ask what brings you down so early?’

‘As hostess, it is my duty to see to the welfare of our guests. Besides, George is to take me out driving this morning. Is he down yet?’

‘Ages ago, Mama. He’s just…er…driven out to take the edge off his horses. He knows you are a nervous passenger.’

‘Nothing of the sort. But I do like to drive behind well-schooled horses. George persists in buying unruly beasts. “High-couraged”, he calls them.’ She snorted in disgust. They both knew that George bought horses he could barely handle because he fancied himself as good a whip as Jon. It rankled with him that he was not.

The butler returned with the Dowager’s chocolate. She dismissed him with a nod. ‘I will ring if I need anything more.’ The man bowed and left the room, closing the door silently behind him.

Jon looked up from his plate. Her face was set. He resigned himself to what was to come.

‘Jon, I need to talk to you. About…about things.’

He reached for the coffee pot to pour himself a refill. It proved to be empty, but he did not ring for more. Instead, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘I am listening,’ he said, in a flat voice.

‘Jon, I have filled the house with the most eligible young ladies of the ton. You have played your role as host impeccably, as always, but I have not seen you-’ She sighed impatiently. ‘Does none of them take your fancy? What about Miss Danforth? Now, there’s a delightful girl. And Lady Cissy, too. Even you will acknowledge that she is a glorious creature.’

He stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then he picked up his cup and began to turn it in his fingers, admiring the fineness of the porcelain. ‘Mama, they are both pretty, beautifully behaved, and without a single interesting thought in their empty heads. After all those years in the schoolroom, you would think they would have learned something. But apparently not.’

‘That is because they are young, Jon. They are only just out.’ She laid a hand reassuringly on his arm. ‘A young wife can be moulded by her husband,’ she said stoutly. ‘In a few years, you can make exactly what you want of her.’

‘Can I?’ His father had been all in favour of moulding, too. Brutally, on occasions. Jon would never follow such an example. He wanted a restful woman, but a woman of principle-her own principles, too, not a straitjacket of her husband’s design. ‘Mama, these chits are young enough to be my daughters. I can’t take a child to wife.’

She was clearly shocked by his words, but she kept her tone level. ‘In that case, when we return to London, I shall arrange a few select evening parties at Portbury House. I can invite some of the…er…more mature single ladies. There are one or two widows also, of impeccable reputation, who might interest you if-’

He was shaking his head vehemently even before she had finished speaking. ‘No, Mama. I thank you, but no. When our guests leave tomorrow, I shall return to Fratcombe.’

‘Fratcombe? But why? There is precious little society there.’

‘It is not society I need, Mama, but useful occupation. George has drained that estate in my absence and it needs- Oh, pray do not look so distressed. You could not have known what he was about.’

She could not meet his gaze.

‘It will require several months of work to restore Fratcombe. I find I relish the challenge there. I cannot be doing nothing, Mama, as I do here.’

‘But you are not doing nothing! You have guests, you-’

‘I am doing nothing useful, ma’am,’ he snapped. He had never used such a tone with her before. ‘Engaging in frivolous entertainment with house guests is not what I have been used to, these last few years,’ he explained, rather more gently.

‘I knew the army would be the ruination of you,’ she muttered.

He lifted her hand to his lips in an uncharacteristically gallant gesture, in apology for his bad temper. ‘Poor Mama. I must be a sad trial to you. I know that you mean well. It is just that we do not see eye to eye on what I need out of life.’

‘You need a wife and a son,’ she retorted. ‘Surely we are agreed on that?’

He started back and began to breathe deeply, holding himself in check. With anyone else, he would have lost his temper at such gall, but a gentleman could never do such a thing with his mother, no matter what she did.

She hastened to apologise. ‘I promise I will stop meddling,’ she finished, trying to smile. ‘But if there is anything you wish me to do, you have only to ask. Will you be content with that?’

‘More than content. Thank you, Mama.’ He leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

The Dowager was surprised into a blush. And rendered speechless.

The door opened. ‘Why, Mama! Good morning. I must say you are down in excellent time, and looking quite splendid for our outing. Is that a new walking dress? Very dashing.’ George strolled forward and bent to kiss her cheek, just as he did every morning. They all knew it was an empty gesture.

Now that George had arrived to keep her company, Jon rose. ‘If you will excuse me, Mama, I must attend to some estate business this morning, but I will be free later to hear all about your expedition. Take care George does not overturn you,’ he added mischievously. ‘It would not do to get mud on that delicate fabric.’ He touched a finger to the Prussian blue silk of her sleeve. ‘You look as fine as fivepence. There is a matching hat, I presume?’ He grinned suddenly, and she made to reach out to him. Then she let her hand drop. Jon was relieved to see that she had not forgotten how much he detested public displays of affection.

Jon pulled Saracen to a halt at the top of the hill. They were both blowing hard after the climb but, from here, he could see the whole Portbury estate and miles beyond. It was a good place to be alone to think.

He dismounted, leaving the reins loose on the big bay’s neck. The horse was too well trained to wander far.

Jon strolled across to lean his back against an aged hawthorn, bent sideways by the prevailing wind that scoured this ridge in winter. Fratcombe. He knew in his bones that he had to return there, though it had come to him only as he spoke the words. He needed work to occupy him. After army life, he could not return to the wasteful ways of before. He had tenants, and workers, and dependants. As Earl, he had a duty to them all. Surprisingly, that duty no longer felt like a burden. Was that the rector’s influence? He did not know, but, for some reason, he was eager to return. He would try to look after his people as he had looked after his soldiers; he would seek to make their lives a little better, educate their children. Yes, even the gypsy children that Miss Beth defended so stoutly.

Beth Aubrey. Unlike the gang of simpering misses his mother had gathered here at Portbury, Beth was a woman of decided character, a clear-headed, practical woman who tried to do good in the world. She had not an ounce of the guile that had surrounded him, these past weeks at King’s Portbury. He could see that clearly now. But the fundamental question remained-could he really be sure she was not a fraud?

He took a deep breath of the clean air of the hilltop. He would be arriving back at Fratcombe just a few days before the evening party at the Manor. He would visit the rectory, he decided-he had the ready-made excuse of consulting Mrs Aubrey about the party arrangements-and he would use the time to judge Beth Aubrey’s character, once and for all. If his foundling was as upright as he suspected-and, he admitted, as he hoped-he would use his rank to establish her position in Fratcombe, and with it, his own. After that, no one would dare to accept a Fitzherbert’s judgement over the Earl of Portbury’s.

Mrs Aubrey’s little maid answered Jon’s knock, as usual. At the sight of him, her eyes grew as round as saucers. She stood rooted to the spot, making no move to admit him. Impudent wench! It was not for a mere servant to have opinions on how often Jon chose to call.

‘Is Mrs Aubrey at home?’ he asked sharply.

She nodded and showed him directly to the parlour, without first seeking leave from her mistress. Almost as if he were one of the family.

‘Why, Jonathan! Three visits in three days! We are honoured.’ Jon did not miss the hint of laughter in Mrs Aubrey’s voice as she rose from her work table and dropped him a tiny curtsy. It was only yesterday that he had finally persuaded the old lady to use his given name, as her husband always did. It felt right. He was truly glad of it.

Beth-Miss Aubrey-would do nothing so intimate. She too had risen from her place, laying aside her pen. Her curtsy was a model of decorum. It showed off her slim figure and upright carriage, too. Somewhere she had been well schooled. ‘Good afternoon, Lord Portbury.’ Her voice was low, almost husky. He persuaded himself it sounded a little strained. Could she be worrying about tomorrow’s party?

He smiled down at her. ‘You have been working too hard again, ma’am. You have ink on your fingers, I fear.’ He was hoping to make her laugh as readily as on the previous afternoons.

Instead, she looked horrified. She lifted her fingers to stare at the dark stain as if some monster had settled on her skin. ‘Oh, dear. I shall never get it clean in time. What shall I-?’

Mrs Aubrey stepped forward and clasped her wrinkled old hands over Beth’s smooth ones. ‘Stop worrying, my dear. I have a remedy for that, I promise. You shall be as white as snow when you don your new evening gown.’

Beth resumed her seat, but her eyes were still wide and apprehensive, Jon saw. It had not occurred to him before now that she might worry about appearing at his party. She seemed so confident in everything else she did, in the school, with the villagers, with servants, even with him… She was a lady, but she was still a nobody, and about to be foisted on to a group of haughty gentle-folk who most definitely did not wish to accept her as an equal. Of course it would be an ordeal. Why had he not seen that? In the long run, it would make her life easier, he was sure, but that was little consolation today. Even a true lady could be afraid of confrontation.

He hastened to reassure her. ‘In any case, you will be wearing evening gloves, and-’

‘Jonathan!’ Mrs Aubrey interrupted sharply, adding a warning shake of her head. ‘Will you take tea with us?’

Now, why…? Oh, yes, of course. The ladies would remove their gloves at the dinner table. Stupid of him. His wits had gone a-begging. He was not helping Beth at all. He smiled his agreement to the old lady and set about restoring poor Beth’s peace of mind.

He joined her on the sofa. ‘You seem incredibly busy, ma’am.’ He gestured towards the pieces of card spread across the table. ‘Is this for my party, too?’ He picked one up. The name ‘Sir Bertram Fitzherbert’ was written in a very elegant hand.

‘Place cards for your dinner table, my lord. We remembered them only this morning.’

‘Ah, yes. Yet another of the hostess’s duties. I had not realised quite how many burdens I was putting on Mrs Aubrey’s shoulders when I asked her to take this on.’ He glanced across at the old lady who was standing in the open doorway, giving instructions to her maid. ‘It must be much more difficult for a hostess who does not actually live in the house.’

Beth shook her head. ‘It could be, but your butler is extremely competent. And we had weeks to prepare while you were away…’ Her voice tailed off. She threw him an enigmatic sideways glance and then quickly looked away.

Was that an accusation? That he had decreed this grand party and then fled the field? If only she knew! Those three weeks at King’s Portbury had been more dangerous than any battlefield. If he had not been awake to the matchmakers’ scheming, he might have found himself forcibly leg-shackled to a chit he could not abide. Fratcombe was a peaceful refuge by comparison. Here he could relax and be himself. Here, no one was scheming.

Except himself, of course!

He laughed aloud at that subversive thought.

‘My lord?’ She sounded hurt. She still did not know him well enough to realise he would never laugh at her.

‘Forgive me, ma’am.’ On impulse, he reached out to cover her ink-stained fingers with his own and patted her hand reassuringly. She froze instantly. Good God, what was he doing? He drew in a quick, horrified breath, but forced himself to give her one last friendly pat before nonchalantly dropping his hand back into his lap, as if he had done nothing in the least improper. ‘I was laughing at the picture you painted…of myself.’ He grinned down at her. ‘Far too top-lofty to involve myself in anything as mundane as work. And absconding from the scene to ensure I could not be called to account. Very remiss, I agree.’