Whatever the truth might be, one thing was sure: the lady was not with Damerel when he returned to England, some years later. Since that date he appeared (if only half the stories told of him were true) to have devoted himself to the pursuit of all the more extravagant forms of diversion, going a considerable way towards dissipating what had once been a handsome fortune, and neglecting no opportunity that offered to convince his critics that he was every bit as black as he had been painted. Until the previous year his occasional visits to the Priory had been too brief to allow any of his neighbours to do more than catch sight of him, and very few had even done that. But he had spent one whole week at the Priory in August, under perfectly outrageous circumstances. He had not come alone; he had brought a party of guests with him—and such a party! They had come for the races, of course: Damerel had had a horse running in one of them. Poor Imber, the old butler who had been caretaker at the Priory for years, had been thrown into the greatest affliction, for never had such a fast, ramshackle set of persons been entertained at the Priory! As for Mrs. Imber, when she had discovered that she was expected to cook for several rackety bucks and for three females whom she recognized at a glance for what they were, she had declared her intention of leaving the Priory rather than so demean herself. Only her devotion to the Family had induced her to relent, and bitterly did she regret it, when (as might have been expected) none of the villagers would permit their daughters to go to work in what was little better than a Corinth, and it had been necessary to hire in York three far from respectable wenches to wait on the raffish company. As for the amusements of these dashing blades and their convenients, his late lordship, declared Imber, must have turned in his grave to see such lewd goings-on in his ancestral home. If the guests were not indulging in vulgar rompings, such as playing Hunt the Squirrel, with those shameless lightskirts squealing fit to bring the rafters down, and egging on the gentlemen to behave in a very scandalous way, they were turning the house into a gaming-hell, and drinking the cellar dry. Not one but had had to be put to bed by his valet, and that my Lord Utterby (a loose-screw, if ever Imber had seen one!) had not burnt the Priory to the ground was due only to the chance that had carried the smell of burning to the nostrils of Mr. Ansford’s peculiar, who had not scrupled to track it to its source, though she had been clad only in her nightgown—not but what that was a more decent cloak to her opulent form than the dress she had worn earlier in the day!—and had torn down the smouldering bed-curtains, screeching all the time at the top of her very ungenteel voice.

These orgies had lasted for seven days, but they had provided the neighbouring countryside with food for gossip that lasted for months.

However, nothing further had been heard of Damerel. He had not come north for York Races this year, and, unless he meant to come later for the pheasant-shooting, which (from the neglected state of his preserves) seemed unlikely, the North Riding might consider itself free from his contaminating presence for another year. It came, therefore, as a surprise to Venetia, serenely filling her basket with his blackberries, when she discovered that he was much nearer at hand than anyone had supposed. She had been making her way round the outskirts of the wood, and had paused to disentangle her dress from a particularly clinging trail of bramble when an amused voice said: “Oh, how full of briars is this working-day world!”

Startled, she turned her head, and found that she was being observed by a tall man mounted on a handsome gray horse. He was a stranger, but his voice and his habit proclaimed his condition, and it did not take her more than a very few moments to guess that she must be confronting the Wicked Baron. She regarded him with candid interest, unconsciously affording him an excellent view of her enchanting countenance. His brows rose, and he swung himself out of the saddle, and came towards her, with long, easy strides. She was unacquainted with any men of mode, but although he was dressed like any country gentleman a subtle difference hung about his buckskins and his coat of dandy gray russet. No provincial tailor had fashioned them, and no country beau could have worn them with such careless elegance. He was taller than Venetia had at first supposed, rather loose-limbed, and he bore himself with a faint suggestion of swashbuckling arrogance. As he advanced upon her Venetia perceived that he was dark, his countenance lean and rather swarthy, marked with lines of dissipation. A smile was curling his lips, but Venetia thought she had never seen eyes so cynically bored.

“Well, fair trespasser, you are justly served, aren’t you?” he said. “Stand still!”

She remained obediently motionless while he disentangled her skirt from the brambles. As he straightened himself, he said: “There you are! But I always exact a forfeit from those who rob me of my blackberries. Let me look at you!”

Before she had recovered from her astonishment at being addressed in such a style he had an arm round her, and with his free hand had pushed back her sunbonnet. In more anger than fright she tried to thrust him away, uttering a furious protest. He paid no heed at all; only his arm tightened round her, something that was not boredom gleamed in his eyes, and he ejaculated: “But beauty’s self she is ... !”

Venetia then found herself being ruthlessly kissed. Her cheeks much flushed, her eyes blazing, she fought strenuously to break free from a stronger hold than she had ever known, but her efforts only made Damerel laugh, and she owed her deliverance to Flurry. The spaniel, emerging from the undergrowth to find his mistress struggling in the arms of a stranger, was cast into great mental perturbation. Instinct urged him to fly to her rescue, but dimly understood precept forbade him to bite anything that walked on two legs. He tried compromise, barking hysterically. It did not answer, and instinct won the day.

Since Damerel was wearing topboots Flurry’s heroic assault drew no blood, but it did cause him to glance down at the spaniel, relaxing his hold on Venetia just enough to enable her to wrench herself away.

“Sit!” commanded Damerel.

Flurry, recognizing the voice of a Master, promptly abased himself, ears dipped, and tail deprecatingly wagging.

“What the devil do you mean by it, eh?” said Damerel, catching him by the lower jaw, and forcing up his head.

Flurry recognized that voice too, and, much relieved, did his best to explain that the regrettable incident had arisen from a misunderstanding. Venetia, who, instead of seizing the opportunity to run away, had been angrily re-tieing the strings of her sunbonnet, exclaimed: “Oh, have you no discrimination, you idiotic animal?”

Damerel, who was patting the repentant Flurry, looked up, his eyes narrowing.

“And as for you, sir,” said Venetia, meeting that searching stare with a flaming look, “your quotations don’t make your advances a whit more acceptable to me—and they don’t deceive me into thinking you anything but a pestilent, complete knave!”

He burst out laughing. “Bravo! Where did you find that?”

Venetia, who had suddenly remembered the rest of the quotation, replied: “If you don’t know, I certainly shan’t tell you. That phrase is apt enough, but the context won’t do.”

“Oho! My curiosity is now thoroughly roused! I recognize the hand, and see that I must carefully study my Shakespeare.”

“I should think you had seldom employed your time more worthily!”

“Who are you?” he demanded abruptly. “I took you for a village maiden—probably one of my tenants.”

“Did you indeed? Well, if that is the way you mean to conduct yourself amongst the village maidens you won’t win much liking here!”

“No, no, the danger is that I might win too much!” he retorted. “Who are you? Or should I first present myself to you? I’m Damerel, you know.”

“Yes, so I supposed, at the outset of our delightful acquaintance. Later, of course, I was sure of it.”

“Oh, oh—! My reputation, Iago, my reputation!” he exclaimed, laughing again. “Fair Fatality, you are the most unusual female I have encountered in all my thirty-eight years!”

“Yon can’t think how deeply flattered I am!” she assured him. “I daresay my head would be quite turned if I didn’t suspect that amongst so many a dozen or so may have slipped from your memory.”

“More like a hundred! Am I never to learn your name? I shall, you know, whether you tell me or no!”

“Without the least difficulty! I am very much better known in this country than you, for I’m a Lanyon of Undershaw!”

“Impressive! Undershaw? Oh, yes! your land marches with mine, doesn’t it? Are you in the habit of walking abroad quite unattended, Miss Lanyon?”

“Yes—except, of course, when I have had warning that you are at the Priory!”

“Spiteful little cat!” he said appreciatively. “How the devil was I to recognize Miss Lanyon of Undershaw in a crumpled gown and a sunbonnet, and without even the chaperonage of her maid?”

“Oh, am I to understand, then, that if you had known my quality you wouldn’t have molested me? How chivalrous!”

“No, no, I’m not chivalrous!” he said, mocking her. “The presence of your maid would have checkmated me, not your quality. I’m not complaining, but I wonder at such a little beauty’s venturing to roam about the country alone. Or don’t you know how beautiful you are?”

“Yes,” replied Venetia, taking the wind out of his sails. “Item, two lips, indifferent red—”

“Oh, no, you’re quite out, and have gone to the wrong poet besides! They look like rosebuds filled with snow!”

“Is that from Cherry-ripe?” she demanded. He nodded, much entertained by her suddenly intent look. Her eyes sparkled with triumph; she uttered a tiny gurgle of laughter; and retorted: “Then I know what comes next! Yet them no peer nor prince can buy, Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry! So let that be a lesson to you to take care what poets you choose!”

“But you’re enchanting!” he exclaimed.

She put out her hands quickly, to hold him off. “No!”

He caught her wrists, and swept them behind her, clipping them in the small of her back, and so holding her chest to chest. Her heart beat fast; she felt breathless, but not afraid.

“Yes!” he said, still mocking. “You should have run away, my golden girl, while you had the chance to do it!”

“I know I should, and I can’t think why I did not,” she replied, incurably candid.

“I could hazard a guess.”

She shook her head. “No. Not if you mean it was because I wanted you to kiss me again, for I don’t. I can’t prevent you, for my strength is so much less than yours. You needn’t even fear to be called to account for it. My brother is a schoolboy, and—very lame. Perhaps you already know that?”

“No, and I’m much obliged to you for telling me! I need have no scruples, I see.”

She looked up at him searchingly, trying to read his mind, for although he jeered she thought his voice had a bitter edge. Then, as she stared into his eyes she saw them smiling yet fierce, and a line of Byron’s flashed into her head: There was a laughing devil in his sneer. “Oh, do let me go!” she begged. “I’ve suddenly had the most diverting thought! Oh, dear! Poor Oswald!”

He was quite taken aback, as much by the genuine amusement in her face as by what she had said, and he did let her go. “You’ve suddenly had the most diverting thought?” he repeated blankly.

“Thank you!” said Venetia, giving her crushed dress a little shake. “Yes, indeed I have, though I daresay you might not think it a very good joke, but that’s because you don’t know Oswald.”

“Well, who the devil is he? Your brother?”

“Good God, no! He is Sir John Denny’s son, and the top of his desire is to be mistaken for the Corsair. He combs his hair into wild curls, knots silken handkerchiefs round his neck, and broods over the dark passions in his soul.”

“Does he, indeed? And what has this puppy to say to anything?”

She picked up her basket. “Only that if ever he meets you he will be quite green with jealousy, for you are precisely what he thinks he would like to be—even though you don’t study the picturesque in your attire.”

He looked thunderstruck for a moment, and ejaculated, “A Byronic hero—! Oh, my God! Why, you abominable—” He broke off, as a cock pheasant exploded out of the wood, and said irritably: “Must that worthless dog of yours make my birds as wild as be-damned?”