‘Good morning. Is your mistress at home?’ Parrott had reported a woman arriving alone, save for a groom. Presumably he would be dealing with a widow.

Something he could have sworn was mischief flashed into the maid’s eyes and was gone. Her voice emerged in a whisper. ‘No, sir. Leastways, she’s not receiving, sir.’ She appeared to pull herself together a little. ‘Would you be wishful of leaving a message, sir?’

Guy extracted a card and held it out. A remarkably delicate hand, the knuckles smeared with cobwebs, took it. ‘Will your mistress be at home tomorrow?’

‘Er, yes, sir… my lord, I should say.’

This was hard work. Was this brown-eyed girl afraid of him or just naturally shy? He tried a smile and saw her eyes widen a little. He entertained the sudden fancy that her thoughts showed in her eyes, but in a language he could not read. ‘And at what time might it be convenient for her to receive me, do you think?’

‘Three o’clock.’ That was unexpectedly decisive, especially as it was not the conventional time of day to receive visitors.

‘Very well, then. Please tell your mistress that I will do myself the honour of calling upon her at three tomorrow. Good day.’

‘Yes, my lord. Um… good day, my lord.’ There was the merest suggestion of a smile on that solemn mouth. It made the swell of the lower lip seem almost pouting.

The door swung shut before he had half-turned on the step. Guy walked slowly back down the overgrown path. A quaint little creature, that maid. Fetching brown eyes and the piquancy of that solemn mouth-it would be interesting to make her smile again. He shook himself briskly and quickened his pace. This would never do-two days in the sticks and he was already eyeing the servant girls. He would take the curricle and the new greys out this afternoon and give himself something to think about other than the Moon House and its present occupants.