Sarah swallowed her renewed apology and watched with interest as the viscount began to pace restlessly from end to end of the small room.

"You see, there were three, ahem, ladies already in the house."

"Ahem, ladies?" wondered Sarah, eyebrows raised.

Adam hurried on. "They had all come to me for help, but they were unaware of each other's presence. When Nan arrived they all met in the hall and there was something of an explosion. That's beside the point, though. I'd like you to suggest how I can help them with the problems they had come to see me about."

Intrigued, she nodded. "Tell me. Only do for heaven s sake sit down, Adam. I shall go mad if you step on that squeaky board one more time."

He dropped into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. The vagrant lock flopped back over his brow.

"Well there's Ja-Mrs. Goudge. Her husband is a cit, an India nabob, rich enough to buy an abbey. He's been in the East for the past couple of years and she expected him back any day. Then she heard that his ship was sunk."

"Poor woman! She must be altogether overset. But I do not quite see why she came to you. Perhaps you have business dealings with Mr. Goudge?"

Though Adam was sitting with his back to the window, Sarah saw a slight flush redden his cheeks. She was amused by his embarra.s.sment at being suspected of engaging in trade with a cit. She came to his rescue.

"I daresay she ought to see his lawyer first. Is it certain that the ship was sunk? And that he was on it? Perhaps you ought to enquire further."

"That is an excellent idea!" He seized on her words. "It may be all a hum. Your advice is always good, Sarah."

"But you will need to return to London to a.s.sist Mrs. Goudge," she pointed out. "What of the others?"

"Others? Oh, yes, well ... There's Marguerite. She is a singer. The theatre manager promised her the part of the heroine in a new opera, and then gave it to someone else."

"An opera singer? Why should she suppose that you could do anything for her?" Sarah bit her lip as unwelcome suspicions flitted through her mind. "And why should you suppose that I know anything of actresses and theatres?"

Adam seemed to be struggling to find an acceptable explanation. He gave up.

"You are quite right, m'dear, it was chuckleheaded of me to expect it. I have come to rely too much upon you and Jonathan."

Sarah, sitting bolt upright with her chin raised, fixed him with a steely eye.

"And what of the third, ahem, lady?" she enquired in a determined voice.

"I scarcely think..."

"Tell me, Adam!"

The look he gave her was cool, a.s.sessing. She reminded herself that she had no right to judge him, that as well as a friend he was a wealthy young n.o.bleman. And wealthy young n.o.blemen kept mistresses. She had thought him different; she was wrong.

"Perhaps I can help her," she said quietly.

"It's a common story. Peggy is a country girl who went to London to make her fortune. As happens more often than not, she fell into bad company, and no, Sarah, I do not refer to myself. The carriers' carts are met by charming elderly ladies who offer their a.s.sistance to the bewildered innocents while they are seeking a position. The only position they find is in a locked room in a brothel, until they resign themselves to the life. Peggy did not resign herself. She ran away. I came across her crouched in a back alley near Seven Dials with the abbess standing over her wielding a horsewhip."

Sarah winced at the image he evoked, but said nothing. His hard voice softened.

"Yes, I took her under my protection. Yes, she has been my ... what euphemism do you prefer? ... my chere amie, shall we say. What other future was there for her? She is a grateful girl, and considers me something of a hero," he added wryly. "But now her country sweetheart has discovered her whereabouts and he is after my blood!"

"And you, of course, are terrified!" Sarah attempted a rallying tone. "After the tales Jonathan has told me about your prowess at Manton's Shooting Gallery and Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon! I daresay you can defend yourself, Adam, while I think what is best to be done with your Peggy."

He rose to his feet and took both her hands in his.

"Thank you. I was right to count on you. And now I must be off to Cheve House to see what Jane and my mother have cooked up between them to keep me busy. May I call tomorrow?"

"I shall try to have a suggestion for you by then."

She disengaged her hands and stood up, avoiding his eyes. In the narrow front hall they found Jonathan chatting with Miss Barnes, an elderly parishioner. The viscount paused to greet the sharp-faced old maid, bowing over her hand, and as Sarah escaped up the stair she heard her fluttering response to his easy charm.

She was furious, whether more with herself or with Adam she did not know. What a peagoose she had been to suppose that he was untouched by the common dissipations of his s.e.x and cla.s.s. She had seen only his friendliness, his kindness to those in need, his lack of arrogance. Not for a moment had she guessed at the rakish disposition hidden beneath, and surely a man who kept three mistresses at once might be called a rake.

She went into her chamber, a small, sunny room that faced the ancient stone church. Kicking off her shoes, she curled up in a shabby but comfortable chair by the window. Adam was a whited sepulcher, she mused, gazing out at the tombstones in the churchyard, fair without and tainted within. Her ready sense of humour came to the fore and she giggled at the thought. Besides, it was not quite just. His good works were not to be despised only because he was not a pattern-card of perfection. Nor must she allow her disillusionment to interfere with accepting his aid for her school.

A delicious aroma of frying onions wafted up from the kitchen below, and Sarah decided to go and see whether Mrs. Hicks needed any help with dinner. Though Nellie was good at dusting and polishing, somehow whenever she entered the kitchen something broke or burned.

Her mind on domestic matters, Sarah started when Jonathan called to her as she pa.s.sed the study door.

"Have you a moment to spare, my dear?" he asked with his habitual courtesy.

"I daresay Mrs. Hicks will manage without me. What is it?"

The vicar tugged at his clerical collar as if it were suddenly too tight.

"I ... ah," he began hesitantly, "I wondered whether you had any suggestions for Adam. I was not able to talk to him because of Miss Barnes."

Hands on hips, his sister looked at him with dawning comprehension.

"I believe you did it on purpose," she accused.

"I? On purpose? What?" he enquired in apparent bewilderment, but his cheeks were pink and he did not meet her eyes.

"Jonathan, you did! Adam would never have told me that farrago had you not urged him to it. But why?"

"Do stop towering over me like an avenging fury, he begged. "Sit down. Yes, I did persuade Adam to tell you about his lady friends."

"Have I misunderstood?" She sank into a chair. "Are they not his bits of muslin?"

"Wherever did you learn such a vulgar phrase, Sarah!" The vicar took the offensive.

She blushed, but persisted. "Are they?"

"I'm afraid you are right; they are."

"I believe you have known forever that he had mistresses in keeping! You were not surprised in the least. And now I recall that you hinted he had need of sermons on subjects other than charity. Only I still do not see why you had him tell me."

"I daresay I have been blind," he said ruefully. "For some reason everything came together in my mind today. Just yesterday, talking of Nan Wootton and your school and Adam's charities, I was struck by your excessively high opinion of him. You thought him a paragon, and no man can aspire to perfection. I knew you were bound to be disillusioned sooner or later. And then, today, when he drove you home-my dear, your happy face and the way you looked at him ... I was afraid you had fallen in love with him. He is the best of friends to us both, but he is also a member of the aristocracy, with his position to consider. Nor do I think he has the least interest in marriage, even to one of his own cla.s.s."

"Marriage!" Sarah rose to her feet, her dignity marred by the martial light in her eye. "I would not marry Lord Cheverell if he were the last man on earth!"

CHAPTER FOUR.

The village of Little Fittleton, with its thatched flint-and-stone cottages, lay somnolent under the noonday sun as Adam drove down its single street. The few people he pa.s.sed smiled as they curtsied or doffed their caps to their landlord. Though rarely at home, he had a good bailiff, and any problems reported to him received his prompt attention. Besides, who could resist the dashing young lord who had run wild about the neighbourhood as a boy and still spoke in the friendliest way to the least of his tenants?

Adam noted with satisfaction that the barley stood tall in the fields, the hairy heads already beginning to bend. A good harvest meant work for all. Most of his wealth came from the sheep on the hills, which offered little employment except at shearing time, but it was a small village and with the Meades to guide him, he made sure no one suffered for lack of work.

He breathed deep of the fresh, clean air and wondered again why he spent so much time in town.

He topped a rise and Cheve House stood before him. The facade of golden Portland stone welcomed him with memories of his youth. He and Jonathan had often ridden the stone lions on either side of the front door, and there to the north was the larch plantation where Sarah had had to be helped down from the top of the tallest tree.

He was grinning as he handed the reins to a groom, and his hat to the butler. His grin lasted until he stepped into the morning room.

"Adam! At last." His mother came to meet him with a worried face, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Jane threw a priceless Ping vase at Bradfield and he said he will never forgive her. Or do I mean Ling?"

"Ming, Mama."

Behind her, his sister burst into torrents of tears. "What shall I do, Adam?" she wailed.

"Choose the Sevres next time," he advised callously. "You ought to know by now how your husband feels about Chinese porcelain."

"There will not be a next time. He has vowed never to speak to me again. I shall kill myself."

Lady Cheverell rushed to her daughter's side. "You must not say such things, Jane. Adam will go and have a word with Bradfield and straighten matters out between you. There, there, my love."

Jane looked up at Adam with hope in her swimming blue eyes.

"No, really, Mama!" he objected. "I have just arrived and now you want me to dash off to Cheshire. Bradfield will chase down here after her as soon as he gets over his pique and we'd pa.s.s on the road, just like last time. I shall wait here until he arrives."

"You unfeeling brute," wept Jane. "I had thought better of you."

Adam had had enough. "I'm tired of being wept at!" he exploded. "Sarah Meade is the only female I know who never enacts me a Cheltenham tragedy."

"You always did like Sarah better than the rest of us," sniffed his sister sulkily.

Lady Cheverell was stunned by his outburst. "Sarah Meade is an exceptional person," she offered in a timid voice.

Her tone reminded him of the way she used to speak to his father when the late viscount was indulging in one of his frequent fits of ill humour. Overcome with remorse, he picked her up and hugged her till she squeaked. She was a tiny woman, always overshadowed by her tall offspring, and now she felt more fragile than ever in his arms.

"I beg your pardon, Mama." He set her down on a brocaded sofa and sat beside her. She reached up to brush back his vagrant lock of hair. "Of course I shall talk to Bradfield, and even go after him if he does not turn up in a couple of days. By the way, Jane, why did you throw the wretched thing in the first place?" "He insists on calling our firstborn Cyril, after his father, and I cannot abide the name. I am going upstairs to rest." With an air of offended dignity, Lady Bradfield flounced out of the room.

"More hair than wit," snorted her brother. "Oh, Lord, is she breeding at last? You should have told me. I never would have shouted at her like that. I shall have to apologize." "It was most unlike you, dear. You have always been amazingly patient with your sisters, and I know they can be trying at times. It is quite a relief to me to have married them all off successfully at last." "Is successfully the correct word?" "Jane is really very fond of Bradfield. I daresay she will settle down when she has children to care for.

She always did grow crotchety when she was bored. But what has thrown you in the hips, Adam?" "Perhaps I am bored, too," he responded lightly. A gleam entered his mother's eye. "Then I shall recommend the same remedy," she said with unwonted firmness. "It is time you found yourself a bride and set up your nursery." "Dash it, Mama, I am only twenty-seven, much too young to be leg-shackled. I have years ahead of me before I need worry about producing an heir." "Yes, dear, but it is you I am concerned about, not your hypercritical heir." "Hypothetical," he murmured. "I should so like to see you settled, with a family of your own. Perhaps you would spend more time here at Cheve if you had a wife and children," her ladyship said wistfully. "I am the most selfish beast in nature! Of course, you must be lonely here with all the girls gone." Once again Adam was filled with remorse. "I had not realized it, but now I know, I shall make a point of coming down more often." "I did not mean to complain, Adam. Sarah visits me often, and dear Jonathan too, but you know how few close neighbours we have." "Yes, it is an isolated spot." She pressed her advantage. "And if I had a daughter-in-law living with me, then I should never be lonely, however much time you spent in London." "Lord, Mama, that is not the kind of marriage I want! I do not mean to leave my wife languishing in the country while I disport myself in town, as my father did." Lady Cheverell pounced. "Then you will look about you for a bride? It is the dearest wish of my heart." "It seems I have talked myself into a corner." He smiled down at her ruefully. "I shall look about me." "Have you no one in mind?"

"No, but it should not prove too onerous a task. Every Season brings a new crop of delightful young ladies."

"The next Season is nine months away!"

"I am quite content to wait. Surely you do not expect me to make the rounds of all the great houses of Britain in search of love in the meantime?"

"I thought we might have a house party. Your sisters are coming; and they will each be bringing an eligible young lady. Except poor Jane, of course."

"You are a complete hand, Mama! You have been planning this for weeks, at least. Is Jane's trouble only a ruse to bring me here?"

"Certainly not! I cannot deny that I have been making plans, but I did not set a date. Only since you are here already, would this not be a good moment? The girls are all prepared to be here within the week."

"If you insist." Adam sighed in resignation. "I cannot promise to marry any of my sisters' choices, though. I dread to think what sort of young ladies they will consider suitable matches for me."

"Of course you must not marry where you do not feel a decided attachment."

These words brought to Adam's mind three females to whom he had been attached, and who awaited his a.s.sistance in London. "I shall have to go back to town for a few days," he warned.

"Will you be able to return by a week tomorrow?"

"That depends on your son-in-law, since I have offered to speak to him when he arrives. Jane has been here for three days? I look to see Bradfield appear today, or tomorrow at the latest. Give me ten days and I engage to be here to greet your guests. You will not object if I bring a couple of friends back from London to support me through this ordeal?"

"Pray do not think of it as an ordeal, Adam, or I shall cancel the whole thing."

He brightened, then his mother's anxious face stiffened his resolve. "I daresay it will be an enjoyable party, and at least it will be pleasant to see Mary and Eliza and Louise. I must go and change out of my dirt now, before I can join you for luncheon. I am devilish sharp-set so I shall not keep you waiting."

As he made his way up the wide, curving stairway, he was struck by a horrid thought. The earliest he could reach London, if he left at first light tomorrow, was late tomorrow evening. Janet, Marguerite and Peggy would have heard nothing from him for three days. He could not imagine what had possessed him to leave them without definite word of his return, and it seemed all too likely that they might decide to follow him into Wiltshire. The possibility of their coming face-to-face with her ladyship was too dreadful to contemplate.

"Gossett!" he bellowed, pausing halfway up the stairs.

A footman who was crossing the hall looked at him in astonishment and broke into a run. A few moments later the butler appeared, hurriedly removing his baize ap.r.o.n.

"Your lordship called?" he enquired, as imperturbable as his brother in London.

"Yes. I must speak to you privately at once, and I need to change. Come up to my chamber with me."

"At once, my lord." Gossett handed his ap.r.o.n to the footman who had fetched him. "Hot water for his lordship immediately," he ordered, then trod in stately fashion up the stairs, no twitch of an eyebrow revealing the least curiosity about this unusual request.

Adam's suite was always kept in a state of readiness since his rare visits were frequently unannounced. The high-ceilinged, airy bedchamber with its huge, Jacobean four-poster, had a lady's boudoir, presently unused, opening off one side, and a gentleman's dressing room off the other. To this latter the viscount now repaired.

He shrugged out of his coat while Gossett, used to his arrival without Wrigley, removed from his wardrobe the garments appropriate to an afternoon in the country.

"Your lordship wished to say?" the butler prompted.

"I am expecting-well, half-expecting-some visitors." Adam wondered how much his London Gossett had revealed to this country Gossett about their master's life of dissipation in town. He pulled off his cravat and unb.u.t.toned his shirt.

"Indeed, my lord?"

A momentary reprieve appeared in the form of a footman bearing a jug of hot water. He was pressed into service to remove his lordship's boots, a task far beneath the dignity of a butler. By the time he left with an armful of soiled clothing and the boots to be polished, Adam had gathered his thoughts.