"Unwanted visitors," he said firmly as he removed the road dust from his person at the basin on the marble washstand. "A young woman, to be precise-or possibly three young women."

"Indeed, my lord." Gossett's voice expressed nothing but mild interest as he handed his master the towel.

"Yes, indeed. When-if-they arrive, they are to be received with the utmost discretion and directed to the vicarage...."

"To the vicarage, my lord?" The butler's eyebrows rose a good eighth of an inch.

"To the vicarage. Before her ladyship sees them. They are to be treated with respect, mind."

"Very good, my lord. Your shirt, my lord."

As Adam donned shirt, buckskins and a glossy pair of top boots, he realised that he must warn the Meades. However, his cheres amies were unlikely to arrive on his heels. He would wait until tomorrow, to give Sarah's dudgeon time to fade. Though she had in the end agreed to help him, he was aware she was hurt and angry. The knowledge that never again would he have her unqualified admiration disturbed him more than he was ready to admit.

As he tied his cravat, he made a deliberate effort to change his train of thought.

"I shall spend the afternoon in the estate office," he said. "Send a message to Mr. Brill to say that I should like to see him if he is not otherwise engaged. I am not to be disturbed by anyone else. Unless Miss Meade should call."

"Very good, my lord." Gossett sounded blander than ever.

Adam shot him a suspicious look and quickly added, "Or Mr. Meade. Or Lord Bradfield, I suppose."

"Very good, my lord," the butler repeated, and helped him into his coat.

CHAPTER FIVE.

"Here's the post, miss." Nellie skipped into the vicarage dining room, laid several letters on the breakfast table at Sarah's elbow, and beamed at her mistress.

"You are in good spirits this morning, Nell."

"Peter's axed me to walk out wi' him come Sunday, miss. Mrs. Hicks says as I can go if 'tis all right wi'

the reverend."

Jonathan raised his head from his book.

"Peter?" he asked.

"The groom from Cheve House who fetches the post from Amesbury," Sarah told him. "I believe he is a

respectable young man."

"Oh yes, sir, and ever so handsome."

Brother and sister exchanged smiles. "Yes, you may go," said Jonathan, "but do not wander beyond the

village street." "I bain't no Nan Wootton," said the maid indignantly. "You won't see my ap.r.o.n to my chin afore I've aring on me finger." "Handsome is as handsome does," warned Sarah. She picked up the letters. "Thank you, Nellie. Ask Mrs. Hicks to heat the soup now, if you please. I shall leave in a quarter of an hour. Jonathan, here is a letter from the Bishop, so do not return to your book."

"A letter! This is more like a volume!" The vicar weighed the package in his hand before opening it.

"Yes, it is fortunate that Lady Cheverell has Peter pay the postage as well as fetch the mail from the

receiving office, or your Bishop would bankrupt us." "He is a trifle verbose," her brother conceded. There was silence but for the rustle of paper as he perused the four sheets while Sarah read a short missive from a relative. "What it boils down to," he said at last, "is that he wants to see me in Salisbury tomorrow." Sarah set aside her letter. "You shall tell me about it later. I must be off, for I told Arthur to have Dapple ready at nine and Goody Newman's soup will grow cold." She kissed the top of his head in pa.s.sing and went to put on her bonnet.

The little pony was waiting between the gig's shafts when she stepped out of the front door. Mrs. Hicks carefully set the earthenware jar of soup on the floor, well wrapped in straw to keep it hot, and a basket of victuals beside it. Sarah took the reins from Arthur, stepped up into the light carriage, and was soon tooling down the village street, waving to her brother's parishioners.

Goody Newman lived in an isolated cottage a mile or so outside Little Fittleton. The widow of a shepherd, she had been an aged crone as long as Sarah could remember. The village children thought her a witch, and lovelorn youths went to her for potions to charm their sweethearts. She was a bad-tempered old woman, and visiting her was one of Sarah's least enjoyed parish duties.

She was just turning off the road to Cheve House onto a gra.s.sy track when Adam hailed her. Glad of company, she was more cordial than she might otherwise have been.

"Good morning," she responded as he rode up beside the gig. "You are out and about early for a town buck."

"I was coming to see you. Don't tell me you are off to call on the wicked witch?"

"You must not call her that, Adam. You are not a child any longer. Do you remember how frightened of her we used to be?"

"Yes. Jonathan dared me to knock on her door and run away, and I would not do it."

"It must have been the only dare you did not accept. I am a brave woman now and am taking her some soup. Will you come with me?"

"Do I hear a plea in your voice? I think you are as bold as a dunghill c.o.c.k."

"All crow and no fight? Gammon. She is harmless despite her sharp tongue. However, you could charm a crow from the tree, so if you set your mind to it, you will have her eating from the palm of your hand."

"A revolting mixed metaphor, and I do not take it kindly that you think my charm is to be turned on and off at will. Stop a moment while I hitch Caesar on behind. I shall sit with you so that you need not crane your neck."

She reined in Dapple. "Mind you do not put your foot in the soup," she advised as he jumped up beside her. "It would ruin the polish of your boot."

"I am willing to risk that dreadful fate for the opportunity of being driven in this dashing vehicle by so notable a whip."

Dapple trotted on while Caesar, with his longer stride, walked behind, snorting in disgust.

"Now you are trying to charm the c.o.c.k from the dunghill, are you?" Sarah asked, smiling. She was still put out with him but he was irresistible in this teasing humour.

"I should not dare." They rounded a bend and the widow's cottage stood before them. He frowned at the sight. "It needs rethatching. I shall send some men over with barley-straw as soon as the harvest is over."

"The roof does look ragged. I had not noticed." If she could not remain aloof from his teasing, his consideration for a useless old woman was still more difficult to ignore. "Here, you take the basket, for you are certain to spill the soup."

"Do you think me so clumsy?" His tone was light, but she heard a double meaning in his words and avoided his eye.

"No," she said. "I trust you to knock on the door without dropping the basket."

"And without running away," he added, suiting action to the words.

While she tidied the cottage's single room, not an arduous task as Lady Cheverell paid a village woman to come in once a week to clean, Sarah listened to Adam bewitching the witch. He coaxed Goody Newman into admitting that the soup was delicious, the weather excellent, and Sarah a pretty and kind young lady. Since the crone usually complained that the soup was tasteless, swore that the weather, however warm, was bad for her bones, and twitted Sarah on being an ape leader, this was a miracle indeed.

Sarah was both amused and disgusted at how easily it was accomplished. She recognized herself in Goody Newman, another victim of the viscount's charm.

"Well?" he challenged as Dapple pulled them willingly back along the track. "Did I pa.s.s the test?"

"You exerted yourself to please," she accused him.

"Should I have exerted myself to offend? She might have turned us into black beetles."

"Surely Prince Charming is always turned into a frog?"

"I should not mind in the least, if I could guarantee that it would be you who turned me back again."

Sarah felt her cheeks grow hot. She shook the reins, surprising Dapple into a canter for a few yards. Adam clutched at the side of the gig in exaggerated terror. His colour, too, was considerably heightened. Sarah supposed he must be embarra.s.sed to be caught flirting with the vicar's sister.

She turned the talk to parish matters which he, as landlord, ought to be conversant with. There was a hint of constraint between them.

When they reached the vicarage he helped her down from the carriage. Arthur came to take charge of Dapple and Caesar. Sarah was about to step through the open front door when Adam's hand on her arm stopped her.

He looked down at her, his blue eyes serious. "Have I offended you?" he asked.

"Don't talk such fustian," she said gaily, fixing her gaze on his waistcoat b.u.t.tons. "I am no schoolroom miss. Come in. Jonathan will be pleased to see you."

Adam followed her into the hall, feeling like a singularly clumsy frog. Sarah was his friend, not one of the flirtatious debutantes regularly flung at his head by matchmaking mamas. He had already lost her good opinion; if he did not watch his step he would lose her friendship, too. In a sombre mood he joined Jonathan in the study while Sarah went up to put off her bonnet. They discussed the parish business Sarah had broached, until she looked in to ask if he would care to stay to luncheon. Her tone was reserved. Adam hesitated, for the first time in his life uncertain of his welcome in this house. He suddenly recalled the original purpose of his visit.

"Do stay," urged Jonathan, "unless her ladyship is particularly expecting you."

"Thank you, I will. Though you may regret your invitation when I tell you what I have done."

"Nothing you have done could make me regret your company," said the vicar gently.

Sarah was regarding Adam with a wary expression. However, she turned back to the hall and called,

"Nellie, tell Mrs. Hicks his lordship will stay to luncheon."

Then she stepped into the study, closed the door firmly behind her, and took a seat close to her brother. They both looked at their guest expectantly. Adam rarely found himself at a loss for words, but now he fumbled for an explanation. How could he have thought to send his lightskirts to the vicarage? He did not want his mother to see them, yet he had been ready to insult Sarah with their presence. His thoughtlessness was inexcusable.

"Perhaps Sarah had best leave," suggested Jonathan. Adam grimaced, studying his linked hands. "No," he said wryly, "let her know the worst of me." He explained his instructions to his butler. "It was presumptuous of me," he admitted. "My wits must have gone begging. I shall have Gossett direct them to the George at Amesbury and tell them I shall join them there in due course."

He looked up. Jonathan was grinning at him in open amus.e.m.e.nt. "Your wits have gone begging for trouble," he said. "Surely it is not at all likely that they will come all this way after you, instead of awaiting your return. They must know that you will not abandon them." "Perhaps they have less faith in Adam than you do, Jonathan," his sister pointed out, with a voice and expression devoid of feeling. "Be that as it may, if they do come it would be unkind to make them go all the way back to Amesbury without any certainty of a.s.sistance. Let them come here and I shall do what I can for them."

"You ought to be outraged at my effrontery," said Adam softly.

"Much good that would do. Besides, they are no worse than poor Nan Wootton, and no more

deserving of my indifference. Pray excuse me. I must go and help Mrs. Hicks."

The gentlemen rose. Adam's gaze followed Sarah as she left the room, dignity and grace in every line of

her slender figure. There was a curious lump in his throat. He turned to find Jonathan watching him.

"She is a remarkable woman, my sister, is she not?" the vicar observed.

The viscount nodded, momentarily unable to speak.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Hicks was stirring a custard when Sarah arrived.

"His lordship allus liked a gooseberry fool, as I recall," she said. "I sent Nellie to pick the berries, though I'll have to throw half on 'em out, I make no doubt, for she'll pick the ripe wi' the green and see no difference."

"I'll go and help her, unless there is something else you'd prefer me to do."

"Nay, off wi' you, Miss Sarah, and send the good-for-nothing back here to chop onions. I'm making mutton pasties wi' the leavin's o' leg, and there's some o' Goody Newman's soup left, and a nice pair o' trout I were saving to the reverend's dinner."

"Of course his lordship's superior claim to the trout is indisputable," Sarah commented wryly.

"That Peter bought 'em in Amesbury just this morning. Caught fresh yesterday in the Avon, they was."

"Currying favour with Nellie, is he? How useful it is to have a pretty maidservant."

"Currying favour wi' me, more like, so's I'll put in a good word for him wi' the master."

Sarah laughed, and went off down the garden. It was warm and peaceful among the gooseberry bushes, with bees humming mightily around the red and blackcurrant blossom nearby. She would have liked to dawdle, letting the sun bake out her irritable dissatisfaction even if it scattered freckles on her nose, but the fuzzy berries must be cooked and it was already near noon. That wretched man! Here was Mrs. Hicks scurrying to make his favourite dish even though she had probably not pa.s.sed more than three words with him in a decade!

At least he had the grace to acknowledge that his behaviour was dastardly.

Mrs. Hicks, pink-cheeked from the heat of the oven and the compliments on her trout with green peas, had carried in the crisp, golden mutton pasties when Adam mentioned his mother's house party.

"She and the girls are in league to marry me off," he said, laughing. "Louise and Mary and Eliza are each to bring an eligible maiden for me to choose among."

"Must you select just one?" asked Sarah sharply. "I wonder you do not mean to wed them all, like a Mussulman. But they are allowed four wives, are they not, as well as any number of concubines. Jane will have to find you another."