She twisted and jiggled and jumped up and down. Perhaps she was an opera dancer rather than an actress? The gelding caught sight of her and rolled its eyes nervously. What a pity Miles, in a most unexpectedly well-behaved manner, was observing her orders rather than her undulating quivers.

Nerissa stopped and stood still with an intent expression. "I can't feel the horrid thing moving now. I do believe it's gone."

"Congratulations. Shall I...."

"Keep your back turned!" She retied the ribbons, straightened her bodice, smoothed her skirts. "There, I'm decent. Oh, bother, my plait has come undone. I knew I should have pinned it up."

About her shoulders flowed a rippling cape of light brown hair, touched with shimmers of pure gold by

the rising sun. Miles's eyes widened in admiration.

Self-conscious, she gathered it back from her face with both hands. As she raised her arms, her breasts pressed against the fabric of her gown and Miles's admiring gaze slipped down from the cloud of sunlit hair.

On the whole, Sir Barnabas was satisfied with the effects of his spider ploy.

Nerissa let her hair drop. "I haven't anything to tie it up with," she said helplessly. "I cannot walk into the manor with it hanging loose. Everyone will be about by now."

"Your cloak will hide it." Looping the reins over his arm, he held out the drab grey garment for her to don.

"Of course. I'd forgot I had it with me."

An excellent disguise, thought Sir Barnabas as she pulled it around her shoulders and raised the hood. No one seeing that dingy drapery would guess it concealed a Bird of Paradise. He'd be interested to see what sort of indecent, vulgarly garish apparel she appeared in when Harwood gave her a free hand to purchase whatever she wished. She'd never have the strength to resist, he was sure, even for the sake of keeping up the image she wished to convey.

Miles's thoughts were also on a new wardrobe for Nerissa. He had taken an intense dislike to the shabby cloak, which seemed to eclipse her personality as well as her figure. Not that her gowns were much better. Those he had seen hung on her like sacks. Assuming she had made them herself, her sewing might be appropriate for theatrical costumes but she'd never make a living as a fashionable modiste.

She had said she hated sewing, he recalled. He hoped she'd find life at Addlescombe more to her liking, despite her unpleasant relatives.

"Are you going on," he asked, "or has your encounter with the wildlife given you a disgust of the country?"

"Not at all." She smiled. "At least it didn't bite me, and the blackberries were some compensation. I should like to explore farther, but I'm unaccustomed to walking far so I had best turn back now. I mean to walk every day until I can go all the way to the tops of the hills without difficulty. There must be marvellous views."

"There are. That's where I'm headed. But you could go much farther afield if you rode. I daresay we can find a mount to suit you in the stables-or did you not bring a riding habit with you?"

"I've never had one. I've never had a chance to learn to ride," she said wistfully.

"What a shocking deficiency in your education!" he teased. "It's time it was remedied. Your lessons will begin as soon as you can have a habit made."

"Really?" Her face glowed, her wonderful eyes bright as stars. "You will teach me? You are doing so much for me already."

"Since I am your grandfather's godson, I consider myself your god-uncle, or something of the sort. I've no idea what are the duties of a god-uncle, so I am at liberty to invent them as I go along."

Nerissa laughed. "Thus far, your invention meets with my unqualified approval," she said. "Well, I must not keep you any longer from your ride, uncle."

"Don't call me uncle or I'll abdicate the role," he threatened with a grin. "I'll be on my way, then. I look forward to the time when you will accompany me."

Mounting, he waved a salute and turned the roan's head towards the far side of the field.

A trot, a canter, a gallop, and they sailed over the five-barred gate. He leaned forward to pat his mount's neck. A prime bit of blood he was, one of Matilda Philpott's two hunters, though belonging to the estate, not to her personally, or he'd not have brought him out. There was a fine hack, too, which she rode, and an ambling prad used by Raymond Reece about his parish duties.

None of the others rode, and the only other saddle-horse was an elderly mare put out to grass when Sir Barnabas had to give up riding. She would do admirably for Nerissa's lessons.

He was glad Nerissa wanted to ride, and that the creature falling down her gown had not made her take the countryside in aversion. How he had managed to refrain from turning his head when she was disposing of it, he wasn't at all sure! He'd been rewarded, when she held back her hair, by a glimpse of a figure far more shapely than the hideous cut of her gowns had hitherto revealed. Her hair, too, had been a revelation, the sun's touch transforming the ordinary brown into sunshine.

Yet what he recalled most clearly was a slim hand stained reddish-purple with blackberry juice, and the guilty way she had hidden it behind her when she saw him. He smiled to himself.

Sir Barnabas was also glad Nerissa wanted to ride. Miles would be helping her to mount, lifting her down, picking her up when she fell. Nothing could be more conducive to intimacy, he thought, drifting homeward behind her.

Later they would ride together, though, beyond his reach, for he wasn't going to try to keep up with a horse ever again. Still, winter was coming. They'd not get up to much mischief out of doors. He congratulated himself on being clever enough to die in the autumn.

He blinked as his vision blurred. A lingering patch of mist? No, he could see quite well to either side.

He recalled his sight blurring as he died, before he reopened his eyes on his new existence. Never say he was going to leave this spectral state before he saw his last wishes carried out! He blinked again, hard.

Something dangled just before his face. Squinting, he focussed on it. A spider? The ghost of a spider! The reproachful gaze of eight eyes told him as clearly as words that the unfortunate arachnid blamed him for its demise, squashed to death somewhere in Nerissa's undergarments.

Being haunted by a spider was peculiarly disconcerting, especially as he was a ghost himself. He hit out at it.

His hand went right through it. Though, with an effort, he was able to move material objects, it seemed to be impossible for a ghost to move a ghost. He turned his head to one side. The spider, its palps twitching, still hung two inches in front of his nose.

Slowly it began to swing back and forth, a handsbreadth this way, a handsbreadth the other, constructing an invisible web.

Sir Barnabas arrived back at the manor an hour later, dizzy, cross-eyed, and in a frightful temper.

Chapter 8.

Washed, dressed in her blue-striped dimity, and with her hair properly pinned up, Nerissa went down to the breakfast room. Despite her unwonted exercise she was not particularly hungry after her bread-and-butter and blackberries, but she was ready for a cup of tea.

She was also ready to face the family. Yesterday's fatigue forgotten, invigorated by the walk, she was ashamed of the way she had let their unfriendliness intimidate her.

Nonetheless, she rather hoped to find Miles in the breakfast room before her.

No one was there but Raymond Reece. He jumped to his feet, bidding her "Good morning," and bustled around the table to seat her opposite himself. Nerissa almost laughed aloud. Had not Miles declared that the parson would be the first to see where his best interests lay?

"Tea, if you please, sir," she said in answer to his query, "and those apples look delicious."

"Permit me to peel it for you, ma'am. But come, you must call me Cousin Raymond, for that is our relation, is it not? 'Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.'" He smiled as he set a cup of tea before her and picked up a fruit knife, but his eyes were coolly assessing.

She politely accepted the apple he peeled and quartered. Desperately seeking a subject of conversation that could not possibly lead to either the theatre or her inheritance, she asked him about his parish.

Somewhat to her surprise, he seemed well acquainted with all his parishioners and their trials and tribulations. Indeed, he described them to her in what she considered quite unnecessary detail. Gammer Smithson had lost all her teeth and could only eat sops; Ted Carter's feckless wife was expecting her ninth though she couldn't clothe the first eight; Jos Bedford invariably drank up all his wages at the village tavern, which rejoiced in the name of the Addled Egg; Old Amos, who had lost his leg at Trafalgar, suffered from dreadful rheumaticks in wet weather....

"Of course," said Cousin Raymond, regarding Nerissa with obvious pessimism and a hint of malice, "as the lady of the Manor, you will wish to do what you can to alleviate their troubles and to encourage them to remedy their ways. Aunt Jane, I fear, has not been as active in this regard as one might hope."

"I-I will do my best," Nerissa stammered.How many things there were to learn! In this matter, alas, Miles was unlikely to be knowledgeable. Nonetheless, she turned to him with relief when he came into the breakfast room as she sipped the last of her tea.

"Did you enjoy your ride?"

"Splendid!" His colour high from the fresh air and exercise, he looked less dissipated and debauched than ever. "Whatever her faults, your cousin Matilda is a good judge of horseflesh, and-"

"You've been riding Samson!" Matilda burst into the room on Miles's heels and glared at him accusingly. Her skinny figure in a severely practical brown habit quivered with fury.

"Yes." He continued calmly to the sideboard and peered under the silver covers of the chafing dishes. "You were out on Grandee and I don't believe Hippolyta is quite up to my weight. Aha, sausages."

Matilda scowled. "Hippolyta is a superb hack."

"Without a doubt," Miles soothed her as he piled high a plate. "But I ride at eleven stone and you can't be more than nine."

"Eight and a half," she admitted grudgingly. "What do you think of Samson?"

"Magnificent."

Thereafter, the dialogue deteriorated to a discussion of blood lines, well-sprung ribs, length of bone, sloping shoulders, and let-down hocks. The Reverend Raymond departed, with an expressive grimace at Nerissa, and she soon followed. Miles raised his hand in a negligent wave as she left.

Feeling lost and rather forlorn, she wondered what she ought to be doing. Mrs Hibbert had said something about menus, but Nerissa had been too anxious and bewildered to take it in properly. Someone had to decide what the household was to eat each day, she supposed. Was she expected to prepare a menu, or merely to approve it? Should she consult Cook or the housekeeper? She shuddered at the thought of offending either.

Perhaps Miles knew the answers, but she didn't want to display her ignorance before Matilda. As she hesitated outside the breakfast-room door, Miss Sophie came trotting towards her, her dove-grey gown swinging about her ankles. She waved a piece of paper with an anxious air.

"Good morning, dear. I am so glad to have found you, for whatever Effie says I am sure you are the one to decide upon the menu now."

"I was just wondering, Cousin Sophie. Mrs Chidwell is accustomed to write it out?"

"Oh no, dear. Each evening she tells me what to put down for the next day and I write it in the morning, only I fear I frequently forget precisely what she has said. And then, Cousin Jane sometimes insists on having her say, and so often Effie wants something the gardens cannot supply. She says Tredgarth, the head gardener, is monstrous disobliging, but of course the poor man cannot grow what is not in season, can he?"

"I imagine not," Nerissa agreed, smiling.

"I must say he sometimes becomes quite alarmingly grumpy, but it is all right in the end. He and Cook pay Effie's scolding no mind, and I am quite used to it."

"Well, I shall take the blame in future, if you will be so kind as to help me at first."

Miss Sophie beamed. "Certainly, dear, for Effie is still abed. We shall be quite peaceful in the morning room." She led the way into a small, sunny sitting room, decorated in peach and white with flowered chintz upholstery.

Nerissa very soon decided that whatever she did could only be an improvement on Miss Sophie's muddle-headed efforts. Cook must have been struggling for years to make head or tail of menus full of crossings-out and changes and question-marks. With renewed confidence, she thanked her elderly cousin and went off to find Mr Tredgarth.

It seemed reasonable to her to discover which fruits and vegetables were available before deciding what dishes to order.

As she wandered through one of the walled kitchen gardens, between neat beds of onions, carrots, Brussels sprouts, and cauliflowers, Miles joined her. "You should have sent for Tredgarth," he reproved her.

"I knew you would say that. I wanted to see the gardens for myself. Miles, there are no flowers anywhere!"

"I daresay it's too late in the year."

"Nonsense. When I left York the gardens were full of Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums, oh, and autumn crocus and asters, too. Even a few roses. We are much farther south here. I haven't even seen any rose bushes."

"I don't know anything about flowers," he said dismissively.

"You seem to know a great deal about horses," she snapped. "You and Matilda were getting on like a house on fire."

"Her opinions on horses are well worth listening to. I trust your tete-a-tete with the parson was equally satisfactory?"

"Cousin Raymond was so obliging as to provide me with any amount of useful information."

"Did I not say he'd be the first to attempt to weasel his way into your favour? Having succeeded without the least difficulty, he'll aim at your affections next."

"How dare you, sir! You may be so desperate for ... for female companionship as to take a fancy to Cousin Matilda but I, I assure you, am not so easily won." Her nose in the air, her heart in her halfboots, she turned away. "If you will excuse me, Mr Courtenay, I must speak to Mr Tredgarth. Cook is expecting a menu."

"I came to ask if you'd like to go into Porchester today, to order some clothes, but no doubt you mean to rely upon your cousin Raymond for advice. I trust you will find him an expert on the proper modes. Good day, Miss Wingate."

Nerissa swung round, but already he was stalking away, his boot-heels crunching angrily on the gravel path. Pride forbade her calling after him.

She was not jealous of his admiration for Matilda. After all, she had only met him yesterday, though it seemed like weeks. She simply didn't want to see him taken in and cheated out of his inheritance. And if her spirits were sorely lowered, it was because she had lost her best ally at Addlescombe.

With a sad sniff, she went in search of the gardener.

Seated atop the nearest wall, Sir Barnabas chuckled. At first, hearing the sound of quarrelling voices as he wearily approached the manor, he had been disgusted. Miles and Nerissa at loggerheads was the last thing he wanted. Then he had recognized the squabble for what it was-a lovers' tiff. Already they were sufficiently attracted to each other to resent attentions paid to anyone else.

Moreover, from his perch Sir Barnabas had an excellent view of Sophie skulking behind a bed of yellowing, red-berried asparagus. He caught a glimpse of Raymond peering through the misted glass of a greenhouse. His granddaughter and his godson were under close observation.

His evil temper banished, the baronet bounded down from the wall with such alacrity that he left the spider's fading ghost behind. In high good humour, he followed Miles into the house.

Miles's humour was the reverse of cheerful. However, by the time he reached the front hall, he was able to laugh-ironically-at Nerissa's claim that he was attracted to Matilda Philpott. He, who had kept as mistresses some of the most seductive actresses on the London stage!

He was sorry Reece had managed to worm his way into her confidence. No doubt the poor innocent trusted him because he was a clergyman. Next thing, he'd be sneaking into her bed, and she'd not know how to defend herself. From what she had said, Miles guessed that her parents had always guarded her against the advances of scurvy knaves like ... like himself?

All right, so he was a rake, but he had never seduced innocence. He preferred ripe women, women of experience, which only went to prove that he couldn't possibly be jealous of Nerissa's fraternisation with Reece. If he was disturbed it was just because, with so much money at stake, he didn't trust the fellow an inch further than he could see him.

It was up to him to protect her from the deceitful cur.

For a start, he couldn't let her rely upon her cousin's advice on her new wardrobe. When she came in, he'd persuade her to go into Porchester with him. In the meantime, he would follow her good example and begin to familiarise himself with the duties of his new position.

Feeling virtuous, he went off to the estate office at the back of the house, near the stables. He was studying a large-scale map of Addlescombe and its tenant farms when Nerissa tapped on the door half an hour later.

"Snodgrass said you were here."