"Pearls! Oh, perfect! How did you guess? 'A kind overflow of kindness,' indeed."

Mr Harwood shook his head, leaned forward, and whispered in her ear. "Not I, my dear. Entirely young Courtenay's notion, only it would not be proper for him to give them to you himself. However, the cost is to come out of his share when your inheritances are confirmed." He put a finger to his smiling lips. "Not a word to anyone. He asked me not to tell."

She looked at Miles across the room, trying to put all her gratitude in her eyes. He grinned and gave her an insouciant wave.

Aunt Jane, sallower than ever in her topaz necklace, bracelet, earrings, and aigrette, pursed her lips. "Shocking extravagance," she lamented to Sir Neville in a scarcely lowered voice, "and with our money. Barnabas must be turning in his grave."

At that moment, Sir Barnabas was wandering disconsolately through the empty halls and passages of his home. The malicious pleasure he found in listening to Effie honking into a handkerchief had soon faded. He was bored.

Truth to tell, he rather wished he were at the Cross Keys watching his granddaughter dancing the night away. He wished he had seen her face when Harwood presented the pearls. The more she enjoyed herself now, the greater the inevitable fall, he told himself.

He had been furious at first when Harwood gave in to Miles's pleas to buy the hussy those pearls. Perhaps it would look odd for a reputed heiress to wear no jewels but to claim it was unfair to make her look odd was sheer twaddle. When Sir Barnabas went to the immense effort of materializing to the lawyer to forbid the purchase, the credulous fool insisted he had misjudged the girl. Harwood was bound for disillusionment. One of these days she'd let down her guard and damn herself from her own mouth.

Sir Barnabas had given in over the pearls but made Harwood promise to tell Nerissa they were Miles's gift. Gratitude might yet lead her into his bed. Her self-control was stronger than Sir Barnabas had reckoned on, though. None of his efforts in that direction had borne fruit.

Before he turned to other methods, he decided, he would provide one more irresistible opportunity for debauchery.

Chapter 15.

Dinner with the Pettigrews was a merry affair. They all sat at a long table in the coffee room, which was full of other parties fortifying themselves for an energetic evening. Waiters dashed to and fro with laden trays, dodging between the chairs and somehow never spilling a drop.

Only Sir Neville and Lady Philpott wore long faces. Mr Simmons, seated beside Nerissa, kindly put their soberness down to the need to uphold the dignity of their titles. Raymond, on her other side, and Aubrey seemed to have set aside any pique over the pearls, at least for the present. Matilda had joined a group of cheerfully loud-voiced hunting friends.

Even Mrs Pettigrew's stiffness melted somewhat. Her husband's importance as a general officer was confirmed by the presence at his table of the only titled personages in the room. One of her daughters, the less promising, had her betrothed at her side, even if he was a mere curate; the other was captivating the heir to Addlescombe.

However captivated by Miss Anna, Miles did not neglect Miss Sophie, Nerissa noticed. He made sure she was not overlooked by the busy waiters and frequently turned to exchange a few words with her. He was a true gentleman, whatever his past misdemeanours.

And he was a thoughtful, generous friend. Nerissa had to stop herself constantly raising her hand to touch the pearls. She had not had a chance to thank him yet, but already the musicians could be heard tuning up in the assembly room at the back of the inn.

People began to abandon the remains of their dinners and leave the coffee room. Nerissa was in a fever of impatience. She did not want to miss a single step of her dance with Miles. But General Pettigrew was in the middle of a long and involved story which made him chortle frequently though it raised not a hint of a smile from Lady Philpott.

Catching Nerissa's anxious gaze, Miles nodded towards a clock on the wall. Plenty of time, she realized, wondering how he had read her mind.

At last they moved. Miles joined her, offered his arm, and they entered the crowded passage to the assembly room. As they made their way slowly along it, Nerissa looked up at him.

"How can I ever thank you for the pearls?"

"I told Harwood most particularly not to say they were a gift from me." Blue eyes laughed at her. "It's no money out of my pocket since the money has yet to reach my pockets. Besides, it would be highly improper to accept jewelry from a gentleman unrelated to you."

"You are my god-uncle, remember, and besides I won a crystal coffer full of amber and amethysts from you just last night. Oh Miles, they are quite perfect, the very thing to wear with this gown."

"I must say you look complete to a shade," he said approvingly.

"Spanish coin makes a change from Arabian dinars and dirhems."

"I'm not offering Spanish coin. I'll be the envy of every man in the room."

She clutched his arm as panic clutched her heart. "No, Miles, will everyone stare when we go in? When we dance?"

"Why the deuce should they? You're a pretty girl, not a Jinni summoned by a magic lamp."

"Because we are strangers?"

"There are bound to be other strangers, and I wager you have met most people already anyway. Look, there are the Loftings just ahead of us, and the Digbys behind. I'll tell you what, if people do stare it will be at Aubrey not at you."

For the first time, Nerissa looked properly at Cousin Aubrey's evening clothes. With pantaloons of a delicate primrose hue, he wore a coat of russet velvet adorned with huge gilt buttons, pinched at the waist and padded at the shoulders in his usual exaggerated manner. His true glory, however, was his new waistcoat, a marvel of chocolate-brown silk embroidered with gold stars and a border of gold curlicues.

With his dyed hair and painted face, he suddenly struck Nerissa as a larger-than-life stage figure, an older version of Lucian Gossett. Of course, Lucian had talent to excuse his vanity, but he, too, would probably one day dye his hair when the gold began to fade.

Miles, elegant in black and white at her side, would never stoop to such stratagems. He was not as handsome as Lucian, but his dark hair would grey naturally, giving him a distinguished air. Then his crooked nose would lend a hint of whimsicality which accorded far better with his character than the slightly sinister impression Nerissa had originally received.

She flushed as his quizzical smile told her she was staring. As for anyone staring at her, lost in thought she had entered the assembly room entirely oblivious of the rest of the world.

"Aubrey's waistcoat is quite dazzling, isn't it?" Miles said. "Like something out of the Arabian Nights. Pray rest your gaze on my eye-soothing profile as long as you wish."

Nerissa laughed. "When I first met you, I thought your profile made you look like an Iago or a Cassius."

"'Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look,'-probably because you were feeling lean and hungry at the time, though admittedly the sister of a friend of mine once called me piratical."

"You saved my life with an apple and biscuits, so I knew you were no pirate."

"I have never plundered a ship, but I admit to stealing the first dance from Digby."

"I am glad you did. I shall need you to remind me of the steps at first, until I grow accustomed to dancing among so many people and with proper music."

"Madam, you insult my whistling! Come, let us stand next to your friend Miss Pettigrew. She will not mind if you go astray."

They followed Caroline and Mr Simmons onto the floor as the fiddlers struck up the first country dance. At first Nerissa had no attention to spare from her feet but she soon found it was easier to watch what everyone else was doing instead of trying to recall the steps. If she faltered, Miles or Caroline steered her right. They united to steer Mr Simmons, too, as he bumbled through the pattern of the dance like a good-natured puppy, with more willingness than skill.

By the end of the set, they were all breathless with laughter and exercise. Nerissa was glad of a few minutes respite, sitting with Miss Sophie while the gentlemen hunted out their next partners.

Before Mr Digby claimed her hand, she had time to look about her. The dark coats of the gentlemen formed a background for the rainbow hues of the ladies' gowns. Here and there a jewel glittered, but most of the ladies wore jet or amber beads, gold chains, or at most pearls. Lady Philpott's topazes were the finest gems to be seen, as she was obviously aware, however sallow they made her. Nerissa realized her pearls were perfect not only for her gown but for the occasion.

The long room was decorated with scarlet-berried holly and fragrant evergreens, and three bunches of mistletoe hung from the ceiling. As couples took their places for the second dance, Nerissa saw several snatched kisses, pecks on the cheek that left girls blushing and young men grinning.

Mr Digby appeared before her, bowed and escorted her to join a set. She prayed he would not use the mistletoe as an excuse to try to kiss her.

On the other hand, she found herself quite indignant when he waxed eloquent on the subject of a particularly fine pair of trout he had caught the previous day. Her first ball was no place for a parade of piscatorial prowess!

She saw Miles, in the next set, twirling Anna Pettigrew directly beneath one of the clumps of mistletoe. Anna glanced up, fluttered her eyelashes, pouted. Miles ignored the suggestive byplay but Nerissa guessed from his sardonic look that he was aware of it. He caught her eye and gave her a suspicion of a wink.

Did she want Miles to kiss her? Not under the mistletoe, she decided. Not just because the mistletoe was there. That was just like a stage kiss. A proper kiss, though, the kind she had sometimes glimpsed when Mama and Papa thought she wasn't looking...

"Our turn, Miss Wingate," said Clive Digby, and swung her on his arm.

She threw herself into enjoyment of the dance, and she did enjoy it, thoroughly, and those that followed. The General was the only gentleman to venture a kiss, at which she could not possibly take offence. Always conscious of Miles's whereabouts, of whom he was dancing with, she never actually witnessed him succumbing to the lure of the mistletoe-so perhaps he did not. He arrived promptly to take her in to supper, just when she was sure she could not possibly dance another step.

It was after supper that she saw him standing up with the plainest young lady in the room, a pudding-faced, awkward miss who had scarcely danced all evening. That was when Nerissa realized Miles had made a point of alternating between the prettiest girls and the wallflowers.

And that was when she realized she loved him.

Had something happened at the assembly to subdue Nerissa's usual cheerful spirits? Miles frowned unseeing at the trampled saplings, nodding automatically as Bragg asked his permission to chastise the tenant-farmer whose cattle had wreaked the havoc.

"Have him replant come spring," he ordered the bailiff, "and he's to fence the plantation."

For three days now she had been quiet, almost listless. Had some impudent sprig of the squirarchy dared take advantage of the mistletoe to kiss her? His blood boiled at the thought.

Yet she was no milk-and-water miss. He doubted she would let such an occurrence overset her-unless she happened to find herself in love with the fellow concerned. His frown deepened. None of them would do for her, but there was no accounting for feminine whims and crotchets.

"...Unless you had rather not..." Bragg's uncertain voice trailed away.

"Not what? I beg your pardon, my mind was elsewhere."

"I thought we might drop in at the Addled Egg, sir, and drink a wassail, seeing tomorrow's Christmas Eve. It'll be dark in half an hour and the men'll be coming in from the fields."

"A splendid notion." He turned Samson's head towards the village. "I have a distant memory from my childhood: was not Sir Barnabas used to give a Christmas party every year for his tenants and dependents? On Boxing Day, I think."

"Aye, sir, in the great barn at the Home Farm, but it ha'n't been done this twenty year and more, since Miss Anthea's been gone."

"Miss Anthea's daughter is back now and Sir Barnabas is gone. It's too late to arrange for this year, I dare say, but we'll see about next year." It was a good tradition, even though Miss Anthea's daughter would be gone again long before next Christmas. Perhaps she and her parents might come for a visit for the festivities-unless she married a Dorset man.

Bragg on his cob at his side, Miles rode into Addlescombe village in the early winter twilight. Lights shone in the windows of the flint cottages, trimmed with brick and roofed with elaborately patterned thatch. The clock on the square tower of the little flint and stone church struck half past four as they dismounted before the ale-house. By the light of a lantern hanging from the inn sign, a cracked egg, they tied the horses.

The low-ceilinged, black-beamed room fell silent when Miles entered its smoky warmth and doffed his hat. Then came a murmur of respectful greetings. An old gaffer nodding on the wooden settle by the fire was forcibly removed to give place to the master. Miles knew better than to protest.

"What'll you 'ave, zir?" The innkeeper's buxom daughter Nancy swayed her hips and flaunted her bosom, tugging down her bodice as she dodged between the close-set tables.

"Bring out the wassail-bowl," Miles commanded. "It's mulled ale all round and chalk it up to me."

A cheer went up. Old men nodded knowingly to each other: this was something like, like the old days when the lord of the manor had not disdained to drink his cup with his people.

The first bumper arrived, a brimful pewter tankard with spicy steam rising. Miles raised it-"To Addlescombe and all who dwell therein!"-took a hearty swig and almost choked. Mine host's recipe for mulled ale apparently included a bottle or three of gin.

Nancy dashed about with half a dozen tankards in each capable hand, blond curls flying. She looked prettier to Miles with every toast he joined in, to the crops, the beasts, a merry Christmas, the New Year. Then she was seated on his knee, a cosy armful, giggling as he accidentally drank to his own health. His empty tankard miraculously refilled itself. The fumes rose in his head and Nancy's warm breath caressed his cheek. Her breast was soft and full beneath his hand. His loins stirred.

Someone whispered in his ear, "If you was to take our Nancy upstairs, zir, you wouldn't be the first, not by a long chalk."

Wriggling, Nancy wound her arms about his neck and pressed closer.

Miles took a deep draught of mulled ale. A cacophony of shouts, song, and laughter shook the rafters and resonated in his head. His hand found its way beneath the willing wench's petticoats.

A cry arose, "We ha'n't drunk 'the young mistress.' A health to Mistress Wingate, Lord preserve her."

"And the old maister. Here's to Sir Barnabas, God rest his soul."

Miles froze, his befuddled mind screaming a warning. Sir Barnabas's soul might or might not rest in Heaven. His Will unquestionably stalked the Earth, threatening disaster to those who indulged in a little harmless pleasure. To one of those, at least, namely himself.

He was among friends. They were drinking his health again, this time with sly winks and nudges. No one would give him away to the dastardly crew up at the manor. Nancy was eager, breathing in his ear, now, and stroking the nape of his neck.

She slipped down from his lap and urged him to his feet. He had to steady himself with one hand on the settle back as she took his arm to lead him to the delights of her bed.

Was it worth the risk? He was far too top-heavy to reckon the odds, yet surely Lady Luck would smile just this once if he broke his rule and gambled while jug-bitten!

He glanced down at Nancy-but he must be even boskier than he thought for his gaze failed to focus on her face. Instead an image of another face interposed, Nerissa's, disconsolate, a plea in her great grey eyes.

Gad, he was foxed if he was seeing visions! Only drunkenness could explain why he felt he'd be letting her down if he had his way with Nancy. After all, should he be betrayed, Nerissa's inheritance would instantly double.

And he'd have to leave Addlescombe, leave her to the tender mercies of her ever-loving family.

Nancy tugged on his sleeve. He shook his head regretfully.

"It's time I was getting on home." Bussing her cherry-ripe lips in farewell, he patted her ample behind and weaved his way to the door.

"G'night, zir."

"Merry Christmas, zir."

"Happy New Year."

Someone handed him his hat. He waved it at the company, cried, "Merry Christmas!" and stepped out into the night.

The cold air made him stagger. Bragg appeared at his side and gripped his elbow.

"I'll see you home, sir. Should have warned you about the daffy in the wassail bowl."

"The more the merrier," said Miles, his head rapidly clearing. "Thank you, but I'll do now. You be off to your family."

By the light of a waning moon he rode Samson home at a walk, listening to the night sounds. An owl hooted nearby and another answered in the distance. As he crossed the bridge over the Addle, an otter whistled. In the dark of a spinney a badger raised its white-striped head and stared at him before returning to its rooting for grubs. Then he was out in the moonlight again, the fertile fields spreading on either side.

Lord, he loved Addlescombe! Thank heaven he had not lost it for the sake of a brief moment's bodily gratification.

Reaching the house, he went straight to his room, sprawled on the bed, and sank into oblivion. When Simpkins woke him to change for dinner, the last wisps of gin had cleared from his brain and he knew just how to drive off Nerissa's blue devils.

The valet helped him dress and bore off his riding clothes with a sigh. Miles was proving a sad disappointment to Simpkins, as his wardrobe grew more and more countrified with every purchase.

Miles went down to the drawing room and found Nerissa already there, listlessly turning the pages of a magazine lent by one of her new friends. She looked up, flushed, and gave him a wan smile. He had to take her mind off whichever popinjay had caught her fancy.

"Nerissa, I've just recollected that Sir Barnabas used to give a party for the tenantry and servants every Boxing Day."