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  For Kit and Bill M.

  true friends and compatriots

  I

  England, July 1746

  The seamstress who had worked for many hours on the exact fit of the stomacher and the precise falls of the pleats at the back of the pink taffeta robe a la française would have thrown up her hands in horror could she have seen her peerless creation on this warm summer evening. For the Watteau pleats trailed in the dust, the laces were crushed, and the lady who wore the delicious gown was seated on a rustic garden bench, a willing captive in strong military arms.

  Drawing back sighfully from those same arms, Miss Phoebe Ramsay raised her elegantly powdered head, and guilt came into her eyes. They were green eyes, wide and thickly lashed, set under delicately arching brows and enhanced by an enchanting, full-lipped face. Miss Ramsay, a true connoisseur might argue, did not possess pure classic beauty. Her mouth, sweetly as it was curved, had neither a pouting nor rosebud quality, and her nose, although small and delicate, had a slightly retroussé tilt. The true connoisseur would have been laughed to scorn: Miss Ramsay was widely held to be a true Fair, and much admired in both London and Surrey.

  “Brooks,” she said, placing one little hand against the broad chest of her ardent companion, “how wicked we are! I should not meet you alone like this—much less kiss a gentleman to whom I am not officially betrothed.”

  Captain Brooks Lambert wasted not a second in seizing that mittened hand and pressing it to his lips. “Only because Fate has been so dashed uncooperative,” he said indignantly. “Two years I’ve worshipped at your shrine. And I doubt I’ve seen you alone above a dozen times in all that while, and then but for a few stolen minutes!”

  “And most improperly,” she said with a dimpling smile. “Besides, I was at Seminary, and then Cousin Nathaniel was killed, and we were in black gloves for a year.”

  “And just when I might have been able to see you,” he appended glumly, “I was off to the Rebellion.”

  She shuddered. “Those awful Jacobites! What a nightmare it was! I was fairly terrified for your sake.”

  He kissed the hand he still held, and said smilingly, “And I, sustained through it all by the knowledge that at home waited the lady who puts the smile in my world. Even if I was sent off without her promise.”

  “With my prayers,” she said, “for you are very dear to me—No, Lamb! How grateful I am that this wretched war is over and done with.”

  “Over,” he said with sudden grimness, “but not done with.”

  “Do you mean because of what the Duke of Cumberland is doing? They say the MP’s and the Upper House wanted it, but I cannot believe they meant him to be as cruel and ruthless as we hear. Have you met him?”

  “Oh, yes. A grand fellow, for such a youngster.”

  “He is? But they say his reprisals in Scotland are unspeakable. And to hunt down and slaughter these fugitive Jacobite gentlemen seems so—”

  “Fiddlesticks! The Scots and their fellow-travellers followed Charles Stuart willingly enough. What d’you suppose they’d have done if they had been the victors? All they live for is to fight—if not us, then they slaughter each other! I’d like to have seen some of these mealy-mouthed clemency merchants had Bonnie Charlie led his murderous Highlanders into London! We gave ’em a lesson they’ll not soon forget, I can tell you! There’ll be no more Stuarts on the throne spouting their rubbish of King by Divine Right, and an end to the parliamentary process! Could I but lay my hand on some of the English Catholics who fought for him, or who now shield his wretched fugi—” Here, catching sight of the troubled look in his love’s eyes, he went on quickly, “Sorry, my dearest. There speaks the soldier, and I should not sully your dainty ears with such gruesome subjects. Now, Phoebe, give me an answer, I beg you. Unless … Is there, perhaps, someone else?”

  She faltered, “Why—I, I have a lot of—”

  “Of admirers,” he interposed, frowning. “How well I know it! But is there one amongst them whom you like better than you like me?”

  He looked so anxious, and she eyed him fondly. Insofar as personal attributes went, Captain Lambert was a most worthy aspirant for her hand. He was well-born, tall, perfectly proportioned, and extremely good-looking. His fair hair, well powdered, waved thickly from a noble brow, below which dark blue eyes were set wide apart and fringed with long dark lashes. The nose was straight, the mouth well shaped and quick to smile, the chin firm. It was indisputable that she cared for no man as much as she cared for him. He was brave, devoted, and unfailingly gentle with her. And Grandmama had often told her that the great loves she read of in books were seldom found in real life. Perhaps her deep affection for Brooks was love, and it was just silly romancing to wait for the soaring, worshipful adoration she so yearned for; that blessed moment when she would know that this was the perfect mate for her, however imperfect he might be in little unimportant ways; that this was the one, the only love. Thus, stifling a sigh, she replied softly, “No one, dear Lamb.”

  “Well, there you are, then,” he cried, triumphant. “Phoebe, my love, my own, I will cherish you always, and do my damnedest to make you happy! I swear it!”

  “I know you will—would, but—”

  “But!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Always that accursed but! What if your papa accepts the next old duffer who jingles his money-bags?”

  Angered, she stood and drew herself up. “I see no cause for such a vulgar remark!”

  “Oh, do you not?” he cried, rising to take her by the shoulders. “Do you fancy I’m unaware of why I’m not considered a good catch? I could provide well for you, my dearest. But not restore your family fortunes. A penniless captain of hussars don’t suit your papa or your grandmother!” Releasing her, he sighed and added reluctantly, “Not that I can blame ’em.”

  Phoebe bit her lip. What he said had an element of truth. Were she to go to her papa or to her formidable grandmother and plead to be allowed to marry Brooks, they’d likely agree, for she knew how dear she was to them. But she knew also how desperately her father hoped that she would make a match that would, to an extent at least, ensure the future of her brother and sisters.

  Lady Eloise Ramsay had presented Sir George with six tokens of her affection, one of them stillborn, and another succumbing at the tender age of three to an attack of measles. The survivors were as healthy as they were handsome and, despite occasional lively quarrels, were a fond and close-knit family. Sir George had inherited a comfortable fortune, and both his country seat and his Town house on Clarges Street were spacious and luxurious. Between poor investments, a scoundrelly solicitor, and the extravagances of his charming wife, however, Sir George had, as the saying went, “brought a palace to a pigsty,” and while there was as yet no cause to be concerned for their daily bread, or to fear the roofs might be snatched from over their heads, penny-pinching had become the order of the day.

  Sir George, craggy, kind-hearted but hot-tempered, who
revelled in the life of a country squire and was not much given to introspection, now passed many a sleepless night worrying for his family’s future. By contrast, Lady Eloise scarcely gave the matter a thought save when Sir George interfered with her plans to play silver loo, and adamantly forbade her the indulgence of any more gaming. (“Not even for farthing points!”) “Your papa, Phoebe,” my lady advised her eldest daughter, “is a prudent man.” And she added under her breath, “Who is becoming a scaly scrub!”

  Phoebe had inherited her grandmama’s beauty and her father’s innate kindness. She was a warm-hearted girl with a tendency to impulsiveness that years spent within the pristine corridors of a select Young Ladies’ Seminary had not entirely subdued. Numerous visits to her grandmother, however, had borne fruit. Old Lady Ramsay had inculcated into her granddaughter a love of art and literature, an appreciation of the wonders of music, and a basic understanding of the finances involved in such things as running a great house, providing for governesses, schools, and University, and preparing for come-outs. As a result, Phoebe could now sympathize with her sire’s predicament. Belinda was only nine, and it would be several years before her presentation into Society need loom as a major expense. Julia, however, was not only fourteen, but already showing signs of becoming a real beauty. Two years, three at most, and she would have to be brought out. More urgently, Sinclair, surely the most unselfish and unassuming of brothers, was now reducing his tutor to despair because that worthy gentleman could barely keep up with his studious charge, much less teach him anything. At eighteen, Sinclair should already be at Oxford, and although he had never breathed a word of complaint, Phoebe was well aware that his brilliant mind must be clamouring for new fields to conquer. He was mad for archaeology, and it was his dream to study, travel, and eventually teach that fascinating subject. She sighed again. Costly dreams.

  Silent now, Lambert offered his arm. She rested her hand on it, and they began to stroll slowly back towards the house. The smell of blossoms hung heavily on the warm night air. The velvety darkness of the heavens was studded with the brilliance of countless stars, a half-moon was peeping over the horizon, and the music that drifted softly from the open windows of the ballroom was embellished by the trill of a nightingale. Surely, a night made for romance.

  The Captain put his strong hand over Phoebe’s dainty fingers and said pleadingly, “Am I so contemptible, fair one? The allowance my uncle makes me is far from being a pittance. My Aunt Ophelia has promised I’ll be her heir, and she’s a wealthy woman. Not,” he added, “that I wish her to turn up her toes yet awhile.”

  Phoebe smiled up at him, and he halted and turned her to face him. “Sweeting, if I have angered you, ’tis only because I am so—so deep in love. I’d give you all the world was it in my power.” Gazing down at her face, bewitchingly lovely in the moonlight, his clasp tightened and he said huskily, “Have you no hope to offer? Don’t you really care at all?”

  If the moonlight enhanced her fragile beauty, that same light on the Captain’s aquiline features played havoc with her heart. Lambert was a handsome man, but in the glory of full dress Regimentals he was devastating. She reached up to touch his cheek and murmured, “You know I do.” And as he took her hand and pressed kisses into the palm, she went on regretfully, “But since I left the Seminary, I have refused three wealthy and eligible suitors.”

  His head lifted. He said angrily, “Each one old enough to father you!”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “But if someone else should offer, Papa has every right to accept. And if it should be a younger man this time—and wealthy…”

  “I’ll blow the miserable swine’s head clean off his shoulders!” snarled her fierce suitor.

  * * *

  The country seat of Sir George Ramsay was called Pineridge Park, although it could not really boast a park. Nor, in point of fact, could it claim pine trees; not, at least, in this year of 1746. Nonetheless, it was a charming estate, having elaborate pleasure gardens, a nice shrubbery, and a large wilderness area. The house, of red brick, was squarely conventional and had been built in 1589 as the Dower House of a much larger estate, now broken into parcels. The main pile, three storeys in height, was of no distinct architectural period, a fact that caused Lady Eloise Ramsay much distress. Her wistful pleas for the addition of Ionic columns having met with a seething “By Beelzebub—no!” from her life’s companion, the house remained uncluttered by such impedimenta, the most recent addition, an adequately sized ballroom, having been built at the turn of the century to form the single-storey wing at the rear of the house.

  Tonight, that wing was a blaze of light, for the Ramsay Summer Ball was a yearly tradition Sir George had been unable to bring himself to cancel. Not only were the Ramsay parties renowned for the quality of refreshments, but Sir George was well liked and admired as a bruising rider to hounds, his daughter had emerged from Seminary and a year of mourning to become an acknowledged Fair, and his wife was a charming lady whose occasional gaffes were thoroughly enjoyed by all, wherefore the County had turned out full force.

  Phoebe and her captain re-entered the ballroom as a minuet was called. Lambert, who was obliged to return to duty, said his reluctant farewells, bowed over Phoebe’s hand, and went off to say good night to his host and hostess.

  At the far end of the large room several sofas and comfortable chairs were clustered about long windows that stood open to admit the cool outer air. Two ladies shared one of the sofas, and being unable to find Sir George, it was to them that the dashing Captain made his way. The older of the pair was a formidable dowager wearing a crimson brocade gown that drew the eye like a beacon. The Dowager Lady Ramsay was not a fleshy woman, but she had the square solidity of build that characterized her son, in addition to which she was unusually tall. She had been a statuesque beauty in her youth, and if her blue eyes were a little faded by age, they were as keen as ever and missed very little of what went on about her. The lady seated next to her was her opposite in every way. Small of stature and dainty of manner, Lady Eloise Ramsay at three and forty was distinguished only by her amiability, a tendency to speak her thoughts aloud, and a fine pair of green eyes. Those eyes were wistful as she watched Captain Lambert’s approach. “Poor boy,” she sighed. “Such a beautiful young man to lose his love.”

  The Dowager said nothing, and then Lambert was bowing before them, expressing his sorrow at leaving a party “so blessed with dazzling beauties.”

  “Rascal!” said Lady Eloise. “Are you off so soon?”

  “Alas, a cruel fate compels me, ma’am!”

  She smiled up into his laughing eyes and went to the door with him, for he was one of her favourites. When she came back, Lady Martha said, “He seems cheerful enough. I fancy he’s not given up hope yet.”

  Sitting down again, Lady Eloise said, “Do you think, Mama, that they will never marry?”

  “I think George would likely give his consent, if Phoebe truly loved him.”

  Lady Eloise sighed. “I only pray that Phoebe is not denying him because she feels obliged. I could not bear to think of her going through life with a broken heart.”

  “She’s much too sensible to be such a goose. If she has really given her heart, she will not become a burnt offering, even for her brother.”

  “Oh, Mama, how awful if Sinclair should do as he says! India! For a boy who is miserable in England in hot weather! ’Twould kill him! And only to try and bring us about!”

  “Tcha! A fine high flight, and if you think George would let him go, you’re witless! Sinclair is restive, merely; all nerves and youth and heroic imaginings, besides which he’s frustrated because he yearns to be at University and is too mannerly to let us guess how much the waiting galls him. Had I the funds, he would have been off to Oxford a year since. I ain’t—more’s the pity!”

  Eloise placed a consoling hand on the old lady’s arm. “Do not blame yourself, dear Mama. We know you cannot help it.”

  “Thank you,” snarled my lady.
r />   * * *

  Sinclair Ramsay was two years younger than his eldest sister, but he was not the kind to resent having to stand up with her for a dance. He was fond of all the members of his family, but between him and Phoebe was a rather special bond, deepened by the closeness of their ages and a quiet and mutual admiration. It was not flouted and never allowed to impinge upon or lessen their other filial relationships; still, it was there, and thus Phoebe was rather surprised that her brother was not waiting to scold her for being late for their minuet.

  The cluster of admirers, who had been disconsolate when she smilingly told them of her prior commitment, was beginning to re-form and, seeing from the corner of her eye an elderly and rather pompous pest bearing down on her, she directed her steps to the garden once more.

  There was no sign of Sinclair, but as she wandered to the drivepath, a voice called with playful scolding, “Miss Phoebe…? I saw you slip out here, you fascinating creature! Do not tease me, lovely goddess. Come out, come out, wherever you are…!”

  Lord Olderwood had followed. She lifted her panniers to protect her skirt from dust, and retreated hastily into the shadow of the trees. And still the pest came! ‘Drat the man!’ she said under her breath, and ran farther into the elms that edged the east drivepath.

  Peeping out, she saw Lord Olderwood search about hopefully, and at length return in a grumbling way to the house. It was unkind, she thought repentantly, but he would start on about his houses and his yacht, and his beloved sister (a waspish female at best) who would be so very glad would dear Miss Phoebe only consider his suit. And his corset would creak and his wrinkled hand pat hers (if she gave him the chance!) and tonight she simply was not able to—

  “Oh … God…!”

  The smothered moan came from close by. And the voice was that of her brother. Her heart gave a little jump of fright. Hurrying towards the sound, she called, “Sin…? Is something wrong?”