For Trish Morey, Anne Oliver and Claire Baxter—you’re my touchstone.

Chapter One

      The Reverend Alex Martindale looked down at the innocent babe in his practised arms and braced for the inevitable storm. Red-faced, eyes scrunched up against the holy water dripping into them, the Honourable Philip Martindale, heir to considerable estates and, far more importantly, apple of his parents’ doting eyes, roared his displeasure.

      Having baptised every infant in the parish for the past two years, Alex was used to the noise. Nevertheless he shot a look over the aristocratic squaller to its father, Viscount Alderley. ‘Takes after you, Dominic—temper and all.’

      The Viscount grinned. ‘Not me, cousin.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Must be Pippa.’

      Alex snorted and continued blessing his little cousin, the child who—thank God from whom all blessings flow—had displaced him as Dominic’s heir. There was a tug at his surplice and he glanced down.

      His goddaughter, the Honourable Philip’s elder sister, looked up at him solemnly. ‘You got water in his eyes, Uncle Alets,’ she explained. ‘Mama or Nurse better give him his next bath.’

      ‘Ah. Was that it?’ he said, preserving a clerical straight face. ‘Thank you, Emma.’

      * * *

      The christening party in the Great Hall at Alderley was a rowdy and cheerful affair. It