Charlotte was in the garden the following morning when a footman came to tell her she had visitors. Gardening was one of her special pleasures and she would spend hours tending her flowers and consulting Harman, the head gardener, on which plants to place where and how to propagate and care for them. Clad in an old fustian coat, a floppy felt hat tied under her chin with a piece of ribbon and a pair of stout canvas gloves, she would dig and weed and clip to her heart’s content. She had certainly not expected visitors today.

      ‘Who is it, Foster?’

      ‘Not one of your usual callers, my lady. Pushed past me and strode into the drawing room as if he owned the place…’

      ‘Perhaps he does,’ she murmured under her breath.

      He looked startled, but went on as if he had not heard. ‘And him with two companions that I never would have admitted if I could have stopped them. I am sorry, my lady.’

      ‘Do not worry, Foster. I think I know who one of them is. Ask Cook to provide refreshment and tell them I will join them shortly.’

      He left on his errand and she went in by a side door, along a narrow passage and up the back stairs to her room where she washed and changed hastily into a black silk mourning dress, a little more elegant than the one she had been wearing the day before, which had become stained with salt water, much to Joan Quinn’s disgust. She brushed her hair, coiling it back and fastening it with combs before topping it with a black lace cap, then she took a deep breath and went down the front stairs to the drawing room.

      There were three men there, two of whom were already lounging on the green brocade sofas, looking about them as if assessing the worth of everything in the room, the furniture, pictures and the small figurines which her mother-in-law had loved to collect. The third man stood by the hearth with his foot on the fender. His attitude was proprietorial and she had no difficulty in recognising her brother-in-law, though the scar on his face had not been there when she last saw him, and the slimness of youth had been replaced by fat that strained at his coat and pantaloons.

      ‘Cecil?’ she said.

      He made her a mock bow. ‘At your service, sister. May I present my good friends, Sir Roland Bentwater and Mr Augustus Spike?’

      The two men, one tall and thin as a pole, the other thickset and swarthy, rose and sketched her a bow to which she replied with a slight movement of her head. ‘Gentlemen.’ Then, addressing Cecil, ‘I did not know you would be coming today. If you had let me know, I would have been better prepared to receive you…’

      ‘We don’t need receiving. This is my house, I come and go as I please.’

      ‘Of course. I am sorry you were not here in time to speak to your father before he died—’

      ‘Sorry? Was he sorry he banished me, was he anxious to make amends?’

      ‘I believe he was.’

      ‘That’s as may be, but I have not forgiven him, nor would I have, so perhaps it is as well we did not meet again.’

      She decided to ignore that. ‘I have ordered refreshment. While you are having that, I will have your room prepared.’

      ‘My father’s room, I hope. The master bedroom.’

      ‘Why, no, I did not think you would want to use that until it had been refurbished. But, of course, you may have things ordered as you wish.’

      ‘I wish to sleep in my father’s bed and I wish rooms prepared for my friends and our valets who will be arriving with our luggage before the day is out.’

      ‘Very well. If you excuse me, I will see to it. Foster will serve you while I am gone.’

      ‘Foster, who is he?’

      ‘The footman. He admitted you.’

      ‘Oh, him.’ His tone was disparaging. ‘What happened to Jenkins?’

      ‘He grew old and decided to retire. He lives in a cottage on the cliff top now.’

      ‘I think I had better interview all the staff, let them know who is master. I’d be obliged if you would gather them all together in the hall in an hour.’

      She inclined her head to acknowledge the instruction and left the room in as dignified a manner as she could manage, but she was seething. The new Lord Hobart was treating her like a housekeeper, not a word of condolence or sorrow at the loss of his father, not a word of gratitude for what she had done to keep the place going, not a word of reassurance that she would be given a home. And if he did offer it, she was not at all sure she would accept—she had taken an instant aversion to him. She passed Foster bearing the tea tray, followed by one of the maids with cakes and sweetmeats, and instructed them to serve the refreshments before carrying on her way up the stairs to warn Miss Quinn to keep the girls to their own suite of rooms until she said they could come down.

      Then she went back downstairs to the kitchen where the servants were gossiping and speculating about the new master. She brought them to order and gave instructions for her belongings to be moved out of the bedchamber she had used on the first floor. She had chosen it when the late Lord Hobart became ill so that she would be close at hand if he needed her, but if the new Lord Hobart meant to occupy his father’s room it was not appropriate nor desirable. ‘I’ll use the guest room on the top floor near the girls,’ she told the chambermaids. ‘One of his lordship’s guests can have my room and prepare another along the same corridor for the other. And rooms for the valets who are on their way, I believe.’

      ‘And his lordship?’ Betsy asked, longing to make some comment about her ladyship having to give up her room for those dreadful men, but not daring to.

      ‘The old lord’s room. I’ll come and help you directly. When you have done, all the servants are to assemble in the hall to meet the new master.’

      ‘All of us?’ Cook asked.

      ‘Yes, all. Tom, go and tell the outside staff to come too. In…’ she consulted the clock that stood on the mantle ‘…three-quarters of an hour. Leave whatever you are doing and line up in the hall.’