www.millsandboon.co.uk

       HELEN DICKSON

      was born and still lives in south Yorkshire with her husband on a busy arable farm where she combines writing with keeping a chaotic farmhouse. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure, owing much of her inspiration to the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She enjoys reading and music. History has always captivated her, and she likes travel and visiting ancient buildings.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter One

      May—1660

       ‘P rudence! Prudence! Oh—where is that girl?’

      Arabella’s voice travelled along the narrow passageway from the busy kitchen and out into the square courtyard, where a girl was tending flowering plants in clay tubs of various shapes and sizes, an absorbed, preoccupied expression on her face. In the corner a leafy elm towered upright, its outstretched boughs offering welcome shade as she worked at teasing out the weeds from between a bed of gaily coloured pansies.

      ‘Prudence! Why don’t you answer me when I call you?’ Arabella said crossly, coming out of the house and descending a narrow flight of stone steps to the courtyard, knowing perfectly well that this was where she would find her sister. Honeysuckle climbing in profusion up the walls scented the air and flowers spilled from pots and tubs in a vibrant blaze of glory. Prudence’s enduring love of gardening never failed to amaze Arabella, and she felt a momentary stab of pride. Her sister’s knowledge of plants and creativity, and the way flowers seemed to bloom around her, was quite remarkable.

      Lively and full of energies she found hard to repress, Prudence had a sweet disposition and a soft heart, but she was also in possession of a stubborn, wilful streak and tended to ignore every rule of propriety. When her mind wasn’t occupied with gardening matters, her conduct was often reprehensible, and she was the despair of Arabella and Aunt Julia. Arabella put it down to an absence of male influence in her sister’s life, and wondered what their brother, Sir Thomas Fairworthy, would make of her now he had returned from political exile in France.

      Hearing Arabella’s voice and that she sounded testy—clearly not at all pleased that she’d had to come looking for her—the girl immediately stopped what she was doing. Putting down her small spade, she turned towards her sister, absently wiping her soiled fingers on her skirt. ‘I am here, Arabella,’ she called, crossing the yard, a smile on her pretty, heart-shaped face with its halo of rich chestnut curls, her large jewel-bright amethyst eyes fringed with long sooty lashes. ‘What is it? What is wrong?’

      ‘Wrong! Everything is wrong. Upon my soul, Prudence, just look at the state of you,’ Arabella reproached in exasperation, plunking her hands in the small of her waist as her eyes passed over her sister’s soiled skirt and blouse and the smudges of dirt on her cheeks. ‘I’ve been shouting fit to wake the dead, wondering where you could be. You know how much we have to do for tonight’s supper party—and here you are, tending plants. Your hands would be better employed helping Aunt Julia and Goodwife Gilbey in the kitchen preparing the food.’

      Prudence combed her hair behind her ears with her fingers, looking up at her sister. ‘Where did you think I would be?’

      ‘With Molly Rowan. You know how much I dislike you spending so much time with that girl. She’s too forward by far, and that young man who works for her father and follows you around making sheep’s eyes at you all the time is no better. He’s both surly and rude. It would not do to encourage him, Prudence. I do not want you to be influenced by either of them.’

      Molly was the same age as Prudence and the daughter of a nurseryman. The two had become friends when Prudence had come to London a year ago and she had paid a visit to Molly’s father’s nursery to purchase some plants. The fact that Will Price was always around when she went either to visit Molly or to seek advice from her father couldn’t be helped since he worked there.

      ‘I hope I have more sense than to be influenced by anybody, Arabella. And I have never encouraged Will Price,’ she said, which was true, since she didn’t like the way he looked at her. In fact, she always went out of her way to avoid him. ‘I don’t like him in the way you imply—and you’re right. He is rude and coarse. He is also conceited and has little imagination. He is also silly and always showing off—and he’s not going to like the competition one bit when London is once again teeming with swaggering Cavaliers. His looks are reasonable, I suppose, and he thinks he’s God’s gift just because he has the body of Adonis.’

      Arabella peered at her sister intently with narrowed eyes. ‘And what do you know about that, pray?’

      Prudence shrugged, coolly unconcerned. ‘I’ve seen him with his shirt off when he’s working, that’s all.’

      ‘As long as you don’t go falling for him like an Aphrodite. That would never do. Prudence, you are quite incorrigible,’ Arabella scolded. ‘I wish I understood you—and that you wouldn’t visit Mr Rowan’s nursery quite so often. I shudder to think what Thomas is going to make of you and your wild ways.’

      Prudence’s eyes registered alarm on being reminded that after nine years they were to be reunited with their brother that very day. ‘I don’t mean to be like that, Arabella. You won’t tell him, will you?’

      ‘You know I never tittle-tattle—but I just might if you don’t clean yourself up and behave yourself when he arrives.’

      Arabella still looked testy, but Prudence knew she wouldn’t make things difficult for her with Thomas. Arabella was almost five years her senior, and tired of trying to discipline her. She always treated her imprudent behaviour with anxious forbearance. Her tongue was often sharp, but she was genuinely fond of her young sister, and more often than not treated her with warm affection.

      ‘Come. There’s no time for prattling. You must have heard the noise of the cannon from the Tower announcing that the King has crossed London Bridge. I want you on the balcony before the procession reaches the Strand.’

      Like the whole of London the Maitland household was gripped by the excitement