Chapter One

      ‘Georgie, dear, have you heard the news? Louisa Manners came this morning whilst you were out and told me that the caretaker at Jesmond House had received word from the heir that he intends to take up residence there almost immediately. It seems that he is not aware of how derelict the place has become over the last few years. All in all, though, I don’t think that it would be wise for you to take the children to play in the grounds. Miss Jesmond was happy for you to do so, but perhaps the new owner might not be so accommodating. Best wait and see.’

      Georgie—more properly Georgina—was busy stringing a guitar. She looked across at her widowed sister-in-law who was only a few years older than she was, but was a semi-invalid who spent her life on the sofa.

      ‘Who is the new owner?’ she asked. ‘Have you any notion when he is due to arrive?’

      ‘No to both questions.’ Caro Pomfret sighed. ‘Louisa asked me if I knew who the heir might be, but all I could say was that I had no knowledge of any of Miss Jesmond’s relatives—indeed, from what little she said of them, I thought that she had none. For that matter, I don’t even know that it’s a he. I thought that she might have said something to you—she was as friendly with you as anyone…which isn’t saying much.’

      She looked disapprovingly at Georgie. ‘You said that you were taking the twins for a walk when you had finished repairing poor John’s guitar—do you really intend to show yourself in public in those unsuitable clothes?’

      Georgie, her self-imposed task nearly over, smiled at her sister-in-law before looking down at herself. She was wearing jacket, shirt, breeches and boots, suitable for riding in, which had belonged to her half-brother John when he was a boy. Her russet-coloured hair was cut short after a fashion which had died out some years ago—but then Georgie and fashion had little to do with one another. She preferred to wear whatever was most suitable for the task in hand.

      Her sister-in-law often sighed regretfully over the undeniable fact that Georgie did not use her best features—a pair of fine green eyes and a piquante, almost turned-up, nose—to more effect on the local gentlemen who had come courting as soon as they decently could after her husband’s death.

      ‘I shall not be in public, Caro,’ Georgie said, after playing a few testing chords on the guitar. ‘I thought of taking Gus and Annie to play at the far end of the Park where no one at all will see us, except the birds and the squirrels. The children like it there.’

      ‘I know they do. But you are forgetting two things. First of all, that part of the Park adjoins Miss Jesmond’s land, and secondly, you can never be quite sure that no one will come across you. Suppose it were some gentleman? What would he think of Miss Pomfret of Pomfret Hall, near Netherton, exhibiting herself in public dressed like a stable boy!’

      ‘Hardly a stable boy,’ returned Georgie, smiling. ‘When John wore these when he was a lad, no one ever thought he was other than John Pomfret of Pomfret Hall. And besides, you forget, I am a widow and no longer Miss Pomfret, but respectable Mrs Charles Herron of Church Norwood who chooses to live with you for the time being for our mutual convenience.’

      This was not strictly true; the convenience was all on Caro Pomfret’s side. The Pomfrets had been as poor as church-mice and, when John had died after a hunting accident, Caro and his twin children had been left with little to live on. Georgie, on the other hand, had been left a comfortable sum of money by her mother, her father’s second wife. Her husband’s death had left her with even more, and a fine house to boot, which was at present let to an Indian nabob and his wife who needed a temporary home while they looked for one of their own.

      Georgie’s decision to return to her old home to help Caro—who had taken to her bed after her husband’s sudden death and had left it only to live an idle and helpless life—had been for her nephew and niece’s sake rather than her sister-in-law’s. For a variety of reasons, she had no wish to marry again, even though she was only twenty-five.

      ‘All the same, no gentleman would think you respectable in those clothes,’ moaned Caro, as though Georgie had not spoken—a bad habit of Caro’s.

      ‘I have no interest in gentlemen, respectable or otherwise, so that is no matter,’ Georgie declared, beginning to sing one of Mr Tom Moore’s songs in a low contralto, satisfied that she had made the guitar playable again.

      She rose. ‘Forgive me, Caro. Nurse will have the children ready by now and I have no wish to keep them waiting.’

      ‘And you will remember what I told you about not going on Miss Jesmond’s land. We really ought not to annoy our new neighbour by trespassing upon it.’

      ‘I always remember everything you say,’ returned Georgie untruthfully. ‘Try to rest, my