LITMIR.BIZ

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gown was too well cut and her straw bonnet too new and finely made. Her accent, although it held faint traces of the north-east, was clear enough to indicate she had been trained from an early age by a succession of governesses.

      ‘I am able to look after myself. I know the value of a well-sharpened hat pin.’

      ‘You never know what sort of people you might meet.’

      ‘It is the country, after all, not London or Newcastle.’ Her cheeks took on a rosy hue and she lowered her tone to a confidential whisper. ‘I am aiding and abetting a proposal. At times like these, positive action is required, even if there is an element of risk.’

      ‘A proposal?’ Tristan glanced over his shoulder, fully expecting to see some puffed-up dandy or farmer advancing towards them. ‘Tell me where the unfortunate man is and I shall beat a hasty retreat.’

      ‘Not mine. My cousin’s.’

      ‘The one who is mistaken about graveyards,’ Tristan said, and struggled to keep his face straight. It made a change to speak about things other than the state of Gortner Hall’s leaking roof, the fallow fields and the other ravages that his uncle had wreaked on the estate.

      ‘That’s right.’ There was a sort of confidence about the woman, the sort that is easily destroyed later in life. ‘All Frances ever does is read Minerva Press novels and sigh about Mr Shepard’s fine eyes and his gentle manner. What is the good with sighing and not acting positively? She needed some help and advice.’

      ‘Which you have offered…unasked.’

      She held up her hand and her body stilled; an intent expression crossed her face. ‘There, can you hear it?’

      The sound of a faint shriek wafted on the breeze. Tristan lifted an eyebrow. ‘It sounds as if someone is strangling a cat. Is this something you are concerned about? Should I investigate?’

      ‘My cousin Frances, actually. She is busy being rescued from the Cruel Sykes burn.’ She tilted her head, listening and then gave a decided nod. The bow of her mouth tilted upwards. ‘Definitely Cousin Frances. We practised the shriek a dozen times and she still managed to get it wrong. She needed to gently shriek, and to grab his arm, but not to claw it. I do hope she has not pulled him in. That would be insupportable. Truly insupportable.’

      ‘All this is in aid of?’

      ‘Her forthcoming marriage to Mr Kent Shepard.’

      The woman drew a breath and Tristan noticed the agreeable manner in which she filled out her gingham bodice. But he knew she was also well aware of the picture she created. A minx who should be left alone. Trouble. He would make his excuses and depart before he became ensnared in any of her ill-considered schemes.

      ‘Cousin Frances has to get engaged. She simply has to. Everything in my life depends on it.’

      ‘Why should it matter to you?’ His curiosity overcame him.

      ‘I was unjustly banished.’ The woman wrinkled her nose. ‘It was hardly my fault that Miss Emma Harrison kissed Jack Stanton in a sleigh in full view of any passing stranger.’

      ‘Jack Stanton is well able to look after himself.’ Tristan gave a laugh. His impression had been correct. She was the sort of woman to stay away from. Trouble with a capital T. ‘I hope your friend was not too inconvenienced, but she picked the wrong man to kiss. Jack is a good friend of mine and not given to observing the niceties of society.’

      ‘Do you?’

      ‘When the occasion demands. I was born a gentleman. But Jack…is immune to such stratagems. It is amazing the lengths some women will go to.’

      ‘It all ended happily as they were married, just before Christmas.’ Her eyes blazed as she drew herself up to her full height. ‘You obviously do not know your friends as well as you think you do.’

      ‘I have been travelling on the Continent. But if it ended happily, why were you banished?’

      ‘My brother Henry was furious. He turned a sort of mottled purple and sent me out here to Aunt Alice until I could learn to keep my mouth quiet. “Lottie,” he said, “you have no more sense than a gnat,” which was a severely unkind thing to say.’

      ‘And have you? Learnt to keep your mouth quiet?’

      ‘Yes.’ Lottie Charlton looked at the elegantly dressed man lounging against a yew tree with exasperation. Who was he with his dark eyes and frowning mouth to sit judgement on her? He was not her brother or any sort of relation. She snapped the Claude glass shut and took as deep a breath as her stays would allow her. ‘I have, but Henry refuses to answer any of my impassioned pleas. He ignores me. And Mama is being no help at all. She keeps going on about her nerves and how unsettling family disagreements are, but she refuses to do anything.’

      ‘And you dislike being ignored, forced to the margins.’

      Lottie retained a check on her temper—barely. They were not even formally introduced and already this man had picked her character to shreds. ‘This is my best chance, my only chance, to get back to Newcastle this season. I know it is. My dream of a London Season has vanished for the moment, but there are appearances to maintain. And some day I shall visit all the great cities—London, Paris and Rome. I plan to be the toast of them all.’

      ‘How so? Haydon Bridge is very far from these places.’ The man lifted one eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed with the brilliance of her scheme.

      ‘I am well aware of geography.’ Lottie pressed her hands together. She had to remain calm. ‘Aunt Alice will have undying gratitude to me if I arrange this marriage between Cousin Frances and Mr Shepard. Mr Shepard has been making sheep’s eyes at Cousin Frances for weeks now, and the only thing Cousin Frances can do is blush and readjust her pince-nez.’

      ‘And you are an expert in these matters.’ His eyes travelled slowly down her and Lottie fought against the impulse to blush. ‘You look all of seventeen.’

      ‘Twenty in a month’s time. My sister-in-law sent me the Claude glass for an early birthday present. It is quite the rage, you know.’

      ‘Nineteen is not a great age.’ A smile tugged at his mouth, transforming his features. Darkly handsome, she believed it was called, like one of those heroes in Cousin Frances’s Minerva Press novels. ‘When you are my age, you will see that.’

      ‘And your age is?’

      ‘Thirty-one. Old enough to know interference in matters of the heart brings unforeseen consequences.’ The words were a great finality. Lottie frowned and decided to ignore his remark.

      ‘I helped to arrange several proposals last season in Newcastle. Proper ones as well, and not the dishonourable sort.’ Lottie resisted the urge to pat her curls. ‘I can number at least seven successful matches that I have helped promote.’

      ‘Including the one that sent you here.’

      ‘If you are going to be rude, I shall leave.’ Lottie lifted her skirt slightly and prepared to flounce off. The man made her brilliant stratagem sound like a crime, like she was intent on ruining someone. Newcastle was not London, but at least there remained a chance of meeting someone eligible. It was the most prosperous city in the whole of the British Empire, everyone knew that. ‘You must not say things like that. I have helped. Martha Dresser and her mother showered me with compliments when I brought Major Irons up to snuff.’

      ‘Don’t mind me. It is one of my more irritating habits.’ A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, making him seem much younger. ‘Your scheme appears to be full of holes. And I doubt you would know the difference between a proposal and a proposition.’

      ‘I know all about those. One learns these things, if one happens to possess golden curls, a reasonable

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