LITMIR.BIZ

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as he entered the park, carefully securing the door behind him. This was certainly not good practice and, as he cast his eyes around the copse through which the path towards the house ran, he was quick to register a good many signs of neglect: fallen saplings, uncut brambles and a profusion of weeds, the extent of which threatened to overtake the path itself.

      He walked on, dismally reminding himself that he might well have to use his own money to put these matters to rights, if they were to be attended to before winter set in, and his irritation grew as his mind dwelt on the vexing imposition with which he had been saddled.

      As he rounded a bend in the path, he became aware of the sound of raised voices in the copse some short distance ahead. His curiosity raised, he began to tread more carefully and sidled quietly towards the clearing from where the altercation seemed to be emanating.

      Peering through the bushes, he managed to make out the figures of a man and a young woman, apparently engaged in a heated argument. The man had the dark, almost swarthy look of a gypsy about him and seemed to be threatening the girl in some way. She had her back towards Beresford but, the minute he saw the man appearing to raise his fist at her, he cast aside the bushes and immediately leapt to her defence.

      The man staggered back in astonishment at Beresford’s sudden arrival and, as Beresford’s hand reached out to grab his collar, one arm came up in self-defence and the other, holding a shotgun, swung wildly in Beresford’s direction.

      ‘Who the hell are you?’ he spluttered, ‘And what are you doing on private property?’

      By this time he had his gun under control with both hands and aimed squarely at Beresford’s chest. His dark eyes glittered as he took in the interloper’s appearance, which, judging by the immaculate superfine breeches and made-to-measure jacket, was clearly not that of a tramp or vagabond. He hesitated, momentarily unsure of his ground until the sound of barely smothered laughter caused him to swing round angrily to confront the young woman behind him.

      ‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded. ‘You know this man?’

      Unable to stifle her amusement, the girl, who had been watching the by-play between the two men with unconcealed interest, shook her head and delved into her pocket for a handkerchief to mop her streaming eyes.

      ‘It has to be Matthew Beresford,’ she choked, still trying to control her mirth. ‘Thornfield’s new master, Mr Wentworth—we were told he would be arriving shortly—and now, it seems, here he is!’

      Wentworth’s eyes swivelled back to Beresford, who was presently engaged in removing the leaves and twigs that had attached themselves to his clothing during his headstrong dash.

      ‘You’re Matthew Beresford?’ he asked truculently. ‘How d’ye come to be up here in the copse then?’

      ‘I take it that you are a member of my staff, my good man,’ replied Beresford coldly, casually inspecting his cuffs. ‘I presume that you wish to keep your position, whatever it is?’

      The man blanched as the girl quickly interposed on his behalf. ‘This is Philip Wentworth, sir—he is—has been in charge of the estate since Sir Matthew died.’

      Beresford gave her a brief glance; a strikingly pretty girl, with soft brown hair and wide grey eyes, wearing a faded blue cotton print gown, a rather battered chipstraw bonnet and carrying what looked to be a basket of wild strawberries. Probably one of the upper maids or some such. He concluded that he had probably interrupted a lovers’ quarrel.

      ‘And you are?’ he queried.

      Her amusement disappeared in an instant. A slight flush crept into her cheeks and she straightened her shoulders. She recognised a put-down when she heard one. ‘I am Imogen Priestley,’ she replied in an even voice, meeting his gaze squarely.

      Beresford merely nodded and proceeded to walk back to the path.

      ‘Perhaps you would see that the wall gate is kept locked in future,’ he threw at the now sullen Wentworth as he passed him.

      A slight exclamation from the girl halted him and he turned to find her at his elbow.

      ‘I am afraid that was me,’ she blurted out, her hand to her mouth. ‘I went across the lane to see if there were more berries under the hedge and—I must have forgotten to lock the gate when I came back. Wentworth is not to blame—on this occasion.’

      Intrigued, Beresford studied her more carefully. Something about her bearing, or perhaps it was the lilting timbre of her voice, caused him to reappraise his first impression of her. Not a servant, certainly, perhaps a governess?

      ‘You are returning to the house?’ he asked.

      She nodded. ‘I would be happy to show you the way, although, to be perfectly truthful, you can hardly get lost as the path goes straight down to the front driveway.’

      He smiled. ‘I had an idea that it might.’

      Imogen, hurrying to keep pace with Beresford’s long strides, found a great deal to admire in his appearance as they wended their way through the copse together. Tall and undeniably handsome, she could see that his complexion, even after the long passage home, still held the healthy glow of the fading remnants of the tropical suntan that he had acquired from his years on the Indian continent, emphasising the startling blueness of his eyes and the guinea-gold brightness of his hair.

      Slightly discomfited by the searching glances that were being cast in his direction, Beresford walked on in silence for a few moments then, ‘How did you guess who I am?’ he asked curiously. ‘Wentworth was right in his assumption that I could have been anyone.’

      Imogen laughed. ‘Not so, sir. I have seen your mother’s portrait. You are as like as a man can be to a woman—same golden locks, same blue eyes…’ She stopped in confusion as Beresford gripped her arm and swung her towards him.

      ‘My mother’s portrait?’ he demanded. ‘Where have you seen my mother’s portrait?’

      She tried to pull away. ‘You are hurting me, sir,’ she protested.

      He loosened his grip immediately, but kept hold of her nevertheless. ‘I beg your pardon. It was not my intention to startle you. You say you have seen a portrait of my mother?’

      ‘Well, yes,’ she averred, ‘although it was some years ago, when I was younger. It used to be kept in one of the attics where we were wont to play hide-and-seek and I often wondered who the lady could be, but when I asked about it Sir Matthew got very angry and forbade us all to go up there again, so it could well have been removed by now.’

      She stared pointedly at his hand. ‘You may let go of my arm now, if you please, sir.’

      He dropped his hand as though it had been stung and pondered over her words. Then a thought struck him.

      ‘You say you have lived at Thornfield since you were a child?’

      ‘All my life, practically.’

      At the questioning look on his face she smiled. ‘Lady Beresford took me in when I was six years old,’ she said patiently. ‘Jessica was barely two at the time…’

      ‘Jessica?’

      ‘Your half-sister.’ She looked at him quizzically for a moment. ‘You do not seem to know a great deal about us, if I may say so.’

      ‘Nothing at all, as it happens,’ he said bluntly. ‘I was totally unaware of your presence until two weeks ago. You have the upper hand here, it seems.’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      He thrust his hands into his pockets and strode purposefully on.

      ‘Well, you all presumably know everything there is to know about me, I dare say.’

      She hurried after him. ‘No such thing!’ she protested. ‘None of us were even aware of your existence until a few months ago. Lady Beresford has barely recovered from the shock. Apparently, Mr Robbins was the only one in whom

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