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mercers, a merchant of some standing, a freeman and alderman of the City of London, and the owner of several shops on Cheapside. Your mother and I have always had the greatest respect for mercers, otherwise we would not have been invited to their banquet last month. The mercers are one of the most influential companies, and one of the wealthiest. You yourself were impressed by the event.’

      Still white with shock, Etta listened to this list of distinctions with a growing confusion, trying desperately to link what Master Nicolaus had told her about himself, which was very little, with what he might have said if he’d been trying to impress her. ‘You didn’t say you had spoken to my parents on that occasion,’ she said to Lord Somerville. ‘Why could you not have told me?’

      ‘Because, mistress, I did not speak to them. I said I’d seen you there with them, but there was no opportunity for us to be introduced. Your father and I have spoken since then, and...’

      ‘Yes, I see,’ she retorted, ‘and decided on a clever little plan to deceive me. The peacock feather. That was a sign, I suppose? Carried by me to my father. What a jest! How you must have laughed up your sleeves at that, both of you.’

      ‘Etta,’ said her mother, ‘you have already said far too much. We expected some resistance to whomever we chose for you, but this is as much to do with names as much as anything else, isn’t it?’

      ‘No, Mama. It isn’t. But never in all my born days did I imagine you would choose a mercer for me to live with, over a shop in Cheapside. I thought you had higher hopes for me than that, knowing of my ambitions. How on earth...am I...to...oh!’

      Covering her face with her hands, she turned and ran to the door, fumbling with the latch until Aphra opened it for her, following her out and calling after her up the stairs, ‘Etta! At least come and talk about it!’

      But the door to Etta’s room slammed and Aphra knew, as they all did, that her cousin felt betrayed. To Aphra’s relief, their guest showed none of the signs of consternation one might have expected. As he smiled at her, she noticed that his teeth were white and even, his skin still glowing after the river breeze.

      ‘We have not been introduced,’ he said to her, ‘but I hope you will take Mistress Raemon’s place until she re-establishes contact with us.’

      ‘Aphra Betterton,’ she said. ‘Sir George’s daughter.’

      ‘Ah, of course! You were there...’

      ‘I was, my lord. And if I had known you then, none of this would have happened, would it? I blame my father for not doing his duty on that day.’

      ‘He was busy, Mistress Betterton.’

      ‘Blame me, Aphra,’ said Lord Jon. ‘I thought it might work. Indeed, your aunt and I were convinced it would. A bad start, I fear. But come, let’s go into the parlour for some refreshment. Ginny, shall you go up to her?’

      * * *

      In the privacy of her bedchamber, Etta berated herself for a fool. Unable to see their plan as anything other than a ploy meant to deceive her, Etta was effectively blinding herself to any of the advantages. Knowing what the reply would be, Lady Virginia did not ask for admittance, but walked straight in. ‘Etta darling, this won’t do,’ she said. ‘Lord Somerville is a very attractive suitor.’

      ‘Well I’m not attracted to him,’ Etta said, keeping her back to her mother. ‘Any man who can deceive me in such a manner is profoundly unattractive to me and I want no more to do with him and I’m ashamed and hurt...yes, hurt, Mother...that you and Father could think to marry me to a mercer. A tradesman.’ The words fell out of her mouth in a torrent and ended in a squeak of fury, and Lady Virginia saw now that tears were getting in the way, a typical Tudor response that Lady Virginia had seen time and again in the five-year-old Princess Elizabeth. It would be interesting to hear, she thought, how the new Queen would react to anyone who tried to impose their will upon her in matters of the heart.

      ‘Dry your eyes at once, Etta,’ she commanded. ‘This kind of behaviour will cut no ice with your father. You are a grown woman and this is most unbecoming. Whatever you feel, Lord Somerville is our guest and you must act accordingly out of courtesy to us all. Come now, mop your face, come downstairs with me and be civil.’

      Etta realised that there would be more to it than civility. ‘Mother,’ she said, turning to show brown eyes sparkling with tears of anger, ‘is he...are you...so determined on this...this union? Is this really the way you wish to make an arrangement?’

      ‘Etta, the way we’ve made the arrangement is neither here nor there. All women must accept their parents’ choice unless they are widowed and even then marriages may be arranged for them. It’s what happened to me and it will happen to you, too.’

      ‘You always told me that you and Father were in love when you married.’

      ‘We were, in a way. But that didn’t mean I was given any choice in the matter.’

      ‘So you mean that Father will insist on it?’

      ‘Yes, dear. There is no good reason to prevaricate any longer. Lord Somerville and your father have already entered into negotiations. That’s all there is to it.’ Her heart softened towards her beautiful stepdaughter, so intelligent and sensitive, brimming over with vitality and expectations.

      * * *

      To have continued the talk of dishonour and treachery over dinner would have been unthinkable, for Etta had been well schooled in good manners and the arts of hospitality. Even so, she could not pretend that nothing had happened to change how she felt about the man, his deceit, his profession. Her deeply felt anger at the deceit overpowered the meal to such a degree that she tasted nothing of the roast meats and savoury sauces prepared with such care, and it was only because Aphra was there to converse with their guest that the diners managed without Etta’s usually bright contributions. Politely, she spoke when she was spoken to, but since Lord Somerville made no attempt to coax her to say more on any subject, she found the meal miserably tasteless and tense.

      There was still an hour of daylight left, though it was only mid-afternoon when they rose from the table. Etta had it in mind to excuse herself immediately, but her father had other ideas before she’d had time to speak. ‘Henrietta, I think our guest would like to see the gardens with you before it gets any darker.’

      There was no way out. Much too quickly, Tilda brought her woollen cloak, and since it seemed to have been taken for granted that their guest would soon be one of the family, no escort followed them out on to the paved pathway leading to the herbier. With the intention of walking quickly to avoid any attempt at conversation, Etta marched away down the path between low hedges of hyssop, lavender and thrift, brown-spiked and tangled grey, reflecting her mood. But there was to be no evading the long stride of her companion who, without her knowing quite how it happened, managed to steer her into the trelliswork allée covered with the winter stems of honeysuckle and climbing roses. Shielded from the house, Lord Somerville wasted no time in bringing her contrariness under control, catching her beneath one arm and swinging her round to face him.

      Momentarily off balance, all her resentments, hurts and loss of face rose up to the surface and, with all her pent-up energy, she aimed a blow at his head which, if it had connected, would certainly have hurt him. But he was too quick for her. He had noted how her anger had simmered throughout the meal and how that, before too long, something would explode. In the blink of an eye, her wrist was caught and held away into the small of her back, his grip so painfully tight that no amount of twisting or writhing would dislodge him or prevent her other wrist from joining the first.

      ‘Let me go!’ she snarled. ‘Let me go! I do not want you. Not now or ever!’

      ‘Yes, I know all about that. Saints alive, woman, I never met anyone with so many preconceived ideas about men as you. And when you find a man you like, you’re prepared to dislike him because he’s even better than you thought he was. What kind of nonsense is that?’

      ‘It isn’t nonsense,’ she said, pulling against his restraint. ‘I’m

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