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‘Yes, indeed. I have my father’s estate in Oxfordshire and his investments, raising an income of just under ten thousand a year, and I’m moving to Hasterleigh Manor. That estate has rents of about five thousand a year. I am very happy to live in the village and if Miss Blythe should agree to marry me, she will be in close proximity to you and the Abbey, and to Miss Appleby, of course.’

‘Ah, Miss Appleby. What does she feel about having to move from her childhood home?’

‘She has been more than gracious in what seems a fundamentally unfair arrangement.’

‘It is what I would expect. I’ve come to realise what a remarkable woman she is.’ Lord Rokeby spoke with a catch of emotion in his voice.

George Lockwood nodded and said, ‘Loved and esteemed in the village, too, so I’m pleased she will not move away but live in the Lodge on the Manor estate. I’ll make sure the house is watertight and warm.’

It was close to one o’clock in the morning as the Rokeby chaise rumbled into the courtyard behind The King’s Head tavern. The moonlight was unusually bright, casting mysterious shadows and illuminating the old thatched roof with a silvery sheen that made the ancient building appear otherworldly. Despite the romance of moonlight, the inn was unmistakeably rooted in the real world. George Lockwood led the way to the bar where they were assaulted with the stench of sweat and cheap alcohol and the sight of bleary-eyed sots, some passed out on the settle by the fire. The owner behind the bar looked up, startled; travellers on legitimate business were not expected in the dead of night.

Lord Rokeby strode forward. ‘Good evening, sir. A word in private.’ His voice was quiet, but it was an order rather than a request. They were led into the same small room where Captain Ormonde and Charlotte had had their meal four hours before. ‘I’m Lord Rokeby and my underage daughter has been abducted by a Captain Ormonde; I think they may be here?’

His manner brooked no opposition and the innkeeper blustered, ‘Don’t blame me, m’lord. ’E said she was ’is sister!’ He seemed quite outraged at being so deceived.

‘They all say that,’ was Lord Rokeby’s dry reply. ‘Please show me to their rooms?’

The innkeeper at the bottom of the stairs indicated with his hands. ‘Gentleman on the left, lady on the right.’ Before he had finished speaking, George Lockwood had bounded up the stairs, two at a time, surprisingly light on his feet for such a big man. He knocked on Charlotte’s door and when there was no answer, opened it to find the bed empty. Fear and rage swept over him and he turned to barge through the door opposite. There he found a startled Ormonde, standing at the foot of the bed, his shirt untucked, and Charlotte scrambling to her feet, smoothing down her skirts. With a sob she flew into his arms. ‘You found me! Thank you, Mr Lockwood.’ Her ecstatic face noticed Lord Rokeby who had followed George into the room. ‘And you too, my lord. How pleased I am to see you!’

Charlotte turned back to George Lockwood who had been in the saddle most of the day and was exhausted and dusty from the road. She was in disarray and tear-stained, yet they gazed into each other’s faces as if they had awoken from a half-sleep and were seeing each other and the world for the first time.

George folded her against his chest, his expression distorted by rage and anguish. ‘What has this blackguard done to you?’

‘Nothing, Mr Lockwood.’

Captain Ormonde’s languid voice cut through the fevered emotion. ‘You have rudely interrupted a very pleasant evening with my wife-to-be.’

Charlotte gasped and disentangling herself from his arms, attempted to drag George Lockwood away as he expostulated, ‘Despicable cur! How dare you!’

Captain Ormonde had recovered his sangfroid and sneered, ‘I think you’ll find the young lady came with me of her own accord.’ Before he finished speaking, a punishing left hook as fast as a serpent’s tongue sprang from George Lockwood’s forearm and landed in the middle of his smile. The Captain reeled backwards, almost losing his footing.

‘How dare you impugn Miss Blythe’s honour, you, a man without honour!’

Charlotte rushed forward to take George Lockwood’s arm. ‘I did go with him of my own volition. He threatened to ruin my father’s, my whole family’s reputation if I didn’t. I thought I could retrieve and destroy the piece of incriminating evidence before we got to Scotland.’

Lord Rokeby stepped forward and in a voice as cold as ice, said, ‘Ormonde. Show me this evidence.’

‘I will not, my lord.’ Captain Ormonde was holding his handkerchief to his nose.

George Lockwood had stripped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves as if prepared for a fight. The drunken customers downstairs, roused by the commotion, had staggered to the foot of the stairs but the innkeeper barred the way.

Lord Rokeby asked the Captain again, his face distorted by anger and made more intimidating by the contraction of his scar with tension and fatigue. His voice was full of contempt for the man he believed was a traitor to his country, outraged that he should cast such calumny onto his own brother. With some menace, he repeated, ‘Show me the evidence that you swore to Miss Blythe would ruin my family’s reputation.’

Captain Ormonde drawled, ‘I may be a blackguard but I’m not a fool.’

Lord Rokeby whipped the pistol from his waistband and pointed it straight at the Captain’s chest. ‘I don’t think you fool enough to ignore this. I know you as a traitor and will use it if I must.’

Charlotte gasped, ‘No!’

Captain Ormonde’s face was ashen as he put up his hands in apparent defeat. He turned to his coat and in a split second withdrew not a piece of paper but a duelling pistol. He swung round to face Lord Rokeby but the Earl was faster: he discharged his bullet and it knocked the Captain’s gun from his hand before thudding into the wall behind him.

George Lockwood picked up the duelling pistol and removed the shot. Lord Rokeby slipped his weapon back into his pocket. ‘I’ve shown you great indulgence. Now you reveal your evidence or I’ll search your effects myself.’ Captain Ormonde was beaten at last. He walked to his portmanteau, followed closely by Lord Rokeby, and rummaged through his clothes to reach the leather flap at the bottom, which he lifted to extract a piece of paper. The Earl called over his shoulder for another candle and George Lockwood left Charlotte’s side to bring a second flame closer. Rokeby read and then looked up, his face cold with disdain. ‘This is a receipt for your services to the enemy! It is dastardly to use this lie to coerce Miss Blythe to marry you. I presume so you could claim her fortune?’

Charlotte ran forward to take the paper and read it for herself. Close to tears, she looked from Lord Rokeby to George Lockwood and blurted out, ‘What a fool I’ve been. To put all of you in danger for this! I thought I was saving my father’s and his family’s name and all I did was shame myself!’ She hung her head.

Alistair Rokeby lifted her chin and looked into her tired face, her hair awry, her clothes crumpled and dusty, and he saw her for the first time too. She was so full of impetuous life, so willing to embark on a journey into the unknown when she felt it might bring justice, she was so brave and true. Her fair beauty was not his, but she shared his dark eyes, and he recognised her spirit and courage. His face softened as he folded the paper then placed it in his inside pocket. ‘It is you who have been wronged, Miss Blythe, but I think it better I keep this to ensure Captain Ormonde’s future behaviour.’

Lord Rokeby turned to the Captain and said with a look of contempt, ‘I will not hesitate to use this receipt against you should you ever attempt to compromise my family’s honour again. I suggest you emigrate. To the Americas.’ Then realising how late it was, he added, ‘We all need some sleep before returning to London. Mr Lockwood and I will take your room and you can find a suitable crib in the hay above the horses. Where the coachmen sleep.’