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‘Towards the orchard. He’s no fool, you know.’

Sybella found her black stallion happily munching windfall apples and looking frisky. He swished his tail at her approach and she stood still so as not to set him off on a canter through her bees. She had already noticed one hive had been knocked slightly off its base, but luckily the bees still seemed to be unconcernedly flying in with their pollen loads. She approached Scipio talking in a soothing voice and, after some skittish side-steppings and hurriedly scoffing a couple more apples, he decided the game was up. He nudged her companionably as she slipped the halter over his head and led him back to Gem.

Sybella was aware that time was passing and she could not now prepare herself for her visitor. She had to replace the beehive, which involved walking into a busy colony of bees: none stung her, and she hurried into the house to wash her hands and straighten her workaday gown.

At the front of the house, there was the clatter of hooves as a curricle swept up the drive and came to a dashing halt at the front door. The driver climbed swiftly down and handed the reins to his groom. ‘Don’t let ’em get cold, John. I won’t be long.’ He strode up to the door and pealed the bell. No one had seen this magnificent equipage arrive with its black and red curricle and matched greys, except one small boy who caught sight of it from the entrance to the stables, where Nurse was busy marching him into the kitchen. His eyes were like saucers and he remonstrated with her, but she had her orders and carried him off to make the cake as agreed.

Beamish trudged to the door and opened it to a vision of imperious elegance. Mr Brabazon was dressed with the kind of immaculate restraint that Beau Brummell had introduced into the highest echelons of the ton. The cut, the fit and quality of the cloth was everything and Brabazon’s tall muscular physique showed his apparel off to best advantage. It had been many decades since someone of the highest fashion had set foot in the old house, but Beamish was past caring, and not easily impressed. He accepted the beautiful curly-brimmed beaver with indifference and tossed the magnificent many-caped driving coat over an old hall chair, then showed Mr Brabazon into the library. ‘I’ll see if I can find the mistress,’ Beamish muttered as he closed the door.

Anthony Brabazon was not used to such blatant lack of recognition or respect. He thought this shabby old servant’s manner verged on the insolent. The library was well-stocked with books but a medieval manor house such as this did not offer large airy rooms and the high ceilings he was used to in his Town house and at Shotten Hall. Here he could touch the blackened beams without having to stretch his arms much above his head. A fire was burning in the grate and the room was inviting enough, but it was modest and lacking in distinction. He paced. He was concerned about his horses. Mr Brabazon was not used to being kept waiting: damned country manners, he thought to himself. His handsome aquiline face showed little expression, but his cool grey eyes glittered under the dark supercilious brows.

The door opened and he was surprised by a young woman, striking as much for her good looks as for her dishevelled dress. ‘Mr Brabazon?’ Her expressive eyes looked at him enquiringly. ‘My name’s Sybella Lovatt.’ She smiled and put out her hand. For a moment, the man who liked to be in control was disconcerted. He knew Mrs Lovatt was a widow and had imagined someone older and less consequential, certainly much less interesting.

He quickly regained his icy poise, took Sybella’s outstretched hand and bowed. ‘I wanted to make your acquaintance and thank you for looking after my cousin so well.’

‘It was our pleasure, I assure you. He’s a charming young man.’ Sybella knew the game she had to play.

Mr Brabazon raised an eyebrow. ‘He may be charming, but I’m afraid he’s a rattle and a scapegrace. Falling from a tree, I believe? No doubt a trifle disguised. I have a mind to put him back on leading reins.’ His haughty expression hardened to something more unforgiving. Sybella could not suppress a rogue curl of amusement.

‘Being his lordship’s guardian seems rather an onerous charge?’ She liked the idea that someone was capable of ruffling this proud man’s high-crested hauteur. He cast her a fleeting look, uncertain whether she was teasing. She resumed her social role. ‘May I offer you something to drink, some wine, perhaps?’

He was once more distant and lofty. ‘No, thank you. I’ve just arrived at the Hall and am expected back soon.’

Sybella gestured for him to sit and she drew up a chair on the opposite side of the fire. ‘I apologise for keeping you waiting. We had a break-out at the stables.’

‘And you had to deal with that, I presume?’ His cold eyes flickered with a certain kind of amusement as he surveyed her crumpled, homely dress.

Sybella was irritated by his air of condescension. ‘Actually, yes. My main man had gone to town when my stallion shoved past my groom and headed for the orchard. I’m the one who handles him best. Of course I had to deal with it.’

‘I suspect you are a woman of many talents,’ he murmured, with a smile that made her feel it was not meant as a compliment.

Mr Brabazon, watching conflicting emotions animate her face, reluctantly recognised she was an unusually handsome woman with her large green eyes, high cheekbones and luminous complexion. She looked disconcertingly young for a widow and distressingly unkempt for a woman of quality. He had glanced at the tendrils of fine dark hair that had escaped her chignon when suddenly his eye was caught by a bee making its way determinedly through the dark cloud, buzzing peevishly when its path was blocked. She did not seem to notice. Sybella had heard the bee and was unconcerned but met her visitor’s fixed gaze. ‘Does the bee bother you, sir?’ She leant forward solicitously.

‘Doesn’t it you?’ His eyes were on her face with an expression that made her uncomfortable.

‘To tell you the truth, no. You see, Mr Brabazon, I keep bees and I’m not afraid of them. In fact, I’m rather fond of them. I have some experimental beehives in the orchard. The bees are very productive there.’

‘And in your hair too, it would seem.’

Sybella was irritated by his amused sneer and stood up quickly. ‘If it distresses you to share our civilities with a bee, then I’ll liberate it and we can soon continue undistracted.’ She quickly whisked into the kitchen where Nurse was trying to keep James interested in the cake-making but he had not forgotten the horses he had just seen. He was jibbing at the bit and longing to get away: his mother was more concerned with freeing the bee from her hair.

Sybella hurried back to the library and found Mr Brabazon still in his chair, his long elegantly clad legs stretched in front of him and casually crossed at the ankle, his boots gleaming in the firelight. He was gazing disconsolately into the flames and looked up at her as she returned. ‘You mention your bees. Do you run your estate yourself?’

‘With some help from George, my husband’s man in the Hussars.’ She sat down opposite him again. ‘I think it’s always better to run one’s own estates. No one else can be expected to give all the care and attention necessary.’

Mr Brabazon took this as a veiled admonishment of him. His estate at Shotten had been neglected ever since he had inherited it from his father. His acres ran alongside the Carey estate and the difference between the management of the two was clear, but he did not welcome an unworldly young woman attempting to lower his crest by pointing it out.

‘I’m thinking of taking a more active role. Perhaps I should ask your advice on bee husbandry.’ None of this had been in his mind at all. In fact, he had been counting the days when he could take his reprobate ward back to London with him to resume his life of pleasure. But there was something that challenged him about this young woman’s evident disdain for his indifference to his estate, probably for his indolent way of life too. He was rather surprised to hear his own voice suggesting a greater interest in estate management than he had ever previously contemplated. He had been stung into doing something uncharacteristic and did not appreciate the sense of the reins slipping momentarily from his grasp.

His words were uttered so drily it was not clear if he was serious, but Sybella had no time to respond. The library door burst open and Mr Brabazon turned to see a young child bowl in and dash excitedly up to his mother. ‘I ’scaped! I ’scaped!’ he said triumphantly.

Sybella caught her son by the hand and extricated a piece of bread and honey from his fist. ‘Wait a moment, young man. Where are your manners? Mr Brabazon, may I introduce my son, James?’

‘My name’s Jim,’ the child said with an air of consequence.

‘How do you do? My name’s Mr Brabazon.’

Sybella saw a look of dawning understanding in her son’s face but was not quick enough to intercept him as he skipped to their visitor’s side and placed a pudgy hand, sticky with honey, on his immaculate knee. ‘Your ’orses? Bootiful high-steppers. I see ’em?’ The angelic face gazed up winningly into the lean, forbidding one.