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  “Servants?”

  “Well,” she blushed. “You’re quite a stranger here, are you not, my lord?”

  “What’s that to the purpose?”

  He was beginning to remind her painfully of her dead husband, who had often taken an equally impatient tone with her. But Kate wanted to get away from Warren House. She would do anything for Kate. She managed a tremulous smile. “You perhaps do not know that your butler and mine are first cousins?”

  “Good God!” It forced an explosive laugh out of him. “I was just wishing that that young rascal of a Kit was here so I could wager him my Parsons could outbuttle your man any day.”

  “You’d lose your money.” Her smile strengthened. “My Chilver is the older by several years. Perhaps you should ask him, my lord, whether I am able to hold housekeeping.”

  Like her daughter, she had surprised him by this insight into his doubts, but he found it more pardonable in her. “To tell truth,” he said, “I had been wondering if it would not be too hard a task for you to bring things about at the hall. We are all at sea, I am afraid.”

  “I know,” she said sympathetically. “A hogshead of strong and one of mild ale every day in the servants’ hall, and I don’t know how many dozen of wine. And best candles burning for their dinner! When Chilver told me that, I quite longed to pack my things and come at once. It’s beyond permission! Oh dear!” She quailed at the furious look he bent on her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”

  “Servants’ gossip,” he said awfully. “You know more about my household than I do, it seems, ma’am. How long do you think Parsons will keep his position after this?”

  “Oh, my lord, you couldn’t!” In her horror she jumped to her feet. “It’s entirely my fault, don’t you see! Chilver and I have been friends for ever—since I came here as a bride. Of course he tells me things, and of course I asked him. Oh, please, my lord—” She gave up, quelled by his frown.

  “You think, I take it, that I should make a friend of Parsons?”

  She received it, as he had intended her to, as the most crushing of set-downs and began a pitiful “Forgive me,” but was interrupted by her daughter.

  “One can only ask oneself,” said Miss Warrender, “whether Parsons would choose to make a friend of you.”

  “Kate!” Mrs. Warrender was suddenly and surprisingly dignified. “You will apologise to our guest at once.”

  “I will apologise to you, mamma.” And then, with the smile that changed her face: “And to our guest, since you bid me. Forgive me, my lord.” Another sweeping curtsy, “I am afraid I forgot myself. You will think me quite unsuitable now to teach your daughters manners.”

  It was indeed what he had been thinking and once again her quickness increased his anger. He rose to his feet, acknowledged her curtsy with a stiff bow, and turned to her mother, who was holding the lacy handkerchief again. “I am afraid I have wasted too much of your time, ma’am.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “You don’t want us. I can’t bear to think of all those good candles …”

  “Lord Hawth would prefer his discomforts to our company, mamma,” said Miss Warrender. “We have not had a chance to explain to him that we would prefer to live in the Dower House.”

  “The Dower House?” he exclaimed. “What the devil do you know about the Dower House?”

  “My lord.” Her tone was tolerant. “It’s plain to see you haven’t lived much in the country. If you really propose to set up house at the hall you had best resign yourself to the fact that everyone in the district knows all about you, and always will. As to the Dower House, it’s only common sense. If you were, for a moment, to entertain the idea of employing my mother and me, you most certainly would not wish to sit down at table with us every day, and you can hardly expect Mrs. Warrender to eat in the servants’ hall. Or had you some idea of neat little trays in the housekeeper’s room? The whole arrangement would cause talk enough in the district without our doing anything so idiotic as that. But I can see you have quite made up your mind against us. How are the children today? Pining on bread and water?” And then, throwing up a hand as his look blackened; “No, my lord, not servants’ gossip; woman’s intuition. Or do you like that less?”

  “I don’t like any part of it.” The frown was heavier than ever.

  “And no more do I.” Surprisingly, Mrs. Warrender spoke up. “It was an absurd idea from the first. I cannot think why I entertained it for an instant. I am afraid, my lord, you will have to make the best you can of bad children and spoiled dinners. I am sorry for the children, mind you. You cannot really be keeping them on bread and water? It’s very bad for them, at that growing age.” She rose with a little air of dignity that silenced him. “It was good of you to call, my lord. I am only sorry to have wasted so much of your valuable time. Yes, Chilver?”

  “Ma’am.” The butler actually looked human. “Mr. Warren is here.”

  “Mr. Warren?”

  “Yes, he begs you will forgive him for arriving somewhat before his time. Oh!” Badly shaken now, “Here is Mr. Warren.”

  “Well!” She had no time to comment on the failure of manners that had brought the young American so hard on the butler’s heels. They all three turned to look at the young man who was advancing with friendly hand outstretched. He was worth looking at. For one spellbound instant Lord Hawth caught Miss Warrender’s eye, saw it sparkle, and wondered if she was quite the pillar of salt he had thought her. Mr. Warren had done his best for this, his first appearance in the home he had so surprisingly inherited. He must have combed London, Hawth thought wryly, to have found a tailor who would outfit him at once so expensively and in such deplorable taste. Where in the world had he found the material for the appalling black-and-white checked trousers? And as if they were not bad enough, he wore a grey coat and striped lemon-and-white waistcoat with them. Tall and handsomely built, but fair-haired, fair-skinned and blue-eyed, he looked like nothing more than a schoolboy who had helped himself at random from his father’s wardrobe.

  “Mrs. Warrender.” The young American seized her hand and shook it warmly. “And my Cousin Kate.” He turned towards her, but her hand was somehow not available. Withdrawing his own and looking a little foolish, he turned back to Mrs. Warrender. “I trust you will forgive me, ma’am, for coming on you unawares, and before my time like this, but I thought it my duty, in view of the news.”

  “News?” asked Mrs. Warrender, puzzled. And then, remembering her manners; “Allow me to present you to our neighbour. Lord Hawth, Our kinsman, my lord, Mr. Warren.”

  “Warren?” Lord Hawth’s black brows rose. Here, too, there was no hand to be shaken. “I thought you were the heir in tail.”

  “Why, so I am.” An apologetic glance for the two ladies as he coloured more highly than ever. “Oh, you mean the name. My grandfather changed it at the time of the Revolution. He was a true blue patriot and thought that Warrender smacked something of the aristocratic. Besides, there was a Warren came over on the Mayflower, I believe.”

  “Your American aristocracy?” asked Kate drily.

  “Well, in a way.” He looked from one face to the other, visibly taken aback by their cool greeting, and finally came back to Mrs. Warrender. “I take it you have not heard the news then?”

  “What news, Mr. Warren?”

  “I wish you will call me George.”

  “For Mr. Washington?” asked Kate.

  “Of course.” He was beginning to understand. “You think me an interloper. I am sorry. I had hoped … And I am afraid the news I bring will make matters worse.”

  “Perhaps if you were to tell us this news of yours,” suggested Lord Hawth.

  “I’m afraid it looks very much like war,” said George Warren.

  “War! But my dear fellow, we have been at war since 1803. Since 1793 really.” Lord Hawth’s tone was so patronising that the young man coloured more hotly than ever.

  “With France! Of course! Everyone knows that! What brought me hurrying to m
y cousins’ side was the news that war between America and England is all too likely.”

  “And we are supposed to lose sleep over that?” asked Lord Hawth. “Surely you Colonials will not be so foolish as to risk a visit from our navy? Your seaboard cities would be in ruins before you had time to beg for terms.”

  “That’s not just what happened last time, sir. Have you forgotten Yorktown? It almost seems you must have. I tell you, your Orders in Council are more than can be borne. You are driving us into the arms of the Emperor Napoleon.” He pronounced it French fashion.

  “And a very uncomfortable bed-fellow you’ll find that jumped up Bonaparte. But why all the drama? What, if one may ask, has happened?”

  “There’s been a sea fight, sir—my lord—between our ship the President and your Little Belt. I’m afraid the Little Belt came off very much the worse.”

  “Afraid! Are you boasting, Mr. Warren?”

  “Boasting! I’m warning Mrs. Warrender that I fear it may come to war between our two countries.”

  “And American troops will land in Glinde Bay and ravish her and her daughter in their beds? They must be deeply grateful, Mr. Warren, that you have come so swiftly to their protection. Or will you be guiding your ships to land?”

  “Sir! Do you mean to insult me?”

  “By no means!” Lord Hawth’s tone was mocking. “I would surely never dare. Besides, as, I hope, a friend of these ladies, I must be grateful to you for your gallant offer of protection, even if I am not entirely certain of the need for it.”

  “It’s not the Americans I fear,” said George Warren, “as you must know as well as I, but the French. What of those camps the Emperor has at Boulogne? What of an invasion like the one you feared in 1804? I’ve heard alarming stories since I’ve been in London. Stories that an American is more likely to hear than an English lord. Stories of food and tithe riots. Of mobs setting their own price for bread.”

  “Mobs,” said Lord Hawth reflectively. “You Americans are expert in mob rule, are you not? You look, I take it, for what you expect to find.”

  “At least I look,” said the young American. “Lord Hawth.” Thoughtfully. “Of course. You own the Tide-mills here in the valley. I’d watch for trouble there, my lord. My postilion said something, driving down.”

  “Your postilion?” Lord Hawth’s tone was withering. “And what did the boots say at the hotel where you racked up for the night?”

  Mercifully they were interrupted by Chilver with light refreshments and an apologetic aside for Mrs. Warrender. “Ma’am, Mr. Warren’s man of business is in the study. He says he would be wishful to start back to town as soon as is possible.”

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Warrender.

  “Forehanded of you, Mr. Warren,” said Kate. “But I am afraid your man of business will just have to cool his heels while my mother sends for hers. You cannot imagine that she is going to give you the statement you so unreasonably demand, without her own representative being present. You would have done better to give us notice of your coming.”

  “So I am beginning to understand.” His anger had risen to match hers. He turned, with a passable bow, to Mrs. Warrender. “My apologies, ma’am, for this unlucky intrusion. I saw a reasonable looking inn in Glinde—the Bell, I think. My man of business and I will await your pleasure there.”

  “Nothing of the kind,” said Mrs. Warrender with unusual spirit. “This is your house, Mr. Warren. Your rooms will be ready for you by now, I have no doubt. As to any awkwardness …” She took a deep breath. “I think, Kate, you and I would be well advised to accept Lord Hawth’s kind invitation.” There was appeal in the quick look she flashed up at her first guest.

  “Delighted,” said he, gallantly concealing amazement.

  Chapter Three

  “Well, Mamma.” Next morning Kate looked up, laughing, from the trunk she was packing. “I never thought you had it in you.”

  “Neither did I!” Mrs. Warrender laughed and blushed. “But what could I do? Much more of that kind of talk, and it would have been pistols for two. And I could not have it said that I had let the American heir get himself killed the first day he was here.”

  “Indeed no, even the second day would have been bad enough! And killed he would have been, no doubt about that. I’m sure Lord Hawth is a devil of a marksman. But tell me, how did you leave things, you and he? I was too busy with poor ‘Call Me George’ to hear what you were saying.”

  “And I was glad of it,” said Mrs. Warrender. “I felt fool enough as it was. Imagine the effrontery of inviting ourselves to stay with that poor man.”

  “Well, he asked for it,” said Kate. “But are we going as guests, mamma dear, or as housekeeper and governess?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” said her mother.

  “On approval, perhaps. Like goods one orders from town and rather thinks one will not like when they get here?” She lifted a velvet pelisse from its shelf and folded it carefully. “You did burn our bridges with a vengeance, didn’t you? What shall we do if we don’t suit?”

  “God knows,” said Mrs. Warrender.

  Her man of business, Mr. Futherby, rode up to the house before the last trunk was packed. He had already made clear his distaste for the whole affair, but as Kate said, he was not on very good ground, since it was his carelessness that had left Mrs. Warrender’s jointure exposed to the demands of her husband’s creditors. He listened now with patent disapproval while she made the statement the heir and his attorney, Mr. Coombe, had demanded as to the identification of her dead son. “Of course it was Chris,” she said at last, breaking down into tears. “Who else could it have been?”

  “There, mamma.” Kate put a loving arm around her. “It is all over now, and Lord Hawth has been so good as to send his carriage for us. And a waggon for the luggage.” She held out a cool hand to George Warren. “Good-bye, Mr. Warren. You will apply to us if we can be of service to you in any way. So far as the business of the estate is concerned, Mr. Futherby will be your guide. Come, mamma.”

  Left alone in the elegant if slightly shabby drawing room that was now his, George Warren turned savagely on his man of business. “You’ve given me nothing but bad advice from the start. And look what it has brought me to! As for that tailor you recommended! I cannot think why I did not realise sooner what a no-hope he was. Your cousin, perhaps?” He looked gloomily down at the disastrous black-and-white checked trousers. “You should just have seen Miss Warrender’s expression when I was shown in. The glance she exchanged with that aristocratic friend of theirs! Well, no wonder!” He turned to Futherby, who had been making a little business of collecting his papers together at the other end of the room. “Mr. Futherby!”

  “Sir?”

  “Is there a tailor nearer than London? One who won’t make a figure of fun of me?”

  “Well—” Much though he disliked the whole business, Futherby had actually begun to find himself feeling sorry for the young American. “Mr. Warrender—and Mr. Chris—used sometimes to go to a man in Brighton. In an emergency, you understand.”

  “And this is most certainly that! You have his direction?”

  The attorney smiled greyly. “I paid the bills. And, in that connection, I should warn you, I think, that he takes advantage of his position as the only man who can cut a coat this side of London,”

  “You mean his prices are high?”

  “Quite shocking. And, I am afraid, there is worse.”

  “Worse?”

  Mr. Futherby took out a smuggled bandanna handkerchief and mopped his sweating brow. “It’s all happened so fast,” he said. “No proper notice. Forgive me, sir.” With a sideways glance for Coombe. “I have not even the figures to show you yet, but I think I should warn you that it is a sadly encumbered estate you are inheriting. And as for Snipe, the tailor … I am afraid there are a few bills still.” He came to an uncomfortable halt.

  “Outstanding?” said George Warren helpfully.

  “Well, yes, sir. It seemed be
st to pay up where it would most immediately affect the ladies.”

  “Quite right. I wanted to ask you about their position. As to Snipe, if you will let me have his bills this evening, I’ll ride in to Brighton tomorrow, settle them, and order myself some clothes I won’t blush to be seen in. He’ll make fast, I take it.”

  “For a consideration.”

  “Of course.”

  “But Mr. Warren!” Coombe had been dancing up and down on the sidelines of this conversation, trying in vain to get a word in. “You must not be settling the Warrenders’ bills. And besides, you heard what Mr. Futherby said. What will you settle them with?”

  “That, Mr. Coombe, is my affair. I have known you now, for, let me think, seven days. You have given me a great deal of advice and, so far as I can see, all of it has been bad. Thanks to you, I have made a fool of myself, alienated the relatives I wished to befriend, and look very much like losing my whole staff of servants. I’ve noticed their black looks, if you have not. Perhaps they will begin to think a little better of me when they see you pack your traps and start back to London.”

  “What?” Coombe was gobbling with surprise and anger.

  “You heard me, Mr. Coombe. It’s about time you listened to me. You have not asked me a single question, or listened to anything I said since we met. You have, in fact, treated me like the schoolboy I look. Well,” ruefully, “my fault. I’ve behaved like him! In a strange country one goes carefully, takes advice, listens to one’s friends. And you were all I had. To have made such a mull of things for me, you have to be either knave or fool. I want neither in my employment.” He crossed the room and gave a firm pull at the bellrope that hung by the door. It was his first gesture as master of the house, and they were all three very much aware of it.

  So was Chilver, who appeared almost at once. “Yes, sir?” His impassive countenance betrayed nothing of the furious discussion that was raging belowstairs.

  “Ah, Chilver.” George Warren had an attractive smile and a quick ear for names. “Mr. Coombe is leaving for London at once. Will you be so good as to have his things packed for him and order out the carriage.” And then, on a comic note of doubt and appeal: “I suppose there is a carriage, Chilver?”