her father’s last illness she had derived great comfort from her drawing, and had even tentatively started work on a pictorial catalogue of the flora of the Steepwood Abbey woodlands. She was meticulously accurate in her sketches and thought that the work had some merit, although she did not dare hope that it would be good enough for publication. Now, however, her work offered just the solace that Lavender needed, and after luncheon she set off with her sketchbook and crayons, and went into the forest.
It was a beautiful day. The sunlight ran in dappled rivulets beneath the trees and the canopy was alive with the sound of birds, the loud laughing call of the green woodpecker and the chatter of the jay. The leaves were starting to fall and were crunchy beneath her feet and between their crisp covering the mushrooms pushed up. She spread her rug on a bank and sketched a few of the most colourful ones: the amethyst deceiver, with its vivid violet blue cap, and the verdigris toadstool that nestled in the grassy clearings. Gradually the fresh air and the peace had their desired effect and Lavender started to feel better. She drew a clump of wood vetch whose tendrils were clamped around a nearby tree stump. She knelt down to fix the detail of the purple-veined flowers and the fat, black seed pods, and it was only when she got up again that she saw that her skirt was streaked with earth and green with grass stains. The sun was lower now and she knew she had been out for several hours. She studied the sketch; it was good, the proportions were correct and the detail accurate, and she was happy to add it to her portfolio. Perhaps she would even show Caroline what she had done, for her sister-in-law was a keen amateur botanist.
Lavender packed up her bag, dusted her skirt down, and fixed her bonnet more securely on her head, retying the ribbons. Her hair was coming down and escaping from under the bonnet’s brim—long, straight strands of very fine fair hair that got caught on the breeze. Her cousin Julia had told her often that she was plain and Lavender knew that it was true that she seldom took care of her appearance, but just lately she had thought that her deep blue eyes were a little bit pretty and her figure quite good…Finding by some strange coincidence that her thoughts were drifting from her own appearance to that of Barnabas Hammond, Lavender hastily started to plan the next drawing for her catalogue.
She was walking along, weighing the rival merits of Caper Spurge and Mountain Melick Grass—neither of them colourful, but both an important part of the botanical record—when she heard the strangest sound and paused to listen. It was not a woodland noise at all—not a sound with which she was very familiar and certainly not one she expected to hear in Steepwood. It was the unmistakable sound of steel on steel.
Edging forward, Lavender crept down a path that was closely bordered by scrub and the pressing trees. It was not a path she had taken before, but she knew she was walking in the direction of Steepwood Lawn and was not afraid she would become lost. She was more afraid of being seen, but curiosity held her in a strong grip and she picked her way silently and with care. Within a hundred yards the forest fell back, revealing a sweep of green turf that was ideal for a duel and it was here that the contest was taking place. Lavender crept as close as she dared, staying in the cover of the trees. She took refuge behind one broad trunk and peeped round.
She had seen very few fencing matches, for it was not an activity of which most gently bred females had much experience. Years before, Lewis and Andrew had staged mock fights in the courtyard at Hewly, but Andrew was always too indolent to take them seriously and Lewis had won very quickly. Lavender could tell that this was no such match. She knew that the two men fighting here were doing so for pleasure rather than in earnest, for she could see the buttons on their foils, but she could also tell that they were taking it very seriously. Both were skilled swordsmen and fought with strength and determination, giving no quarter.
Lavender leant a little closer. One of the men was a complete stranger to her, a fair-haired giant who moved more slowly than his opponent but had the benefit of strength and reach. The other was only a few inches shorter, dark, lithe, muscular…Lavender gave a little squeak and clapped her hand over her mouth. There was no mistake—it had to be Barnabas Hammond.
It was fortunate that the noise of the contest drowned out Lavender’s involuntary gasp, for the last thing that she wanted was to be discovered. She stood, both hands pressed against the tree trunk, and stared. A ridiculous image of Barney as she had seen him that very morning floated before her eyes, a vision of him arranging hats on a trestle table. It was absurd. That man and this could surely not be the same—yet when the movement of the fight brought him round so that she could see his face again, Lavender knew there could be no mistake. Forgetting concealment, she simply stood and watched.
He moved with a speed and strength that held Lavender spellbound. There was something utterly compelling about his confidence and skill. Her avid gaze took in the way his sweat-damp shirt clung to the lines of his shoulders and back, and moved on with mesmerised attention to his close-fitting buckskins and bare feet. His shirt was open at the throat, revealing the strong, brown column of his neck, and the sun glinted on the tawny strands in his hair and turned his skin to a deep bronze. When he finally succeeded in disarming his opponent with a move that sent the other man’s foil flying through the air, he threw back his head and laughed.
‘A fine match! You get better, James, I swear you do!’
Lavender watched as the fair man retrieved his foil from the bushes and threw himself down on the grass. He was laughing too. ‘I rue the day I ever crossed swords with you, Barney! I would challenge you to another round for my revenge, but I am promised to a party at Jaffrey House and dare not be late!’ He sat up, grinning, and started to pull on his boots. ‘You do not know how fortunate you are to be spared such things, old fellow! If it were not for the beautiful blue eyes of a certain Miss Sheldon, I doubt I could stomach it!’ He sighed. ‘But she is the most angelic creature…’
‘Spare me.’ Lavender saw Barney grin. ‘Last time I saw you, it was a certain Lady Georgiana Cutler who had taken your fancy!’
‘I know!’ The fair-haired man got to his feet. He shook his head. ‘I am fickle! But Lady Georgiana could not hold a candle to Miss Sheldon—’
‘Take your languishings off elsewhere,’ Barney advised, picking up his foil. ‘I shall take me to the shop and work at my books whilst you are carousing!’
‘Life is damnably unfair!’ The other man grinned, clapping him on the back. ‘You to your studies and me to my fortune-hunting! Ah well. I’ll see you in Northampton, no doubt.’
They shook hands and Lavender watched him walk off in the direction of Jaffrey House, both foils tucked under his arm. She stayed quite still, watching, as Barney pulled his boots on and started to walk slowly across the greensward towards the trees. His head was bent and the dark hair had fallen across his forehead. He smoothed it back with an absentminded gesture. Lavender could hear him whistling under his breath, a lilting tune that hung on the air.
She froze where she stood as he passed close by. Of all the odd things she had seen in Steepwood, this had to be amongst the strangest. That Barney Hammond should be such a superlative swordsman was extraordinary, since she could not imagine that fencing was amongst the pursuits that he had learned as a boy. Then there was his friendship with a gentleman who was clearly staying at Jaffrey House, the home of the Earl of Yardley. Lavender had heard that a party was staying at the house and if the Brabants had not been in mourning, they would have been invited to join them. She frowned. It was very odd. But perhaps she was simply being snobbish—again—in expecting Barney to conform to her expectations. He really was a most mysterious man…
At that moment, craning to get a last glimpse of him before he entered the trees, Lavender took a step forward. There was a deafening snap by her left ankle, something tugged hard at her skirts, and she tumbled over in the grass. The tree canopy spun above her head and her bonnet went bouncing away across the clearing, leaving her sprawled in a heap with her petticoats around her knees and a sharp pain in her left leg. She sat up a little unsteadily and bent to inspect the damage.
There was a rusty iron trap snapped shut around her skirts, its teeth grinning at her in an evil parody of a smile. Lavender felt a little faint as she realised how close she had come to stepping on it. Another few inches and it would have been her leg between those metal jaws, her bones broken without