‘You will never guess what has happened since you were gone.’
‘What is it, cousin?’
Deborah was already certain that she knew. Master Henderson had spoken of his intentions. She smiled but held her peace. Let Sarah enjoy her moment of triumph to the full.
‘Master Henderson has gone to summon chairs for us, Debs—but that is not my news. I told him we were to leave London soon and he was devastated. He returns with us to the house and will beg my uncle for my hand in marriage.’ Sarah looked at her anxiously. ‘Do you think Sir Edward will look favourably on the match?’
‘Is it what you truly desire, Sarah?’
‘Yes, with all my heart.’
‘Then I am sure my father will consent. Master Henderson is of good family and, though not wealthy, will come into an estate on his father’s death. Besides, you have money lodged with the goldsmiths of London. Father placed it in safe keeping when your father’s house was sold. You will not go to your husband with empty coffers.’
‘Both you and my uncle have been so good to me,’ Sarah declared. ‘I shall be sad to leave you, Deborah—though I cannot wait to be Master Henderson’s true wife. He loves me with all his heart and I love him.’
‘Then you are fortunate, cousin.’
‘Yes, indeed I am.’ Sarah smiled as she saw her gallant returning with two sedan chairs and their bearers in tow. ‘Is he not handsome, Debs?’
‘Very handsome,’ Deborah agreed, though privately she thought the young man’s features a little weak. For herself she preferred stronger men like her father…and the marquis. ‘All I wish for is your happiness, cousin.’
‘And I yours,’ Sarah replied, her eyes curious as she looked at Deborah. ‘Have you found no one at Court who stirs your heart, Debs?’
‘No one,’ Deborah answered at once. She did not meet her cousin’s open gaze for she knew that she lied, and Sarah would see it in her face. One man had stirred forbidden feelings in her, but she would not admit it to anyone. ‘I have not been as fortunate as you, sweet Sarah.’
‘Mistress Stirling…’ Arriving breathless and anxious at that moment, the young man looked at her and then his beloved. ‘Mistress Palmer has spoken to you of my hopes?’
‘She has, sir—and I approve. I am certain Sir Edward can have no objection, though of course I may not speak for him.’
‘No, no, of course not. It was just that Sarah said he always does as you wish…’ Master Henderson flushed and looked awkward. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to imply anything…’
‘I have taken no offence, sir. It is well known that my father indulges me. I am in favour of my cousin’s marriage to you—and I ask only that you treat her with kindness.’
‘I shall spend my life serving her,’ he avowed, a flush in his cheeks. ‘I live only for her.’
‘Then I may ask no more.’
Deborah was thoughtful as she was handed into her chair. Master Henderson was truly a gentleman and it was thoughtful of him to escort her and Sarah back to their lodgings, though they were safe enough with her father’s servant to walk a little distance behind. There were parts of London she would not have dared to venture to, even in broad day, but here in this busy street with honest folk going about their business, they had never been in danger.
She smiled as she saw the young man’s hand upon his sword. He was prepared to defend his beloved with his life—yet she wondered how capable he would be should beggars or footpads attack them. If that were to happen she would rather trust her stout footman—or perhaps the Marquis de Vere.
Deborah thought it would be a brave footpad who attacked a lady escorted by the marquis. She imagined that he was skilled with the weapon he had worn at his side that morning. If she were ever in a dangerous situation, she would be glad of his company.
Such foolish thoughts! She was more like to need protecting from the Marquis de Vere. He was charming but a rogue and she had best remember that and put him out of her head once and for all.
Deborah tried valiantly to dismiss the pictures, which would keep popping into her head. Soon she would be returning to her home in the country, and then she would never see the rogue again.
Perhaps she would be married within the year—to the son of the man who was the marquis’s sworn enemy.
‘Well, Deborah, I am glad to see your cousin settled,’ Sir Edward remarked to his daughter when they were alone later that day. ‘We shall remain in London for her betrothal and we can all travel home together when Master Henderson takes Sarah to meet his family.’
‘Yes, Father. It is fortunate that Master Henderson lives no more than fifty leagues from us. His family will not have so very far to travel for the wedding. We must do our best for her, see that she leaves us well endowed with linens and goods.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Sir Edward agreed. ‘All that will be seen to. Now it is of you and your marriage I wish to speak, Deborah. Señor Sanchez has returned. He called on me while you were out this morning, bringing letters for us both and a gift for you.’
He handed her a small object wrapped in blue velvet. When she opened it, Deborah gasped in surprise and pleasure. It was a miniature portrait of a young and handsome man painted on a shell background and framed in gold set with garnets and pearls.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘He is beautiful, Father. I have never seen such a countenance on any man. Do you think it can be a true likeness? Can anyone have hair that colour—like spun silver—and eyes so very blue?’
‘If you look at the back you will find a compartment that opens,’ her father said. ‘Within it there is a lock of hair just that colour.’ Sir Edward smiled as he saw the wonder in her face. ‘So if the hair be true we must suppose the artist has not lied and it is a faithful likeness.’
‘And this is Miguel Cortes?’
‘I am assured of it, Deborah.’ Her father arched his brows at her. ‘Does his gift please you, my child?’
Deborah stared at the portrait in her hand for a while before answering. She seemed to see another, darker image—a man with laughing eyes and a roguish manner—but she resolutely shut it out. The Marquis de Vere was a man of mystery and shadows, of light and dark: Miguel Cortes had the face of an angel, his mouth curved in a smile of great sweetness.
‘It pleases me very well, Father,’ she replied at last. ‘If Miguel Cortes is as pleasant as his likeness would indicate, I think he would make any woman a fine husband.’
‘I believe it could be a good match for you, Deborah.’ Sir Edward was clearly excited about something. ‘Don Manola’s letter was writ in the warmest terms. He says it would give him great pleasure if our families could be joined in marriage—and he has asked that we visit him. If I find the life suits me, I am invited to join with the Don in a new business venture.’
‘Oh, Father!’ Deborah gazed at him in delight. ‘Does that mean that I should see you sometimes?’
‘Often,’ her father assured her with a smile. He seemed to have shed all his inhibitions about her marriage. ‘I must admit that I wondered how I should bring myself to part from you, daughter—but now it may not be necessary. Don Manola offers me the hospitality of his home whenever I care to visit—and to help me build a villa on his own land if I should wish to settle in Spain. He has told me of a place where sweet oranges grow…’
‘Then I have nothing more to ask.’ Deborah flew to embrace him. ‘To have you near me always—it would give me the greatest happiness in life, my dear father.’
‘It is more than I could ever have hoped for had you married here,’ her father confessed. ‘We might have met occasionally, but your home would have been with your husband. This is great