is a gentleman arrived, m’lady,’ Willett said in his soft voice. He was making no attempt to conceal his disapproval of their visitor. ‘He…he says he is related to your ladyship’s family, but—’
Angel laughed. ‘There, you see, Aunt. What did I tell you? It is Cousin Frederick, come to heal the breach himself.’
Willett coughed apologetically. ‘The…er…gentleman gives his name as Rosevale. Julian Rosevale.’
Angel put her hand to her throat.
And in that same moment, Lady Charlotte, who never allowed herself to show the slightest emotion in company, sank softly to the floor in a dead faint.
Hatless and head bowed, the Earl of Penrose remained on one knee by the graveside for several minutes more. He refused to acknowledge the rapidly waning winter light, or the steady rain that was soaking into his caped coat.
Ross Graham, standing awkwardly on the other side of the plain grey slab, seemed to be about to speak, but then thought better of it. He bowed his head once more, waiting.
At last, Penrose raised his head and stood up. His thick dark hair had been slicked down by the rain. He rubbed the back of his neck to wipe away the droplets that were now threatening to run down inside his shirt. Then, with a tiny shrug, he brushed the dirt from his pantaloons and resumed his beaver hat. ‘Come, Ross,’ he said, a little gruffly, ‘let’s get ourselves back to the inn. You look as if you are freezing.’
Ross smiled half-heartedly, but fell into step beside his friend. Their boots sank into the muddy grass. ‘Every time I’ve come here, the weather has been foul.’ His soft Scottish accent was unmistakable in almost every word he spoke. ‘Do you think she’s testing us?’
Penrose laughed in his throat. ‘No, not she. Aunt Mary was kindness itself. You know that just as well as I do. She’d not ask us to put ourselves to the least inconvenience on her behalf.’ He looked back at the tiny posy of snowdrops he had found to lay on Mary Rosevale’s grave. She had always loved snowdrops. The rain was making them look bedraggled already, yet they seemed to glow against the drab stone. As much of a ray of sunshine as Aunt Mary had ever had in her grey existence.
‘Penrose, I—’
‘Do you have to call me that, Ross?’ The Earl sounded more weary than angry.
‘No. But it is your name.’
Penrose shook his head. ‘Yes, I suppose… But I have plenty of others, too, as you know very well. If you must be so pompous, you could try Frederick, for example, or Maximilian, or even—heaven help me—Augustus!’
Ross laughed and clapped the Earl on his soggy shoulder. ‘I think not. The last time I called you Augustus, as I remember, you threatened to knock me down.’
‘Yes. You deserved it, too.’ Ross was his oldest friend and one of the few who ever dared to tease him when he was in a fit of the sullens. They had grown up together. Aunt Mary had been like a mother to them, and the bonds remained strong, both to each other, and to her memory. ‘You might be safer to stick with “Max”.’
Ross merely nodded and continued to stride towards the carriage where the Earl’s groom waited, hopping impatiently from one foot to the other.
‘You’re soaked to the skin, Cap’n,’ he said bluntly.
‘We’ve been through much worse, Sergeant,’ replied Penrose, reverting to their army ways without a moment’s thought. He and Sergeant Ramsey had shared many a flea-ridden billet in the Peninsula, in searing heat and in bitter cold. ‘A little wet won’t hurt me.’
‘No, sir, but—’
‘Might I suggest that you two continue your discussion once we are back under cover?’ said Ross with a lift of his eyebrow. ‘I, for one, am looking forward to a bowl of steaming hot punch. I am sure that his lordship feels the same.’
Ramsey looked nonplussed for a moment at the implied rebuke, but he was soon bustling his gentlemen into their seats. ‘We’ll have you back at the inn in a pig’s whisper, m’lord,’ he said, grinning as he pronounced the unfamiliar title. ‘You, too, sir.’
Penrose leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. It always affected him, the sight of Aunt Mary’s grave. He should have come home earlier, helped her more… Her life had been so hard, at the beck and call first of her own father, and then of his. Neither of them had treated her as more than an unpaid servant. His own father, miser that he was, had insisted that Mary bring up his son so that he could be spared the inconvenience of finding another wife. For marriage, his father had said, was a plaguey expensive business. A new wife was always bent on finding ways of emptying a man’s purse, whereas a spinster sister was easily controlled. Poor Mary. She had had so little of life’s luxuries. And she had never had a home of her own, or children. Those joys had been denied her, by her own family, and by the heartless old man who had held the Penrose titles.
The new Earl of Penrose shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the thought of his hated predecessor. A pity there had been no chance to avenge Mary’s wrongs. There was only a sister and a daughter left. He could not make war on women.
Old man Penrose had made war on Mary, had he not?
But Mary had had some consolation. She had been loved, and dearly so, by Penrose and by Ross Graham, the orphan she had taken in and defended against all the world, including her own family. Meek as a lamb where her own interests were concerned, she had become like a tigress when her boys were under attack. She had saved them, many and many a time. But, when it had come to saving her, Max and Ross had come too late.
‘A penny for ’em.’
Max looked up. Rather against his will, he found himself returning Ross’s smile. There was something about those glinting blue eyes… Ross’s sunny nature seemed to admit neither defeat nor despair. And his optimism was infectious on a dank February day by a graveyard.
‘What you need, my friend,’ said Ross, his smile broadening into a grin, ‘apart from the punch, of course, is a battle to fight. Can’t be brooding on your own troubles if the enemy is marching over the ridge.’
Max laughed, but there was precious little humour in it. ‘No chance of that, Ross. Boney’s finished now.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of Boney, as it happens, though I, for one, won’t write him off till he’s dead. Elba is too near France for my liking.’
The Earl shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.
‘No, I was thinking about you, Max. You need to get your teeth into something. Something worthwhile. Why don’t you do something in the House? You were talking about the plight of the old soldiers begging in the streets. Why not take up their cause?’
‘Because I can’t afford to take my seat, if you must know. With no money, I’m a pretty sorry excuse for an earl.’ He realised he was sounding increasingly testy. It was yet another lamentable Rosevale trait. He must make more effort to curb it.
‘Forgive me, but I don’t understand. You were comfortable enough before.’
‘I still am—for an anonymous captain in a marching regiment. But an earl… That’s entirely different, Ross. An earl has houses, estates, retainers, obligations… I have the title and the obligations, but nowhere near enough blunt to meet them. That’s just one more charge to lay at old man Penrose’s door. He and that daughter of his have tied me hand and foot.’
‘You speak almost as if he were still alive. What on earth is the matter with you? Old Penrose is dead more than a twelvemonth. You are the Earl of Penrose now.’
‘Aye, but his daughter lives on to laugh in my face. The haughty—and wealthy—Baroness Rosevale carries on where her father left off. Both venting their spite on our family.’
‘You—’
‘Confound it, Ross. You know as well as I do how they treated Aunt