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Winning the War Hero's Heart
Mary Nichols
Литагент HarperCollins EUR
AN UNSUITABLE ALLIANCERecently returned from the battlefields of Waterloo, the last thing wounded war hero Viscount Cavenham anticipates is a conflict in his home town! But that is exactly what Miles gets when he comes up against rebellious campaigner for justice and equality Helen Wayland.At first Miles relishes having headstrong, outspoken Helen as his foe, but as they continue to cross swords their animosity turns to attraction. Suddenly Miles finds he no longer wants Helen as his enemy – he’d like to make this unsuitable miss his wife!



Women, in his experience, were timid creatures who fainted at any sign of violence, who obeyed when told to keep out of it. They sat at their sewing, drank tea and gossiped about fashion and the latest on dit, and left the men to govern and keep order among the people for whom they were responsible. Helen Wayland was not a bit like that.
She plunged in where others feared to go and spoke her mind when she would have done better to remain silent. How could you tame a woman like that? Why, in heaven’s name, did he want to tame her? She was not his wife. She was not even eligible to be his wife.
Why, then, did he enjoy their meetings so much? Why did he savour the cut and thrust of her debate, even welcome her fiery temper? He remembered his mother looking sideways at him and asking him if he had developed a tendre for her and his sharp denial. Now, if she asked him again, he would not know how to answer. Miss Helen Wayland had him in thrall—so much so that he had been fool enough to ask her to dance with him. He had not danced since he had been wounded and did not know if he could. And what would she make of it if he found he could not? Why, in heaven’s name, had he said he would go?

About the Author
Born in Singapore, MARY NICHOLS came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children, and four grandchildren.
Previous novels by the same author:
RAGS-TO-RICHES
BRIDE THE EARL AND THE HOYDEN CLAIMING THE ASHBROOKE HEIR
(part of The Secret Baby Bargain)
HONOURABLE DOCTOR, IMPROPER
ARRANGEMENT THE CAPTAIN’S MYSTERIOUS LADY* (#ulink_26834a70-2cda-5c25-bf14-7a037cc6da4d) THE VISCOUNT’S UNCONVENTIONAL BRIDE* (#ulink_26834a70-2cda-5c25-bf14-7a037cc6da4d) LORD PORTMAN’S TROUBLESOME WIFE* (#ulink_26834a70-2cda-5c25-bf14-7a037cc6da4d) SIR ASHLEY’S METTLESOME MATCH* (#ulink_26834a70-2cda-5c25-bf14-7a037cc6da4d)
* (#ulink_0ad53d60-1137-5d05-963e-27e3cba51526)The Piccadilly Gentlemen’s Club mini-series
And available throughMills & Boon
Historical eBooks
WITH VICTORIA’S BLESSING
(part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages)
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Author’s Note
Seditious Libel
In the eighteenth and early nineteenth century, the libel laws were used to repress rebellion against the government, but their implementation was inconsistent. Writers and producers of newspapers and radical literature were under constant threat of prosecution and, when taken to court, were often faced with a hostile judge and jury. A defendant’s counsel could raise points of law, but could not summarise the case on behalf of the defendant until 1836. On the other hand, the Home Office lacked the means to prosecute everyone who published seditious matter and the writers often took their chances and got away with it. The prosecutions dwindled because defendants frequently managed to obtain an acquittal by exploiting the language in which the arraignment was made, and the legal authorities gave up trying for all but the most serious cases.
The year of 1816 was known as ‘the year without a summer’, not only in England, but all over the world, particularly in Northern Europe and North America. The year before there had been a huge explosion in the Mount Tamboura volcano on the Dutch East Indies, which had been rumbling since 1812. Thirty-eight cubic miles of dust and ash was sent up into the atmosphere, the ash column rising thousands of feet. The debris, including vast quantities of sulphur, took a year to circulate, its sheer volume obliterating the sun. The result was a cold, wet and miserable 1816. It rained off and on from May to September and, without sunlight, temperatures dropped dramatically. In the English countryside crops rotted in the fields before they could be harvested and those that were gathered rotted in storage because of the damp. Farm labourers were put out of work and added to the unemployed soldiers returning from the war with Napoleon.


Winning
The War Hero’s Heart
Mary Nichols



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Chapter One
1816
Helen heard the hunt some time before it came into view. The dogs were yelping and the horn sounding a wild halloo, and there was the thunder of hooves which seemed to shake the ground at her feet. Surely they would not come galloping through the village? The road was narrow, flanked on either side by workers’ cottages and their small gardens. And there were people on the street: woman gossiping at their gates, children playing, a cat sunning itself on one of the few days in the year in which the sun shone. Hearing the commotion, the women snatched up their children and disappeared indoors. The cat, its tail a wire brush, fled. Helen drew in her serviceable grey skirt and pushed herself against the fence of one of the cottages as the fox streaked past her. It scrambled over the gate and into a garden where a little boy was playing. It nearly knocked him over as it flew across the garden and through the hedge on the far side.
The dogs were in the street now, desperate to get at their quarry and the riders were not far behind. Afraid for the child, Helen moved swiftly into the garden, scooped him up and ran towards the house, but all she had time to do was press herself and the little one hard against the wall before the whole hunt was upon them. Dogs and horses milled about, trampling down rows of beans and cabbages and the currant bushes, wrecking the patch of grass and the few bedraggled flowers which had been growing each side of the path that ran between the rows and knocking over the hen coop and sending the chickens flapping and squawking to die under the horses’ hooves.
And then just as quickly they were gone, flattening the neatly clipped hedge at the end of the garden—all except one rider, who pulled up beside her. ‘Are you hurt, madam? Is your little one injured?’
Helen found herself looking up at the Earl of Warburton’s son, Viscount Cavenham. She knew who he was because a great fuss had been made of him in the district when he came back from Waterloo, a wounded hero. He did not look wounded to her, sitting arrogantly on a huge black stallion, looking down at her with what she took to be contempt. True, she was wearing her grey workaday dress, a wool spencer and a plain chip bonnet and the child she held so close to her bosom was filthy and bawling his head off, but that was no excuse. Still, he was the only one of the hunters to stop and enquire, so she ought to answer him.
‘No, we are not hurt, but the child is terrified. Have you no more sense than to come galloping all over other people’s property, ruining a year of hard work? This was once a productive garden. Now look at it.’ She waved an arm to encompass the mess.
‘The dogs follow the fox, madam,’ he said. ‘And the riders follow the dogs. And unless I am mistaken, the property is not yours, but part of the Cavenham estate. The Earl may go where he chooses.’
‘How arrogant and unfeeling can you be?’ she demanded. ‘How would you like it if someone trampled all over Ravens Park and terrified your children?’
‘I have no children.’
‘You know what I mean,’ she countered.
His smile transformed his face from darkly brooding to almost human, but she was too angry to notice, too furious to take in his good looks, his thick dark hair curling below his riding hat and into his neck, his broad shoulders and the long elegant fingers holding the reins, not to mention a shapely thigh, clad in white riding breeches, with which he was controlling his restive mount. ‘Perhaps. But I do not think anyone would dare invade the Park.’
‘No, but why is there one law for the rich and another for the poor? And for your information, I am not the child’s mother and I do not live here. I am simply an observer.’
‘Oh.’ He looked slightly taken aback, but recovered quickly. ‘Then I suggest you reunite the child with his mother and mind your own business.’
‘I intend to make it my business,’ she said, as a woman came from the house, diverting him from a reply.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ she said, taking the child from Helen. ‘I was upstairs when I heard the hullabaloo and in my haste to come down and fetch Edward indoors to safety, I tripped and fell. It winded me for a moment. If you hadn’t acted so quickly …’ She stopped, suddenly seeing the Viscount. ‘My lord.’ She curtsied and dipped her head.
The gesture infuriated Helen. ‘He and his like have just frightened your little boy nearly to death and ruined your garden and you bend your knee to him. You should be angry and demanding compensation.’
‘I can’t do that,’ she murmured, looking fearfully up at the man on the horse. ‘This is a tied cottage and I work at the big house.’
Helen realised she would probably make matters worse if she went on, so she held her tongue. Looking from the woman to the Viscount, she caught him gazing at her with an expression of puzzlement. So, he did not know who she was. He would soon find out.
He turned his attention from her to the mother. ‘Are you hurt, madam?’
‘A bruise or two, my lord. It is nothing, I thank you.’
Helen could have kicked her for her meekness. No wonder men like the Earl and his son felt they had a God-given right to trample over poor folk, just as they had trampled over the garden.
‘I am sorry about the garden,’ his lordship said softly, taking Helen by surprise. ‘The dogs became too excited to control and there was nothing I could do.’ He smiled again, though this time it was aimed at the other woman, not Helen. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a coin, which he passed to her. She accepted it, thanked him and curtsied. Without looking at Helen again, he wheeled his horse about and rode off.
‘Of all the arrogance!’ Helen exclaimed, watching him go.
‘He has given me a whole guinea,’ the woman said in mitigation. ‘And, to be fair, he didn’t ride over the garden, did he? He was the only one who stopped.’
Helen was in no mood to see any good in the Earl of Warburton’s son and did not respond, but accepted an invitation to enter the cottage for a cup of tea. ‘It is only camomile,’ the woman said. ‘I do not have Indian tea.’
It was while she was waiting for the kettle to boil that she learned a little more about Mrs Watson. ‘My husband died at Waterloo,’ she told Helen, putting the baby on the floor while she set out a teapot and cups. ‘Eddie was only a baby when he went off. He’d been all through the Peninsula without a scratch and he didn’t have to re-enlist, but he would go because Viscount Cavenham went and he couldn’t have the Earl’s son going off and making him look a coward. Why are men so proud?’
‘I don’t know,’ Helen murmured, thinking of her father. He was proud, too, and look where that had got him.
‘I’m lucky the housekeeper at the big house gave me a job in the laundry,’ Mrs Watson went on. ‘While I have this cottage, I can manage. Having the garden helps with fruit and vegetables and eggs, though nothing was growing well this year. Do you think we will ever get a summer?’
‘Let us hope so,’ Helen said. ‘I fear for the workers if the harvest is ruined.’ The year so far had been uncommonly wet and cold. It had rained every day and there had been snow in London the week before. According to the London newspapers, which sometimes published news from the regions, there was snow in hilly districts only a little further north. Some crops were already rotting in the fields. Farm labourers were out of work and added to the numbers of soldiers returning from the end of the war with Napoleon. And yet the Earl must have his sport. Unlike some, he hunted all the year round.
‘I’ll have to see what I can salvage. Perhaps it’s not as bad as it looks.’ Mrs Watson broke in on Helen’s reverie. ‘I have you to thank that Eddie was not trampled along with it. He could have been killed. That would have been far, far worse.’
‘And I don’t suppose the Earl would care any more about that than he cared about your dead chickens.’
Mrs Watson handed her a cup of tea. ‘Is it just the Earl you dislike or is it all landed gentry?’
The question surprised Helen and for a moment she did not know how to answer. ‘The Earl of Warburton is typical of his kind,’ she said slowly. ‘Arrogant, selfish, unfeeling. They seem to think money will buy them anything. It would do them all good to be without it for a while to see how everyone else has to manage.’
Mrs Watson laughed. ‘My, you do have a chip on your shoulder, don’t you?’
‘I suppose I do,’ Helen admitted. ‘but I try not to let it show. Today I was so angry I couldn’t help it.’
‘You don’t live in the village, do you?’
‘No, in Warburton. My name is Helen Wayland.’
This evidently meant nothing to Mrs Watson so Helen did not enlighten her. In her experience, telling someone she owned and published the Warburton Record was a sure way to have them holding their tongues. They would not believe she did not intend to publish some calumny about them when all she wanted to do was publicise their plight.
‘You are a town dweller, Miss Wayland, and cannot know what it is like to live in a small village, dependent on the local landowner for everything …’
‘Perhaps you should tell me,’ Helen said, picking the baby up off the floor and cuddling him on her lap. He began playing with her father’s watch, which she wore as a fob. ‘Then I might understand.’
Mrs Watson looked doubtful, but her visitor was so obviously fond of children and genuinely interested that she poured them both a second cup of tea and sat down to answer her questions.

Miles considered whether to catch up with the hunt or call it a day and decided he might as well go home. He did not want to be party to any more ruined gardens and he certainly did not want to have to justify himself to irate young ladies with fierce hazel eyes. Who the devil was she? Not gentry, that was evident from the simple way she dressed and the way she did not mind that grubby child dirtying her clothes, but none of that detracted from her proud demeanour. She had defied him and that was something he was not used to and his first reaction had been anger. But what she had said had troubled his conscience, not that he could do anything to prevent his father running the hunt over his own land. He was a law unto himself and as far as he was concerned owning the land and the cottages meant he also owned those who dwelt in them.
Did the defiant Miss Grey Gown come under that heading? She had undoubtedly saved the child’s life and, in his opinion, its mother should not be the only one who was grateful because his father, as Master of the Hunt, should also give thanks that his dogs and horses had not trampled the little one to death. Had he even been aware of her or the child as he hurtled through the garden after the dogs?
And what on earth had the woman meant by saying ‘I intend to make it my business’? It sounded like a threat, but how could a mere nobody, who could not be more than five and twenty, threaten someone like the Earl of Warburton? Miles was suddenly and inexplicably afraid for her.
He was walking his horse, deep in thought, and did not at first notice the man sitting on the milestone on the edge of the village. His attention was drawn to him when he stood up and took a step towards him, his hand outstretched. ‘My lord …’
Miles pulled up. The man was in rags and painfully thin. ‘Byers, isn’t it?’ he queried, not sure the vision who confronted him could be the big strong man who had once been employed as a gardener at Ravens Park.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘What happened to you, man?’
‘I came back from the war and there was no work to be had and my wife and children had gone to live with her sister. Will you give a coin or two to tide me over and help feed my little ones, my lord?’
Miles could tell how difficult it was for him to beg.
‘Why did you not go back to Ravens Park when you were discharged?’ he asked.
‘The Earl had given my place to someone else, the cottage, too. He would not take me on again.’
‘I am sorry to hear that.’
‘I was a good worker,’ Byers went on. ‘No one ever found fault with what I did; I served my time for king and country and that’s all the thanks I get for it.’
‘I can understand your bitterness,’ Miles said. ‘But the garden at Ravens Park could not wait on your return, you know. And gardeners expect to be housed.’ He paused. ‘Did you see the hunt come through just now?’
‘Yes, nigh on bowled me over, it did. Why do you ask?’
‘It ran over Mrs Watson’s garden and wrecked it. If you go and put it right for her, I’ll pay you. Better than begging, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Off you go, then. When it’s done, come to the house and ask for me. I’ll have your wages for you.’
The man touched his forelock and Miles trotted on towards Ravens Park. Jack Byers wasn’t the only one unemployed in the area. There were other ex-soldiers begging on the streets and they were adding to the agricultural labourers who were out of work on account of the dreadful weather ruining the crops. Times were bad for everyone, especially in a countryside that depended on farming for a living. He ought to try to do something to help, but what? Handing out money was not the answer.
He shook the problem from him as he cantered up the drive towards the house. His father, who had been Viscount Cavenham at the time, had had it built just before he was born, to replace an older building that had fallen into disrepair. It was meant to celebrate his marriage and his earldom. Miles’s mother, Dorothea, only daughter of Earl Graine, was a catch for any man because of her ancient lineage, far superior to that of the Cavenhams. She was beautiful but frail and completely dominated by her husband. He was not physically violent towards her, but his tongue lashings often left her in tears. Miles loved his mother dearly and wished she would learn to stand up for herself. But he understood why she did not. She had been brought up in a culture in which the husband was head of the household and should be deferred to in all things and it distressed her when Miles argued with his father.
Their disagreements were usually over the way the Earl treated his people. He was like a petty king whose subjects were expected to bend the knee and obey his commands under pain of destitution. That only worked so far; sooner or later the people would rise up and rebel. Miles had seen what had happened in the army if an officer ruled by fear. It did not make for a happy and willing force, whereas justice tempered with mercy and a willingness to share in the men’s hardship worked wonders for morale.
The last straw had been when Miles had defended the boot boy from a beating on account of his lordship’s boots not being as shiny as he thought they should be. He had suffered the beating instead of the lad, which he did not regret, but as soon as he was old enough he had left home to join the army. He had come home to find his mother even more cowed than before and was shocked by how frail she seemed. Many a time he had bitten his tongue on a sharp retort for her sake. But it would be difficult to keep silent about the way Mrs Watson and Jack Byers had been treated.

Helen was taking her leave of Mrs Watson when Jack arrived to say he had been bidden to set her garden to rights.
‘Who bade you do it?’ Mrs Watson asked.
‘The Viscount. He said he would pay me.’
‘Then he’s not as black as he’s painted.’
‘It’s no more than you’re due,’ Helen put in. ‘But it should have been the Earl who ordered it.’
‘Don’t matter who ordered it,’ Byers said. ‘I’m glad enough of the work, though it won’t get me my old job back.’
‘Why did you lose your job?’ Helen asked.
‘I went to war. It weren’t as if I wanted to go, but the Earl hinted that if his son went, then I should not lag behind. I’d be a coward if I did. And then when I come back, my job had gone to someone else and the cottage with it. My wife and family had been turned out and gone to live with her sister in Warburton. She’s only got a small house and they’re cramped for room. I’ve been sleeping out o’ doors.’
‘You put my garden to rights and you can sleep in my outhouse,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘It’s dry and there’s straw for a bed. I’ll give you a blanket.’
‘Thank you kindly, ma’am.’
‘I’ll come back tomorrow and see how you got on,’ Helen said as she bade them goodbye.
She would ask Jack Byers to tell his story and she would talk to other ex-soldiers; she would have something to say about the Earl and his guests riding roughshod over other people’s gardens and their feelings. It would fill a page of the Warburton Record and perhaps she could stir up some influential consciences. She was already composing the article in her head as she walked the three miles back to Warburton.
Warburton was a bustling little market town with two churches, a chapel, a mill, a public school for those who could afford to send their children there and a dame school for those who could not. It had two doctors: Dr Graham, who looked after the elite who could afford his fees, and Dr Benton, who treated everyone else. The town also had a blacksmith, a farrier, a harness maker who also made and mended shoes, a butcher and provisions shop, a small haberdasher and the Warburton printing press, home of the Warburton Record, which was where Helen was bound.
The business occupied a building in the centre of the town. There was an office at the front and the printing press in a room at the back. Helen lived in an apartment above the shop with only Betty, her maid, for company. A sign hanging above the door proclaimed, ‘H. Wayland, publisher and printer. Proprietor of the Warburton Record. All printing tasks undertaken, large and small.’ The H. stood for Henry, of course, but it also served for Helen so she saw no reason to change it.
A bell tinkled as she opened the door and let herself in. At a desk to one side young Edgar Harrington was busy writing. Helen went to look over his shoulder. He was composing a report on recent court hearings.
‘Committed to Warburton Bridewell for twelve months,’ she read. ‘John Taylor for stealing a pig from Joseph Boswell, farmer of Littleacre near Warburton.’ And again. ‘For stealing a peck of wheat from the barn at Home Farm, Ravensbrook, Daniel Cummings was sentenced to six months in gaol.’ There were several cases of poaching brought by the gamekeeper at Ravens Park. All had been found guilty and been sentenced to varying degrees of punishment, from prison to transportation, which Helen thought unduly harsh. No doubt the Earl, who controlled his fellow magistrates, had demanded they be made an example of. But if the poor men were hungry and had hungry families, who could blame them if they took a rabbit or two, or even a pig? It was different for the organised gangs, who came from the big cities to sell their ill-gotten gains to willing buyers. Those she condemned.
She moved through to the back room where Tom Salter was typesetting. Tom was in his middle years and had been working for the Record ever since Helen’s father moved to Warburton eight years before. He was good at his job, though Helen suspected he had reservations about working for a woman. He looked up as she entered. ‘A Mr Roger Blakestone came in while you were out, Miss Wayland. He wants us to print that poster.’ He nodded to a large sheet of paper lying on another table. ‘I said I’d have to ask you. It could get us into trouble.’
Helen picked the poster up and perused it. It was notice of a rally to demonstrate the plight of the agricultural labourers, which was to take place on the common the following Saturday afternoon at half past two. ‘The speaker will be Jason Hardacre,’ it declared in large capital letters.
She understood why Tom was doubtful about accepting the job. Jason Hardacre was a known firebrand who went from town to town, urging workers to stand up to their employers and strike for more wages. He stirred up unrest wherever he went, inciting his followers to violence against the farmers, whom he called the oppressors, although the farmers were struggling to keep going themselves. He had had some initial success, but the labourers were too worried about losing their positions to support him wholeheartedly, especially when there were plenty of men ready to step into their shoes if they were dismissed. Publishing such a poster could be construed as seditious and the publisher liable to prosecution.
‘How many does he want printed?’ she asked.
‘Half a gross.’
‘Print them.’
‘I’m busy putting the paper together.’
‘Leave that. I’ve something new to put on the front page. I’ll write it now and have it ready in an hour. You can do that poster in the meantime.’
‘Miss Wayland, are you sure? You know how Mr Wayland was always in trouble for taking on work like that. The Earl had him prosecuted more than once, as well you know.’
‘Yes, Tom, I do know. But my father was never afraid to do what he thought was right, even if it meant he was in trouble for it. He did not see why the Earl should dictate what he published and neither do I.’
‘Very well,’ Tom answered and set aside the page he was typesetting to begin on the poster.
The newspaper consisted of two large folded sheets and was on sale by lunchtime every Wednesday and Saturday. Helen kept the front for her own reports and for court announcements from the London papers. Her readers liked to know what the Regent and the nobility were up to in London. They wanted to know who had been granted a peerage, who had been made a knight and they keenly awaited a résumé of what was being said in Parliament. Earlier in the month she had copied the report of Princess Charlotte’s wedding to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. It had been a joyous occasion in an otherwise miserable year.
The back page was almost all given over to advertisements: comestibles, livestock, agricultural implements and quack medicines. The inside pages were filled with local news: a farmer’s stack set on fire—there had been several instances of arson lately, which were put down to the unrest among the labourers—a newcomer of note moving into the district, unusual happenings in the town, reports of the magistrate’s sittings, who had been convicted, who let off with a caution for anything from petty theft and criminal damage to poaching and assault.
Helen skimmed through the latest notices of births, marriages, obituaries and coming events. Josiah Bird-wood had died, aged seventy-six. He had been married three times and sired thirty children. Donations and prizes were needed for the races and various contests for the Midsummer Fair, held on the common every year. The Earl and Countess of Warburton and Viscount Cavenham would grace it with their presence and judge some of the competitions. There was to be a dance at the Warburton Assembly Rooms to celebrate the first anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. Lord and Lady Somerfield’s daughter, Miss Verity Somerfield, was to come out with a grand ball to be held at their ancestral home at Gayton Hall.
Helen took off her bonnet and sat at her desk to report the hunt and the destruction it had caused.

Gilbert Cavenham, first Earl of Warburton, flung the newspaper on the table and swore loudly. ‘I thought I’d rid myself of that thorn in my side,’ he said to Miles. ‘But it seems his daughter is bent on continuing where he left off.’
‘What do you mean?’ Miles asked. ‘What thorn in your side? Whose daughter?’
‘Henry Wayland. He owned the Warburton Record and was always publishing libel. I had to bring him to court on more than one occasion, but neither fines nor prison seemed to deter him. Now he’s dead, I’m getting the same sort of rubbish from his daughter. Whoever heard of a woman running a newspaper?’
‘Why not?’ Miles said. ‘I suppose she inherited it and had no other way to support herself.’
‘I doubt she’ll carry it off. An appearance in court will soon dampen her ardour.’
‘What has she said to annoy you so much?’
‘Read it for yourself.’ He picked up the paper and waved it at his son. ‘Libel, that’s what it is, defamation of character. She needs to be taught she cannot ridicule me and get away with it.’
Miles was busy reading and hardly heard him. It was all he could do not to smile. The lady, whoever she was, had a witty turn of phrase. ‘The noble lord, in order to please his guests, literally left no stone unturned,’ he read. ‘Everything was ordered for their entertainment. The hunt hallooed its way over hill and dale, down lanes and across fields, chasing a fox that had surely been especially selected to give the most sport. Reynard led them a merry dance into the village of Ravensbrook, scattering the population and trampling down the small garden of a poor widow and putting her baby son in mortal danger. The excuse given by the only rider who deigned to pull up was, “The dogs follow the fox and the riders follow the dogs.” So we must blame the fox and no one else. But can a fox put right the damage that was done? Can the fox reset the rows of beans and peas? Can the fox revive dead chickens? Or still a child’s crying? Does killing the erring animal exact just retribution?
‘We must not begrudge the noble lord and his guests their sport, but who should pay for it? Surely not the poor widow endeavouring to provide for herself and her fatherless son. Not the fox, who was only doing what foxes do by nature and that is to run from its enemies. The dogs, perhaps? But they are trained to hunt the fox. Then we are left with whoever trained the hounds or caused them to be trained: the noble lord himself. But does he offer recompense, does he even apologise? No, because the land is his and he may ride over it whenever he chooses.
‘There is surely something wrong with that premise. However humble, an Englishman’s home is his castle and should be respected, even by those set above him, especially by those set above him. Responsibility should go hand in hand with privilege.’
Miles put the paper down with a smile. ‘She doesn’t mince her words, does she?’
‘I’ll send for Sobers,’ the Earl said. ‘He’ll issue a writ for defamation of character on my behalf and we shall see if she is so sharp when it comes to reporting her own downfall.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?’ Miles said, wondering who had given the paper the information; it could have been Jack Byers or Mrs Watson, but it was more likely to have been Miss Grey Gown. Was that what her veiled threat had meant? ‘Why not give her the opportunity to retract? I promised to pay Jack Byers to set the widow’s garden to rights. If that were made public, she would have to put the record straight.’
‘You did what?’ his father demanded angrily.
‘I found Byers begging and thought to give him a little work. It is sad to see a good, upright man reduced to holding out his hand for pennies. He always worked well when he was employed by the estate. Men like him should not be penalised for serving king and country. I gave him work and the widow will get her garden back.’
‘I wish you would not interfere in matters that do not concern you, Miles. You have belittled my authority and added to the ridicule and that I will not tolerate.’
‘So are you going to issue a writ on me, too?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Miles turned and left him. It had become more and more obvious that he and his father could not live amicably under the same roof, but he was reluctant to leave his mother. Since coming home six months before he had been looking for a property in the area where he could live independently and yet be close to her. He had found nothing suitable and had been considering buying Ravensbrook Manor, which stood just outside the perimeter of Ravens Park. It had been empty and derelict for years, but it was possible to see it had once been a substantial house. As a child, he had often crept through a broken window and played in it, his footsteps and laughter echoing as he ran from room to room, brandishing a wooden sword and pretending to capture it from an imaginary enemy. It would take time and money to restore it, but it was in an ideal position and so he had set about tracing its owner in order to make an offer. He said nothing to anyone of his plans and in the meantime continued to live at Ravens Park and tried not to be contentious for his mother’s sake, even if it did mean turning his back on an argument.
He went to the stables and found Jack Byers there talking to the head groom. Seeing Miles, Jack turned to touch his forelock. ‘I’ve done what you said, my lord. I’ve repaired the hedge and the hen coop, and some of the cabbages will survive, but there’s no rescuing the peas and beans.’
Miles delved in his pocket for coins to pay the man. ‘Your wages as promised and a little extra to buy half-a-dozen laying hens and new pea and bean seeds for Mrs Watson. There is time to replant, is there not?’
‘If I get them in this week they should grow, always supposing the weather improves.’
‘Have you found more permanent work yet?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ He pocketed the money and took his leave. Miles ordered his horse to be saddled and set off for Warburton.

He found the offices of the Warburton Record easily enough, dismounted and went inside. A young man looked up as he entered and scrambled to his feet. ‘My lord …’
‘I wish to speak to Miss Wayland. I believe she is the proprietor.’
‘Yes, she is. I’ll fetch her.’ He scuttled away.
Two minutes later he was surprised to find himself confronted by Miss Grey Gown herself. This time she was wearing a brown taffeta afternoon dress with a cream-lace fichu. Her rich chestnut hair was cut unusually short and fell about her face in soft curls. Her hazel eyes looked into his fearlessly. He smiled and bowed. ‘Miss Wayland?’
She bent her head in the polite gesture she would have used to any slight acquaintance. ‘My lord.’
He smiled. ‘Miss Wayland, you have upset my father, the Earl …’
‘Good.’
‘Not good. He is determined to teach you a lesson and is sending for his lawyer to issue a writ for defamation of character.’
If she was upset by this she did not show it. ‘Then you may tell the Earl I shall defend it. I wrote nothing but the unbiased truth.’
‘Truth is not considered a defence, you know.’
‘Then it ought to be.’
‘Can you afford a court case and a heavy fine?’
‘I shall win.’
‘Better to retract. You heard me apologise to Mrs Watson and I asked Jack Byers to mend Mrs Watson’s garden, which, if you had taken the trouble to discover, you would have known. That rather defeats your argument, don’t you think?’
She had felt guilty about not mentioning that in her report, but she was not going to admit it. ‘It is not relevant to the point I was making, that it was for the Earl to recognise his responsibility, not his son.’
‘I represent my father.’
‘I find it hard to believe the Earl sent you to plead with me.’ She chuckled suddenly and the hazel eyes were suddenly full of humour, which changed her whole countenance. He realised with a start that she was beautiful and found himself smiling back. ‘It would be entirely out of character.’
‘He did not send me, but that is neither here nor there. Mrs Watson was recompensed.’
‘That you did it is to your credit, my lord, but it does not invalidate my argument. The Earl should be the one to make restitution and he should learn that even the humblest widow is a person deserving of respect. But I fear he is too set in his ways for that ever to come about.’
Miles was inclined to agree, but it would be disloyal to his father to say so and in his opinion family disagreements should be kept within the family. ‘Nevertheless, restitution was made and it gives you the opportunity to reciprocate,’ he said. ‘Publish the true facts in your newspaper and the whole matter will be dropped.’
‘Do you speak on behalf of the Earl?’
He hesitated and in that hesitation she had her answer. ‘No, of course you do not. I wonder why you came.’
‘To save you from your own folly,’
‘Is it folly to stand up for the poor and oppressed? Is it folly to point out injustice when I see it?’
‘No, I admire that, but if it leads to your own downfall …’
‘Why are you concerned for my downfall? I should have thought you would rejoice at it.’
‘I do not rejoice at anyone’s downfall, Miss Wayland,’ he said, smiling to soften the fierce look she was giving him. ‘I suppose I like to think I am a just and fair person and you are—’
‘A woman!’ she finished for him. ‘And not equipped to deal in a man’s world, is that what you were about to say?’
‘There is some truth in that.’
‘Then I shall have to prove you wrong, my lord.’
‘So you will retract?’
‘There is nothing to gainsay. What I wrote was the truth. And I shall continue to write the truth, however uncomfortable it makes people feel.’
‘Making someone feel uncomfortable is only the half of it,’ he said. ‘There is the consequence to consider.’
‘A change of heart, perhaps?’
He did not think that would happen. ‘I meant an appearance in a court of law.’
‘I shall welcome the opportunity to have my say.’
‘I would not advise it. You might make matters a hundred times worse.’
‘Thank goodness I am not required to take your advice,’ she retorted.
He smiled and changed tack. ‘I believe your father and mine were often at loggerheads, Miss Wayland. Do you have to continue the feud, for feud I believe it was, though I have no idea how it started? It would be a pity to perpetuate it.’
‘It was not a feud, it was simply that my father published the truth as he saw it and that did not please the Earl who saw, and still sees, his position as unassailable. But I think it should be challenged.’
She had spirit, he would give her that, but did she really understand the implications of taking up swords against his father? ‘And you are determined to carry on where your father left off without even knowing why.’
‘I do know why. I have just told you: justice and fairness for those who cannot stand up for themselves.’
‘And who is to stand up for you?’
‘I can look after myself, my lord.’
This was sheer bravado. He could see the doubt in her expressive greeny-brown eyes. Beautiful eyes, he decided, bright and honest-looking. He doubted she could lie convincingly. ‘Then, as I cannot budge you, I will take my leave.’ He bowed, turned on his heel and was gone.
She watched him stop outside and look at the large sash window in which she had stuck the pages of the latest edition of the paper. Poor people could not afford newspapers. With tax duty of four pence they had to be sold at sixpence or sevenpence at least, which put them out of the reach of the ordinary working man and left her very little profit. She was convinced the tax was high in order to keep the lower orders from learning of things the government and those in authority did not want them to learn and so she had begun the habit of putting the pages in the window, so that it could be read aloud by those who could read to those who could not. His glance moved from that to one of Roger Blakestone’s posters advertising the rally on the common. As he walked back to his horse, she noticed he limped. She had read in the London paper that he had been wounded doing some deed of valour during the recent war with Napoleon and supposed that was the result.
Helen turned back to work, but the prospect of being sued was worrying. If she were heavily fined or sent to prison, then the Warburton Record and the printing business would have to be shut down and that meant no work for Edgar, who was the sole support of his mother, or Tom Salter, who had a wife and three children, or Betty, her maid, who was an orphan and whose only relation was a distant cousin too poor to help her. She had brought this on them in her pig-headedness.
Her father had spent six months in Norwich Castle for speaking out against the Earl enclosing common land which the villagers had worked since time immemorial. His crime had been called seditious libel. He had returned home after he served his sentence, a shadow of the man he had been. He was gaunt and thin, his hair had turned white and he walked with a stoop. It was a long time before he stood upright again and put on a little weight, but it did not seem to have taught him a lesson.
The fire in his belly against injustice wherever he saw it, and particularly against the Earl of Warburton, had been as fierce as ever. She had watched him and worried about him, tried to tempt him with his favourite food, tried to persuade him to rest while she ran the paper, but to no avail. His pen was vitriolic. She had no doubt that if he had not died of a seizure, he would have been arraigned again. That was her legacy, not bricks and mortar, not printing presses, but his undying passion, a passion she shared.
‘You are not going to let him bully you, are you?’ Edgar said from his desk where he had been setting out advertisements, one for a lecture at the assembly rooms called ‘At Waterloo with Wellington’ being given by some bigwig from London, Mr West advertising his agricultural implements, and the miller his flour. Another was for an elixir of youth at sixpence a bottle. Goodness knew what it contained, but she did not doubt it tasted vile and could not live up to its name.
‘I don’t want to, but it’s not only me I have to consider. There’s you and Tom and Betty.’
‘We’ll manage, don’t you fret.’
Tom came in from the back room in time to hear this. ‘Manage what?’
‘The Earl is threatening to sue me for defamation of character,’ she explained. ‘I am wondering if I ought to retract?’
‘But you said nothing that wasn’t true, did you?’
‘No, but the Viscount tells me that is no defence.’
‘He is only trying to frighten you. Call his bluff.’
‘You think I should?’
‘Yes, if you think you are in the right. Your father would have. We will stand by you.’
‘Thank you, both of you, but I fear I have made an enemy of the Viscount.’
In any other circumstances and if he was not who he was, she could have liked the Viscount. He had none of the arrogance of his father, but he was his father’s son nevertheless. Was he right about a feud? Her father had had no love for the Earl, but she had always supposed it was for altruistic reasons and not personal. But supposing there was something personal in their enmity, what could it possibly be? A wrong never righted? But why? Who was to blame? She sighed and went back to her work; she was unlikely to find the answer to that now.

Chapter Two
In spite of the overcast skies and threat of yet more rain, the crowd began gathering on the common by the middle of Saturday morning. Men, women and even children were milling about trying to find the best places to hear the speaker, for whom a flat cart had been drawn up to act as a platform. They were noisy and for the most part good-humoured, treating it as a day out. Stalls had been set up selling food and drink and favours. These were made of red, white and blue ribbon, no doubt leftover from the celebrations of victory the year before.
Helen, in her grey dress with a shawl over her head, mingled with the crowds. She had a small notebook and a pencil in her reticule, but did not bring it out for fear of being recognised. She wanted to report the proceedings anonymously. She was not the only one incognito, she discovered, when she found herself standing next to Viscount Cavenham. She hardly recognised him; he was dressed in yeoman’s clothes, fustian breeches and coat, rough boots, with a battered felt hat on his curls.
‘My lord,’ she said. ‘I never thought to see you here today.’
‘Shh,’ he said, looking about to see if she had been overheard. ‘Not so much of the “my lord” if you please.’
‘I could shout it,’ she threatened.
‘And have me lynched? I had not thought you so bloodthirsty, Miss Wayland.’
‘And not so much of the “Miss Wayland” either,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘Then what am I to call you?’
‘You do not need to address me at all.’
He ignored that. ‘I believe your name is Helen. A lovely name and most suitable for one as beautiful and fearless as you are.’
‘My lord, you go too far.’ It was said in a fierce whisper.
‘My name is Miles,’ he said. ‘Pray use it, then we shall be equal.’
‘We can never be equal,’ she said. ‘You, of all people, should know that.’
‘All are equal in God’s eyes.’
‘Then the Earl of Warburton must consider himself above God, for he would never accept that.’
‘My father belongs to the old school, Helen. I doubt he could be persuaded to change his ways now.’
They were being jostled by the crowd and he put a hand under her arm to steady her. She resisted her first impulse to knock it away. It was firm and warm and rather comforting. ‘And you?’ she asked, turning to look up at him and found him looking down at her with an expression she could not interpret. It was full of wry humour, which she found unnerving. Her life until recently had been governed by her work with her father. The men she met were her father’s employees, friends and business acquaintances and she dealt with them accordingly. Meeting and dealing with this man was outside her experience. For one thing they had not been properly introduced, which was absurd since they had already encountered and spoken to each other twice before. But it was not the lack of an introduction that confused her; it was the way he looked at her and his self-possession, which somehow seemed to diminish hers. She took herself firmly in hand. If she was going to fight the Earl, she had better learn to stand up to his son.
‘I am my own man, Helen.’
‘But you are also your father’s son.’
‘Oh, undoubtedly I am that.’
‘So, why are you here?’
‘Curiosity. I want to know why men risk everything to take part in meetings like this which could have them arrested and can have no favourable outcome.’
‘Desperation, I should think.’
‘And you, I presume, are here to report it for your newspaper.’
‘Yes.’
‘And can you do that without bias?’
‘I sincerely hope not. It would be excessively dull and achieve nothing.’
It was not the answer he expected and made him chuckle. ‘How long have you been producing the Warburton Record?’
‘The Record was started by my father. He worked for a printing press in London, but when we moved to Warburton he set up on his own account as a printer; then he realised there was no way of disseminating local news except by pamphlets published by those with an axe to grind, so he started the Record. That was eight years ago.’
‘I meant how long have you been doing it?’
‘I used to love helping my father as a child and learned the business along with my growing up, especially after we moved here. When he died last year, he left the business to me.’ She did not add that it was all he had to leave. His many clashes with authority had left him almost penniless. No one was interested in buying the business as a going concern; the only offer she had ever had was for the machinery. She was not told who the prospective buyer was, but suspected it was someone who had no interest in running the Record, but rather wished to shut it down. Far from discouraging her, it had given her the impetus to keep going, especially as Tom and Edgar were both behind her.
‘Why did your father choose to leave London and come to Warburton?’ he asked. ‘Norfolk is hardly the hub of government.’
‘It was my mother’s birthplace; as she was mortally ill, she wanted to die here where she had spent her childhood and where her parents had lived and died.’
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said softly.
‘Thank you, my—’ She stopped and corrected herself. ‘Thank you, sir.’
He bent over and whispered in her ear, so close his warm breath was having a strange effect on her limbs. ‘That’s better than “my lord”, but it’s still not the address I asked for.’
She pulled herself together. ‘Oh, I cannot use that. It wouldn’t be proper.’
‘Is it also improper for me to address you as Helen?’
‘You know it is, but no doubt you will continue to do as you please.’
‘But I like the name. It rolls off the tongue so readily.’
‘Now you are bamming me.’
‘No. That would be ungentlemanly.’
‘Ah, but at the moment you are not dressed as a gentleman. Why the disguise?’
‘Do you think I would learn anything in my usual garb? I would be hounded off the common. At least this way I can be an ordinary soldier back from the war, which I am.’ He looked about him. ‘I see a goodly number of those here, including Roger Blakestone. He was in my regiment, a troublemaker even then.’
‘No one has said he is a troublemaker. He is out of work, as they all are. The farmers have stood the men off because the crops, if they ever grew at all, have been ruined by the weather; there’s no work for the soldiers, either. There ought to be something they could do that is not reliant on the weather.’
‘And how will listening to a man like Jason Hardacre help that?’ he queried. ‘He is for insurrection, which will surely make matters worse.’
‘Oh, I do not think the people will be swayed by him. They simply want to make their voices heard and have a day out that doesn’t cost them anything but a copper or two for a pie and a glass of cordial.’
The behaviour of the crowd seemed to bear that out.
Many of them were in family groups, having a picnic. ‘I never thought of sustenance,’ he said. ‘And I’m suddenly devilish hungry. Would you like something to eat, Miss … Oh, dear, it will have to be Helen, after all.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I intend to have something. There’s a woman over there selling hot pies. I think I will try one of those.’
He left her and she thought that was the last she would see of him; suddenly she felt rather alone, even with the noisy crowds pushing and shoving and threatening to topple her over. She made her way to the edge of the throng where she could breathe freely. Five minutes later he was beside her again. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he said, handing her a paper packet in which reposed a succulent meat pie.
‘But I said no thank you,’ she said. ‘Do you never listen?’
‘Oh, I heard you, but I did not believe you. We have been standing about an age and I was ready to wager you would eat it if it were put before you.’
She considered refusing, but the pie did smell rather savoury. ‘I hate to waste it,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She took a bite and realised she was indeed rather hungry.
They stood together, enjoying their pies and not speaking, until a flourish of a bugle heralded the arrival of Jason Hardacre. A cheer went up as he mounted the cart with Mr Blakestone. But even before the latter opened his mouth to introduce the speaker, a troop of militia rode onto the common at a fast trot, right into the middle of the crowd, who attempted to scatter in terror, but they were so close-packed it was almost impossible to escape. There were shouts and screams as people were knocked over by the horses or hit by the blunt edge of a sword or the sharp point of a spur. Even if they had wanted to depart, which most of them did, they could not get away. In turning from one horseman, they were confronted by another.
Miles was swift to act. He guided Helen into the shelter of an elder bush, then ran into the middle of the mêlée. Picking up two small children who were in danger of being trampled and tucking one under each arm, he pushed his way towards the lieutenant of the troop. ‘Call your men off,’ he commanded. ‘Someone will be killed. This was a peaceful gathering until you arrived.’
‘It is a seditious meeting,’ the lieutenant said. ‘In tended to encourage rebellion against the law of the land. I am empowered to put it down by whatever means I think fit.’
‘By whose order?’
‘His lordship, the Earl of Warburton, sitting as a magistrate.’
‘And I am ordering you to call off your men before someone is killed.’
‘And who are you to be giving orders?’
He had obviously not been recognised in his lowly clothes. It made him smile. ‘My name is Captain Miles Cavenham of his Majesty’s Dragoon Guards. As your superior officer, I order you to call off your men and ride slowly from the field.’ His manner of delivering the order left no doubt he was used to command, even if he did choose to dress like every other man there.
The lieutenant obeyed reluctantly, but it was some time before order was restored and the people had the common to themselves again. Roger Blakestone and Jason Hardacre had disappeared as soon as the soldiers appeared. Miles returned the children to their weeping mother and set about assessing the casualties. He was joined by Helen.
There were a few broken bones, some blood and many bruises, but mercifully no one had been killed. Helen put that down to the Viscount’s timely intervention. He had undoubtedly also saved her, for there had been a horseman bearing down on them when he pushed her into the shelter of the bush.
‘This is what happens when people hold unlawful meetings,’ he said.
‘This is what happens when men like the Earl order mounted soldiers against innocent women and children,’ she retorted.
He knew she was right and did not respond. Instead he said, ‘We need medical assistance. Will the doctor come?’
‘I’ll fetch him.’
‘No, send a boy. He’ll be quicker. I need you to help me with the casualties. We must separate those who can go home and look to their own wounds from those who need medical attention. And we need pads and bandages. You do not faint at the sight of blood, I hope.’
‘No, I am not squeamish.’
Looking about her for someone to send, she noticed a skinny fellow in rags watching them intently. It was difficult to tell how old he was—he had a childlike look about him, though he must have been in his thirties. He was grinning and dancing from one foot to the other, his eyes bright with excitement.
‘Poor idiot,’ Miles said, as he suddenly darted away. ‘I hope someone is looking after him.’
Helen found a lad to send for the doctor and set about pulling up her skirt and undoing the ties of her petticoats and allowing them to drop to the ground. She picked them up and tore them into strips. They were busy binding some of the wounds when the doctor arrived and took over.

Those who had been bandaged were either sent home or to the town’s small hospital in carts and carriages. When everyone had gone and the common deserted except for a scattering of waste paper, broken pies— which were being attacked by pigeons and dogs—torn clothing and churned-up hoof marks, Miles and Helen found themselves alone, their work done.
They stood and faced each other. He had lost his hat and his curls lay untidily over his forehead. His face was smeared with mud and blood; it was only when he raised his hand to try to wipe it that Helen noticed the long cut on his forearm. It had ceased to bleed, but there was a dirty crust of dried blood on it.
‘You have been hurt,’ she said, in surprise. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘It is nothing. I felt the edge of the sword of one of the militia. It is not deep.’
‘It needs cleaning. And the doctor has gone. Come home with me and I’ll clean it for you. It’s nearer than Raven’s Park.’
They walked back to the centre of town. It was crowded with people who had managed to escape the melee; they were standing in groups discussing what had happened. They watched Miles and Helen go past and that set them talking again. Helen could almost hear them: ‘What’s going on there? That’s Viscount Cavenham or I’m a Dutchman. What is he doing dressed like that?’
‘Did you see him scoop up those children?’
‘And stop that lieutenant when he would have broken the head of everyone there. Seems a strange thing for him to do, seeing who he is.’
‘And what is Miss Wayland up to? I wager it will be in the next edition of the paper. She is bound to be in trouble for sponsoring the meeting.’
‘Well, if you want my opinion they are the most unlikely couple in Christendom.’
Miles must have realised it himself, for he was smiling as Helen opened the shop door and ushered him inside. She led the way through the front office to the printing room at the back where a basin and a jug of water were kept for the compositor to wash the ink from his fingers. She left him there while she ran upstairs to find ointment and bandages. When she returned he had already put water in the basin and was splashing the wound.
‘It is only a scratch,’ he said.
Nevertheless, he allowed her to sit him down and sponge it clean. This necessitated touching him and that set up a tumult inside her she could not understand. The warmth from his skin seemed to radiate from her fingers, up her arm and over her whole body until she felt as though she were on fire. Carefully she cleaned the cut, trying to ignore the heat in her limbs and hoping it did not show in her cheeks because it was the height of foolishness to be so affected. ‘There, I think I have it clean. A little ointment and a bandage and you’re done.’ She was surprised how normal her voice sounded.
‘Done,’ he repeated and laughed. ‘Perhaps you ought to turn me over and roast the other side, or perhaps stick me on a spit and set it turning slowly. I’ll be cooked in no time.’
‘And too tough to eat, I’ll wager,’ she said, answering him in the same way as she tied off the bandage. She could not pull down his shirtsleeve because it had been torn off.
‘Will you report my little adventure in your paper?’
‘What, tell everyone the Earl’s son was the hero of the hour? I thought you wanted to be incognito?’
‘So I did, so I do, but I did not think you would take any heed of that.’
‘Oh, I think I will. Otherwise it would spoil my story of the Earl’s infamy if his son turned out to be a hero. I fear he shall have to remain anonymous.’
‘Why the Earl’s infamy? He was not even there …’
‘Of course not. He would not dirty his hands, but he was the one who ordered the militia out.’
He agreed with her, but he knew his father would have a ready answer to that. ‘It was the lieutenant who did the damage,’ he said, acting devil’s advocate. ‘My father will undoubtedly say he never condoned violence and the lieutenant acted on his own initiative and the lieutenant will maintain the populace started the fight by resisting an order to disperse. And if you write anything to the contrary it will be another writ, you can be sure.’ He paused, then took her arm and added quietly,
‘Can I not persuade you to retract over the widow’s garden?’
‘No. That would be cowardly.’
‘Whatever you are, you are not a coward, Miss Wayland. Foolish, perhaps, wrongheaded, maybe, but not cowardly. I fear for you.’
‘Why? It is nothing to do with you.’
‘I seem to have got myself involved,’ he said wryly. ‘If only as a peacemaker. I have seen too much of war.’
Why he had disappointed her, she did not know. She could hardly have expected him to go against his father and openly condemn him. It was to his credit he had tried to make restitution to Mrs Watson and that was more than his father had done, and he had stopped the militia from causing even more harm than they had. Neither was enough to win her wholehearted approval. She stood back to allow him to stand.
He rose to his feet, six inches taller than she was, and she was tall for a woman. His disability was not obvious when he was standing, nor, she remembered, when he was on horseback. It was only when he walked that his limp became evident. She wondered incongruously if it stopped him dancing. She thrust the foolish thought from her and turned away, lest he read something in her expression she did not want him to know.
He took it as a dismissal, bowed to her and turned to leave. She accompanied him to the door and watched him go, striding with his ungainly gait down the road. Luckily the gossips had dispersed and the street was quiet.
After he had gone she set to work writing her report of the meeting that never happened, but she found it very difficult. The image of the Viscount and the memory of the warm sensation touching his skin had given her would not go away. She was afraid she was getting to like him a little too much and that was not good for her campaign against his father. The world must know how insufferably arrogant and unfeeling the Earl was. He had ruined her father without a qualm, because it was the worry of all the writs and his determination not to give in that had killed him in the end. If the Earl had his way, he would silence her, too. And she was determined he would not. She stiffened her spine, banished the image of the Viscount from her mind and picked up her pen. But after recording the foolishness of holding such a meeting in the first place, the cruel intervention of the militia on what had been a peaceful gathering, she felt obliged, in her honest way, to acknowledge the part played by Viscount Cavenham in saving the situation from becoming a real bloodbath.

Miles fetched his horse from the inn where he had left it and rode home in a contemplative mood. Miss Wayland was the most stubborn female he had ever come across. She was also resourceful and unafraid. But perhaps her lack of fear was simply ignorance of her true plight. He could not persuade his father to withdraw the writ and he could not persuade Miss Wayland to retract. He feared they were on a collision course. But, oh, how he admired her for it!

He found his mother alone in the morning room sitting at her embroidery. She had once been a great beauty, but that loveliness had faded over the years of being under the thumb of her domineering husband. Her hair, once so fine, was streaked with grey and her blue eyes were careworn. They lit up when she saw him, but catching sight of his torn sleeve and bandaged arm, she became alarmed. ‘Miles, whatever happened to you? You look as though you have been in a fight.’
‘I’m sorry, Mama, I should have changed before joining you. I will go and do so now and then I will tell you all about it. It is nothing for you to worry about.’
But when he returned, dressed more befitting a drawing room, in cream pantaloons, a brown-and-yellow striped waistcoat and a fresh shirt covering his bandaged arm, and recounted all that had happened, she was even more worried. ‘Miles, when your father hears of this, he will be very angry. Don’t you know better than to go against him? Think of me, if you cannot think of yourself.’
‘Mama, I would, but I could not stand by and let the militia knock those poor people about, could I? There were whole families there, enjoying a day out. They were in mortal danger. The militia were laying about them as if they were enjoying it.’
‘But why did you go there at all?’
‘Curiosity. I wanted to hear the men’s grievances and I wanted to see if Miss Wayland would go. I fear she will write it up to the detriment of the militia and whoever ordered them to prevent the meeting, and then she will be in more trouble.’
‘And that is another thing—what is your interest in Miss Wayland? She is not a lady, is she? She earns a living in a way I cannot approve and upsets your father almost daily. How did you meet her?’
He had always felt able to confide in her, knowing she would not repeat it, so he told her about stopping when he saw the frightened woman and child cowering against a wall. ‘She was so fiery against my father—it was more than just the incident of the hunt—and I wondered what had caused it. I did not know she was the proprietor of the Warburton Record then. I only found that out when I went to her business premises.’
‘Whatever did you go there for?’
‘I wanted to persuade her to retract what she had said about Father because he was going to sue her for defamation of character. But she would not.’
‘Then you must let the law take its course.’
‘Mama, the law is weighted heavily against her, my father will see to that.’ He paused. ‘There seems to have been some kind of feud between him and Miss Wayland’s father and she is determined to maintain it. Do you know what it was about?’
‘No, except Mr Wayland was forever publishing criticism of the Earl and he could not allow that, could he?’
Knowing his father, he sighed. ‘No, I suppose not.’
She turned to look into his face, scanning its clean lines and handsome brow. ‘You have not developed a tendre for Miss Wayland, have you, Miles?’
‘No, of course not,’ he answered swiftly without giving himself time to think.
‘Good, because it would be disastrous.’ She paused and, believing the subject of Miss Wayland closed, changed the subject. ‘Invitations came this morning for the Somerfield ball in July. We are all to go. It is a come out for Verity, who has recently returned from some school or other that turns out young ladies. As if her mother could not do that perfectly well.’
Lord and Lady Somerfield had been friends of the Earl and Countess for many years, mostly because they were the only other titled people in the area considered high enough in the instep with whom they could associate.
‘I haven’t seen Verity Somerfield since I went into the army,’ he said. ‘She would only have been about thirteen then, if that. Long-legged and given to giggling, as I recall.’
‘She has grown into a beautiful young lady with perfect deportment and manners and I have no doubt will attract many suitors, but I think Lord Somerfield is hoping you will make a match of it.’
‘He may hope,’ he said, ‘but I am resolved to stay single.’
‘Why, Miles? Is it because of your disability?’ she queried. ‘That is nonsense. It is hardly noticeable and I am sure if you were to ask the shoemaker he could raise one of your shoes a little. Heels are all the fashion, you know.’
‘Yes, but is it the fashion to have one higher than the other? No, Mama, even if a lady were to disregard that, she would have to see the scars on my thigh.’
‘Not until after you were married.’
‘Yes, that could pose a problem,’ he said, laughing to lighten the atmosphere. ‘To keep such a sight until the wedding night would surely give any bride the vapours. And to show her beforehand would be highly improper.’
She understood the bitterness that went behind what appeared to be a flippant remark and reached out to put her hand over his. ‘It is not as bad as all that, Miles, and if she loves you …’
‘Ah, there’s the rub. Who would have me as I am?’
‘I am sure Verity Somerfield will. According to her mama, she is already well disposed towards you. She remembers you as being kind to her, which is to your credit. And since then, you have come back from Waterloo a hero.’
‘I wish nothing had been made of that. I only did my duty as I saw it. I had no idea that fellow from The Times was taking notes. What they want sending a reporter out to war, I do not know. He only got in the way and the men made fun of him, which, to give him his due, he took in good part.’
‘Nevertheless, it has raised your standing with those at home and with the Somerfields.’
‘Mama, you are biased.’
She smiled. ‘Perhaps. But you are a handsome man and there are other assets in your favour: your title and amiable nature, for instance. I am persuaded all you need to do is turn on your charm and Verity will be yours. It is time you married …’
‘I will not impose myself on any young lady simply to provide the estate with an heir, Mama. It would not be fair to her.’ He realised that one day he ought to marry, if only to produce the requisite heir, but he also realised the woman he chose must be strong and not squeamish, someone who could see further than an ungainly gait and scarred limbs to the man within, someone like Miss Wayland, who had not flinched at the injuries she had seen on the common. Knowing Miss Somerfield’s delicate background, he doubted that she would have reacted in the same way. He cursed the war and the Frenchmen who had fired the cannon that had resulted in shrapnel becoming embedded in his upper thigh. It had been painful at the time and even more so when the surgeon had been working on him, but that was nothing compared to the way it had left him with a shrivelled thigh. His question, ‘Who would have me?’, had been heartfelt.
‘But you will go to the ball?’ his mother asked, forcing him back to the present.
‘To please you, yes, but I shall not make a fool of myself by attempting to dance.’
‘You could practise at home beforehand. I am sure you could manage some of the slower measures.’
‘Perhaps.’ Standing up, he bent to kiss her cheek and promised to be back in time to dine en famille. Then he left her.
He mused on the upcoming ball for a moment or two, then put it from his mind as another idea came to him. What the ex-soldiers and the out-of-work labourers wanted was not hand-outs, but work, something to keep them gainfully employed and the wolf from the door. Farming was in the doldrums and the farmers were not employing labour to stand about idly waiting for the weather to change, but what if the men were encouraged to grow fruit and vegetables? If every man had a strip of land, the sort of thing they had before the enclosures spoilt it all, he could grow not only enough for himself but for the market, too. If they did not have to pay for the land or, initially, the seed and plants, they would have a head start. It would be a kind of co-operative venture with each helping out the other with their own particular skills.
He owned a few acres left to him by his maternal grandfather that he had never cultivated. According to his father it was useless, no more than scrub and fit only for rabbits, but would the men work it? Not if they knew it came from him, he decided. He needed to do it through a third party and James Mottram came to mind. James was a young man of his own age whom he had met when they were both studying at Cambridge University. James had since become a lawyer and was already making his mark in the courts of justice, particularly in defence. He was a partner in a practice in Norwich. He would ask him, but first he would sound out Jack Byers about the project, ask him if he thought the men would agree to the plan and if he had any ideas to add to it. But he would swear him to secrecy.
He knew Byers was staying with Mrs Watson. He had his second horse saddled and set off for her cottage.

Helen had decided to visit Mrs Watson to see how her garden had been restored and how Mr Byers was getting on. She had promised herself she would find out his history and write a piece about the hardships of the returning soldiers and it might be a good opportunity to do that. The day was blustery and overcast; it looked as though there would be more rain, which bode ill for whatever crops had survived so far. She was wrapped in a long burnoose with the hood up and did not immediately recognise the man approaching her until he was standing right in front of her, his feet apart as if to detain her.
‘Mr Blakestone, you startled me.’
‘I want a word with you.’ He sounded belligerent, which made her nervous.
‘Say it, then.’
‘Traitor!’ He paused. ‘You took my money for the poster, pretended to be on the side of the workers and all the time you were plotting with the Earl and that stiff-rumped son of his to betray us. It is fortunate for you that no one was killed today or you would have paid with your life.’
‘The reason no one was killed was because the Viscount prevented it,’ she retorted. ‘Which you would have known if you had not run away like a coward.’
‘Coward, you call me! I wasn’t the one standing around in disguise waiting to enjoy the fruits of my betrayal. I was up there on the platform for all to see.’
‘Until the militia arrived. It was miraculous how fast you disappeared then.’
‘It was my bounden duty to protect Jason Hardacre from arrest and get him safely away. Thanks to you and the Viscount, he never made his speech and the people of Warburton are the poorer for it.’
‘I doubt that.’ She tried to pass him, but he dodged to prevent her. ‘Let me pass, Mr Blakestone.’
‘When I’ve done with you.’
‘What do you mean?’ She was becoming very alarmed and tried to push past him. He reached out and pinioned her arms to her sides. She tried kicking, but he held her at arm’s length and she could not reach his legs.
‘Struggle all you like,’ he jeered, ‘but hear this. We will not be so foolish as to advertise our next meeting, except by word of mouth, so if the Earl hears of it, we shall know where the blame lies. Your life won’t be worth living.’
‘Stand aside!’ The voice was the Viscount’s as he galloped up, threw himself from his horse and wrenched Blakestone from Helen. He had his crop in his hand and raised it to the man, ready to give him a beating, but Helen grabbed his arm.
‘No, don’t,’ she cried. ‘Let him go. I don’t want violence done on my account.’
Miles lowered his arm, the white heat of his anger slowly subsiding. ‘Get you gone,’ he told Blakestone. ‘And if I ever come across you offering violence to a lady again, it will be the worse for you.’
The man hesitated as if considering whether to stand and fight, but thought better of it and turned on his heel to march down the road, but not before he had uttered one more threat. ‘You must watch your back, Captain. I ain’t forgot you had me flogged and reduced to the ranks. A man don’ forget that in a hurry. Watch your back at all times.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ Helen asked, as the man strode away.
‘I caught him assaulting a Portuguese girl and hauled him off. He was put on a charge and was dealt fifty lashes and had his sergeant’s stripes taken off him.’
She shuddered. ‘I think flogging is barbaric. Surely there is another way to punish wrongdoing in the army?’
‘I don’t hold with flogging either, but it is the only punishment the men understand, and in wartime, under battle conditions, we do not have the facilities for imprisonment. Besides, the men are needed to fight.’
He paused. ‘But that doesn’t explain why he was manhandling you. What was that about?’
‘He thought I had betrayed the meeting to you and that you had told your father, who ordered the militia. He was very angry.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. You have helped him when you should not have done and he repays you with threats. Had I known I would have told him the truth.’
‘He would not have believed you.’
‘No, you are probably right, but be careful in future, Miss Wayland. Do not go out unaccompanied.’
‘Oh, it is nothing but bluster. I doubt he would harm me.’ Now the man had gone she was full of bravado. It would not do to let Viscount Cavenham see how afraid she had been.
‘I am not so sure. Where were you going?’
‘To see Mrs Watson.’
‘A happy coincidence. I was on my way there myself. We will go together.’ He picked up the reins of his horse and walked beside her to the widow’s cottage.

Mrs Watson was put in a fluster when she saw who had accompanied Helen and bowed and kept apologising for her poor home, until Miles smiled to put her at her ease and said he had come to talk to Mr Byers, whom he had spotted working in the garden, but he would enjoy a cup of camomile tea when he came back. And with that he was gone.
Relieved of his presence, Mrs Watson relaxed and bade Helen be seated by the hearth. The little boy was playing on the floor and Helen knelt down to play with him. ‘How are you managing?’ she asked the child’s mother, picking up a crudely carved harlequin on a stick and tickling the boy with it. He chortled happily.
‘Oh, we do well enough. I am thankful I still have my job in the laundry and Jack Byers has put the garden to rights as far as he was able. The Viscount gave him money to buy vegetable seeds in place of those I lost. Jack has sown them and planted new currant bushes for next year, but there will be no fruit this year. The guinea his lordship gave me is all but done and I cannot pay him. He is working for board and lodging.’
‘I expect he thinks it is better than nothing.’
‘Miss Wayland, you didn’t ought to have writ what you did about the Earl. I didn’t know you wrote a newspaper until Jack told me or I wouldn’t have said what I did. It looks as if I were complaining and that weren’t so. We could all be in trouble.’
‘It’s only me that’s in trouble, Mrs Watson. The Earl is determined to close me down.’
‘It don’t do no good to go agin’ him. What d’you do it for any road?’
‘Because someone has to tell the truth and wake everyone up to what’s been going on for generations. My father did it and I carry on in his memory.’
‘And yet you be on good terms with the Viscount.’
‘That’s only good manners—underneath is a different matter; he is like his father; arrogance is bred in him. Besides, I am also in trouble with the firebrands who would stir up unrest if they could.’ She got up off her knees and scooped Eddie up to sit with him in the chair by the hearth. She loved all small children and this one was particularly fetching with his fair curls, blue eyes and chubby limbs, notwithstanding his clothes were patched and worn, probably bought second-hand from the market.
Mrs Watson put a cup of tea on the corner of the table where she could reach it. ‘Seems to me you be in trouble all round,’ she said. ‘You will need the good offices of the Viscount before you’re done.’
Helen did not tell her that the gentleman had already used his good offices to help her. She could see him through the window. He was talking earnestly to Jack Byers.

‘What do you think, Byers? Would the idea find favour?’
‘Anything that allows the men to work and keep their families from starving is a good thing, my lord. But where could we get the land? No farmer would let us have land, even if we could afford the rent.’
‘I have a friend desirous of helping the unemployed, both old soldiers and farm workers, and he has a few acres not far from here that is uncultivated. You would be doing him and yourselves a favour taking it on. Of course, you need to get the men together and work out how it can be done. Some of you will have specialist skills: ploughing, drilling, looking after animals. And shooting. I believe the land is plagued by rabbits. My friend will supply seed and equipment, whatever you need to start you off.’
‘Who is this friend of yourn?’ Jack asked warily. ‘What’s he want from us?’
‘He wishes to remain anonymous and he wants nothing from you. He is what you might call a philanthropist.’
‘Supposing times get better and some of us are offered our old jobs back?’
‘Then your piece of ground will go to someone else who needs it with compensation for the work you have done on it.’
‘Sounds all right,’ Jack said, still dubious.
‘Get the men together and ask them. Vote on it if you like, but do not say I have a hand in it. I am only a go-between, you understand.’
‘Oh, to be sure, I understand,’ Jack said, grinning.
Miles left him to his gardening, knowing the man had guessed the identity of the philanthropist, but he would not say so, neither out loud to him nor to the men when he called them together.
He returned to the kitchen where Helen was nursing young Eddie, who had fallen asleep in her arms. She smiled up at him and put a finger to her lips. He sat down silently and accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Watson, not once taking his eyes off the woman and the sleeping child. The hard-nosed business woman who could write such vitriolic attacks on the nobility, who could get her hands covered in ink, stand firm in a mob and never turn a hair at broken limbs and bloody noses, was a nurturer at heart. The picture she presented, her grey dress dishevelled, her hair tousled by chubby fingers keen to explore, was one of domesticity. It gave him a lump in his throat. It was sympathy for her, he told himself, sympathy and at the same time unbounded admiration, nothing to do with the fact that he might never enjoy having a family like it himself.

Chapter Three
With the tea drunk and the child roused and taken from Helen, they took their leave. If she had expected him to ride away, she was mistaken. He insisted on escorting her home, walking beside her, leading his mount.
It was at least three miles and for a little while they walked in silence. She was acutely aware of him beside her, his height and strength, his warmth which was as unlike the coldness of his father as it was possible to be. His limp she hardly noticed—it was part of the man. ‘Mrs Watson seems to be managing very well with Mr Byers’s help,’ she said. ‘But she tells me he is working for bed and board only and that does not help his wife and family. And people who do not know the truth of it are gossiping. He really cannot stay there.’
‘I know. I have a friend who has some spare land who has come up with an idea to help the unemployed men, which will give them work. The idea is that a strip is given to each man to work as a market garden, but lodgings are another matter. There is an old barn on the far side of Ravensbrook. I don’t know if it is watertight, but if it could be made so, it could house several families.’
‘Who owns it?’
‘The man who owns the land,’ he said evasively.
‘Your friend is very generous.’
‘No, simply wishing to help.’
‘And what is the identity of this man, my lord?’
He laughed. ‘Do you think I would tell you? It will be all over the next edition of the Wa r b u r ton R e c o rd.’
‘Why not? It would be good to publish some good news for a change.’
‘I will tell you more about it when it is all arranged, then you can let the world know that Warburton and its neighbouring villages look after their men.’
‘I wish the weather would improve,’ she said. ‘It would make all the difference, not only to the men’s chances of working, but to their spirits, too. Some days it is nearly as dark as night and, what with the rain and gales, everyone is miserable. We need a little sunlight and then we shall all feel more cheerful. And market gardens will not flourish without it.’
‘I know. I notice the parson prays for good weather in every service and the amens after that are louder than usual.’
‘Let us hope his prayers are answered. If the men cannot cultivate the land they are given, it will not help them, will it?’
‘No. I have been thinking about that. At Ravens Park we have a great glasshouse in which all manner of things grow regardless of the weather. The men could build some of those. I am sure my friend will provide them with wood and glass and there are bound to be carpenters and glaziers among them. They could grow more exotic things, which fetch more on the London markets.’
‘The generosity of this friend of yours seems unending,’ she said with a smile. She had already guessed the identity of the benefactor. It put her in a quandary. How could she maintain her antipathy towards him when everything he did was to his credit? She could only do it by reminding herself over and over again that he was his father’s son, that when he inherited he would undoubtedly revert to type. How could he not do so with that great mansion and a vast estate to maintain, not to mention the society with which he would have to associate? She hoped that would not happen before the good he was trying to do came to fruition.
‘If it keeps the men busy and stops them attending seditious meetings, that is all to the good, do you not agree?’ he said.
‘Oh, most certainly.’ The clouds were darkening the sky again as they approached the town. ‘If it rains again before you arrive home, you will be soaked,’ she commented. ‘Why not leave me? We are almost in the town. I shall be perfectly safe.’
‘I will see you to your door, as I promised, and I always have a serviceable cloak rolled up on my saddle. I met weather worse than this in the Peninsula when we were on the march and am none the worse for it.’
‘It must have been a hard time.’
‘No worse for me than hundreds of other poor beggars. As an officer, I could ride when they had to march and officers had billets when the men had to sleep where they dropped, whatever the weather, sometimes so hot it was like an oven, at other times freezing with hale and snow and biting wind.’
‘I wager you did not always take the billets, but slept with your men.’
He laughed. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I am coming to know the man,’ she said simply.
He turned towards her in surprise, but decided not to comment. If she was beginning to look more favourably on him, that was all to the good. If they could work together and not on opposing sides, who knew what they could achieve? But he decided not to say that either.
They stopped outside her door. ‘Thank you for your escort, my lord,’ she said, wondering if she ought to invite him in for refreshment, but decided that would be going too far. She could almost see the curtains twitching in the house across the road. Instead, she held out her right hand.
He took it in his firm grip. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Wayland. Take care now and if you need me, I am yours to command.’ And with that he lifted the back of her hand to his lips.
Even through her thin glove, she could feel the warmth of his gentle kiss coursing through her and ending up in her cheeks. She was sure they were flaming. Was he simply being polite and behaving as a gentleman would to a lady? But she was not a lady and the situation in which they found themselves was not an occasion for the formal niceties of society. Oh, how she hoped the curtain twitchers had turned away at that moment.
She retrieved her hand, bade him a hurried farewell and fled indoors, leaving him staring at the closed door.
He shrugged, fetched out his cape and put it on before mounting and cantering away in the rain. Had they or had they not established a rapport? He could not be sure. Nor was he sure why it mattered to him, except that, in spite of his father, she did have some influence through her newspaper and it was as well not to call down her wicked wit on his own shoulders, or he would never succeed in winning the men round.
On Monday he would take the carriage and visit James. He hoped his friend would act for him in the matter of the market gardens. And, if he could not persuade his father to change his mind, James might be agreeable to advising Miss Wayland over the accusation of defamation. It was strange how important it was to him that she should not be convicted, but he told himself severely it was only his sense of justice.

They were both in church the following morning; Miles with his parents in their pew at the front, Helen in the body of the church with Betty beside her. Neither acknowledged the other. The lengthy sermon was all about knowing one’s place and not aspiring to rise above it. A woman’s role was to look after the home, to do good works and not set herself up as equal to a man. Helen smiled, realising it was aimed directly at her. She wondered if the Viscount, whose tall back was three rows in front of her, was smiling, too. The Earl was nodding vigorously as if he agreed with every word, having no doubt instructed the rector in his duty to point out the errors of his flock—and one in particular.
Helen did not linger about the churchyard afterwards, not only because it was another miserable day and everyone was hurrying home, but because Sunday was the day she did her accounts, prepared bills and planned the week ahead. Edgar Harrington was still learning and needed help with laying out the advertisements and copying some of the more important pieces from the London papers and she would spend some time with him the next day.

The accounts done, she fell to musing on the Viscount’s idea for the market co-operative venture. Could it work? Would the men work together, or would there be lazy ones who would not pull their weight and others who worked harder than the others, but received no greater return? Viscount Cavenham undoubtedly meant well, but had he considered that? It would take a great spirit of willingness on everyone’s part to bring it to fruition. And how would men like Blakestone react? It did not suit his purpose to have contented workers. She wished now that she had never printed his poster.
It reminded her it was still in the window of the shop. She went downstairs and removed it. Standing with it in her hand, she looked about her. The room was a large one and contained Edgar’s desk and a large table at which she sometimes worked and where customers brought their advertisements and announcements to be printed in the paper. There were a few bookshelves, which housed some of her father’s books. She noticed a well-thumbed one about the laws of slander and libel— she ought to study that—an English grammar, a copy of Johnson’s dictionary, a book of maps, a timetable for the coaches leaving the Three Cups for London and Norwich each day and a bible. They hardly filled the shelves. And yet upstairs in what had been his study there were stacks of books on any number of subjects. And in her own room there were books she had bought or been given as presents throughout her childhood and growing up, some instructive, some purely romantic stories. Everyone should have access to books, she mused, and ran upstairs.

She was up and down the stairs all afternoon, bringing down books and arranging them on the shelves in the shop. Here was a veritable library and she would make it available to the townspeople. It might be that some of the men who were out of work could learn a new skill from one of them. And even if they did not, they might lose themselves in the printed word, adding to their education. She sat down and sketched out a notice to put in the window. The books would be loaned free so long as they were returned within two weeks in good condition. She stopped when Betty came to tell her that supper was on the table.

Immediately afterwards she returned to her task and made out individual cards for each book so that she could keep track of who had borrowed it. It kept her busy well into the evening and stopped her thinking of Viscount Cavenham and the strange effect he had on her. But as soon as she was in her bed that night, she found her thoughts returning to him unbidden.
What sort of a man was he? How sincere? What did he have to gain by his championing of the unemployed men? She found it hard to believe the Earl’s son did not have an ulterior motive, but if he did, he hid it well. Why had he kissed her hand? He knew she did not have the social standing for such a gesture. Was he a rake, someone who took his pleasures among the lower orders, knowing no one would blame him? Hating his father as she did, it was easier to believe ill than good of the son. Her father, if he had been alive, would most certainly caution her about putting her trust in such a one. Her brain told her one thing, her heart another. Viscount Cavenham was helpful, generous and caring. He worried about the widow and her garden, about Jack Byers and the out-of-work soldiers and labourers, about preventing bloodshed and rebellion, and he was concerned that she should be safe. Those were not the attributes of a bad man. Was he as confused as she was about their respective roles? Surely her father could not have been wrong?
It was a question that would never be answered now. Sighing, she turned over to try to sleep.

Miles sat in James Mottram’s office the following morning, discussing the market-garden project with him. James listened carefully and agreed that it was a worthwhile idea and he would help him all he could. It was after that discussion was finished that Miles told him about his father’s threat to sue Miss Wayland for libel. ‘I cannot persuade her to retract and my father is determined she shall be punished,’ he finished. ‘They are both being stubborn about it, but Miss Wayland has most to lose. I doubt she can afford a heavy fine and I cannot let her go to prison.’
‘Why are you so concerned? Newspaper proprietors are notorious for stirring up dissent. It is what sells their papers.’
‘I know that, but the trouble is, I agree with every word she says.’
‘So you want me to defend her?’
‘Yes, if it becomes necessary. As far as I know she has not yet been issued with a summons and my father might have a change of heart, though I doubt it.’
‘It seems to me, my friend, that you are going to find yourself stuck between the devil and the deep. Is she worth it?’
It was a question he had been asking himself over and over again. Why was he so concerned? Why risk his father’s wrath in a cause that could not be won? His mother had asked him to consider her because the Earl in a temper was something to be avoided for her sake. But he still wanted to help those in need. The ex-soldiers and out-of-work labourers were in need and so was Miss Wayland, even if she would not admit it. It was, he told himself, no more than that. He realised James was waiting for an answer to his question. Was she worth it? ‘I think so,’ he said, then added, ‘but I do not want her to know who is paying for her defence if a case should come to court; she is obstinate and independent enough to refuse it.’
‘Then I must be as philanthropic as you are,’ James said with a smile. ‘First I must give away land I do not own and provide tools, materials and seeds to a group of men I do not know, then I must defend a young lady who, by all accounts, is as stubborn as you are, from a charge for which there is no defence. You ask a lot, my friend.’
‘I know, but you will do it, won’t you?’
‘For you, anything.’
‘Good. And you will own the land because I propose to sell it to you for the princely sum of one guinea.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if the men know I own the land, they will be wary about accepting the idea. I want to stand apart from it. The only condition I make is that you use it for the common good.’
‘And the seed and equipment?’
‘I will open a bank account in the name of the society …’
‘What name will that be?’
‘I have not yet decided. I shall ask the men. It is, after all, their project.’
‘Very well. I will wait to hear from you again.’
‘Another thing,’ Miles added as an afterthought. ‘Have you discovered who owns Ravensbrook Manor?’
‘Yes. Lord Brent. He lives in Cambridgeshire. I have written to him asking if the house is on the market; further than that I did not go. If he thinks you are keen to buy, he will undoubtedly ask a fortune for it and in my opinion it is not worth it, the state it is in. I have had no reply so far.’
Miles thanked him, took his leave and caught the stage back to Warburton and the Three Cups where he had left his mount.
He was riding out on to the road past Wayland’s shop when he noticed Miss Wayland putting a notice in her window. He dismounted and went over to read it. She had seen him and gave a little nod in acknowledgement. He bowed in response and went closer to scrutinise the notice, then, tethering his horse to a post, he went inside.
He doffed his hat. ‘Miss Wayland, good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon, my lord. What can I do for you?’
‘Nothing, I thank you. I was intrigued by your offer to lend books.’
‘Do you need to borrow a book, my lord?’ She knew that was not at all likely, but could not think why he should come into the shop, unless it was to torment her.
He laughed. ‘There are enough books at Ravens Park to stock a dozen libraries.’ He went over to the shelves to peruse some of the titles. ‘A very eclectic mix,’ he said. ‘And some of them must be valuable. Are you not afraid they will be stolen? The temptation to keep them or sell them to buy food and clothing will be great. And even if they are returned, they might be covered in dirty fingermarks, with the corners of the pages turned down.’
‘I shall know who has borrowed each book and can remind them if they do not return them,’ she said. ‘As for dirty fingermarks, I would rather see a well-thumbed book than a pristine one. Books are meant to be read.’
‘Is this another of your crusades—to get the populace reading?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not, indeed? It is certainly safer than writing defamatory articles in your newspaper. I suppose it is no good trying once more to persuade you to retract.’
So that was why he had come! ‘Not in the least.’
He realised it was said out of bravado, nothing more; she did not want him to know how worried she was. But he could tell from those expressive eyes that she was. ‘Then I pity you, for I cannot see how you can defend your action.’
‘I do not need your pity, my lord. I shall do very well without that.’
‘Then I shall not waste it on you. Good day, Miss Wayland.’ He replaced his hat on his head and left, wondering why he had even bothered to speak to her when she was so stubborn.

She could have told him she had decided to set the record straight over the widow’s garden and how restitution had been made, though she had perhaps spoiled it from his point of view by implying it was done as a result of the publicity it had been given. The paragraph had been added to the account of the meeting on the common where she had said it had been the timely intervention of Viscount Cavenham that had saved the situation from becoming a bloodbath. ‘It is to be hoped that the return of the Earl’s son from the war will herald a change in attitude of those who have a responsibility towards lesser mortals over whom they hold sway,’ she had ended. It was the closest she was prepared to go to admitting there was some good in the Viscount without, in any way, mitigating the behaviour of his father.

Miles rode out to the far side of the village on Wednesday morning to look at the land he meant to hand over to the workers. His father had no interest in it and it had been left uncultivated while he had been away and had become overgrown with bushes, brambles and rough grass. It would need a concerted effort on everyone’s part to make it fertile. In the meantime, the men and their families had to live. There was so much more to the endeavour than he had first envisaged. He would have to finance it for at least a year, paying for everything the men needed and giving them enough money to live on until they could make a profit. His personal fortune, inherited, along with the land, from his maternal grandfather, was not huge, but fortunately his own needs were few. If the purchase of Ravensbrook Manor came to fruition, he might have to think again, but as such a move was not imminent, he did not regard it.

He called on Mrs Watson on his way home to tell Byers the project was to go ahead and there he encountered Miss Wayland again, interviewing Jack about his war service. He could see nothing controversial in that and joined in with a few of his own reminiscences. Their conversation of the day before was not mentioned, though it was in his mind. He wished he had not offered her pity; it was the last thing he should have done— sympathy, perhaps, but not pity.
‘Tell me about Waterloo,’ she said, doing her best to concentrate on Jack, though the presence of the Viscount was making her unaccountably nervous. Something intangible was drawing her to him and she did not know how to account for it or how to resist it. ‘I believe Wellington said it was a close-run thing. And Napoleon Bonaparte fled the scene when he realised the day was lost.’
‘So he did,’ Miles said. ‘I saw him briefly on a mound above the battle and then he was gone in that great coach of his.’
‘He abandoned it to escape by ship, but it availed him nothing,’ Jack said. ‘He was forced to surrender and the coach was brought to London to be exhibited. Have you seen it, Miss Wayland?’
‘No, it is some years since I was in the capital. What happened when the battle was over and you came home?’
‘Nothing happened, miss, nothing at all. Not even a thank-you, much less a job.’
‘But we hope to remedy that,’ Miles put in. ‘My friend is going forward with his plans to give all those who want it a strip of land to work in conjunction with others. The land is in poor heart, but can be made good and there is a barn that can be made into living accommodation for those who are homeless. The first year the project will be financed by my friend, but after that you must make it profitable.’
‘Then we must pray for good weather,’ Jack said.
‘Are you going to tell me the name of this benefactor now?’ Helen asked.
‘No. He does not wish it revealed.’
‘Then we must respect his wishes, but it will be good to publish some good news, even if we cannot say who is at the heart of it.’
‘And if you drop a single hint that you think you know his identity, I shall take steps to have you stopped,’ he said, looking sharply at her, making her more than ever convinced she knew.

He had left her talking to Jack and Mrs Watson and ridden home for nuncheon. The Wednesday edition of the Warburton Record had just been delivered and his father was hidden behind it. Miles kissed his mother’s cheek and bade his father good morning before helping himself to food from the dishes on the sideboard. He began eating, waiting for his father to come out from behind the paper.

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