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The path skirted a line of trees and looked out over a sunken Italianate garden of clipped hedges and tall blooms. Beyond the garden with its central fountain, the ladies, in bonnets and pale gowns, sat in wicker chairs around a linen-draped table laid out for tea. A breeze ruffled the edges of the tablecloth and scattered drops from the fountain. The splash of water and drone of bees mingled with female voices.

He was conscious of their scrutiny as he approached. The duchess, with her rigid posture, had rallied her troops for battle. They might not wear the red jackets of Wellington’s army, but they were as close a rank as any square of infantry that faced Napoleon. In their finery, dove gray for the duchess, lavender for the aunt, and that eggshell blue for Lady Cassandra, the ladies made a pastoral portrait of ease and elegance. He reminded himself that gardens where ladies’ hat ribbons could flutter in a gentle breeze existed because men of vision and energy once shaped England as his generation would shape it now. He slowed his pace. The duchess had chosen her ground well.

At the tea table Raven bowed. “Good afternoon, ma’am, Miss Honoria, Lady Cassandra.”

The duchess waved him into a chair next to Lady Cassandra and across from Honoria. “Where did you get such airs and pretty ways? They won’t get you your lease, young man.”

“Grandmama,” Lady Cassandra chided.

“I hope,” said Raven, taking a seat, “that plain dealing will bring us to terms.”

“Tea, Sir Adrian?” asked Honoria. She began to pour.

“Not tea, Honoria,” said the duchess. “Wine.”

“Oh dear,” said Honoria, rattling the teacup, “we did say we would serve wine, didn’t we? Wine, Sir Adrian?”

“Tea suits me.” Raven smiled at Honoria and took the cup from her trembling hand.

“Cream?” asked Lady Cassandra.

Raven turned and accepted her steady pour. It was plain that she was a calming influence on her companions. He swallowed some tea and put the cup aside. He would fire the first salvo in the battle. “Actually, your grace,” he said to the duchess, “I am willing to lease Verwood only if I may be permitted to make some improvements.”

“Improvements?” The duchess scoffed. “That’s hardly your business, young man.”

“I believe, ma’am, that you’ve made improvements to the stables. I will bring the hall up to your standards.”

“Who are you to speak of the standards of a noble hall like Verwood?”

Raven met her fierce gaze. “A man who knows what damp and dry rot, crumbling mortar and failing glazing can do.”

“You get ahead of yourself. What are your intentions for the hall? I suppose you mean to play the grand host. I must tell you that Verwood has welcomed royal visitors.”

“Has it? As I understand it, the most frequent visitor to Verwood is Dick Crockett, a humble blacksmith’s son.”

“Dick is a man who knows his place. I won’t have some upstart mushroom coming and going from my stables at all hours.”

Raven’s jaw tightened at the term mushroom. It was a slight his grandfather particularly disliked. “You wish me to send notice in advance when I require a horse or a vehicle.”

“I wish my horses not to be disturbed,” the duchess snapped.

“Cake?” said Honoria, offering Raven a delicate plate with a large slab of golden-yellow sponge.

Raven took the offered cake. “It is difficult to introduce new horses into an established group. My dealers, Kydd Brothers, have experience in these matters. They can smooth the way.”

A little pause followed. On Raven’s left, Lady Cassandra tried to subdue the fluttering ribbons of her bonnet.

Her grace spoke again. “I know Kydd, but we stray from the point, young man. How do you mean to comport yourself in the hall?”

“As a gentleman.” Raven stuck his fork into the cake and pried off a corner piece.

“Hah! A gentleman you say! Cole is no surname of dignity. A bit of metal and ribbon pinned to your chest hardly raises you from obscurity. Who are your people?”

“My grandfather, Jedediah Cole, is an alderman in London.” Raven’s grandfather took great pride in being a city man, active in London affairs. He had an open contempt for aristocratic layabouts who spent their days in clubs gaming away fortunes acquired by their ancestors. Raven had yet to tell the old man about Lady Amabel. But once he made something of Verwood, it would be the perfect setting to introduce his love to his grandfather.

“An alderman, is he? Then I’m sure he won’t wish to quit his sphere,” began the duchess. “I won’t have you polluting the house with … brash London types. Who are your mother’s people?”

Next to Raven, Lady Cassandra failed to subdue her bonnet ribbons, and the bonnet tumbled to the grass. A sudden gust lifted it and sent it scudding over the lawn. A look passed between the lady and her aunt.