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A musical peal of laughter was her reply. She tripped lightly down the grass. At the lake edge, he helped her into a skiff tied to a short dock. He shed his coat and hat, climbed in to man the oars, and cast off. A breeze on the water ruffled the fringe of her parasol. This was what he’d come for, to exert himself under her admiring gaze. He had only the most fleeting thought that she wanted him to be someone he wasn’t.

On the other side, the skiff slid up the gravel shore. He hopped out, helped her to alight, and secured the boat. Again, she took his hand, and led him up the hill to the folly. The interior was cool and shadowy, and they sat on the steps overlooking the lake and the house.

“Don’t you wish,” she said, “that you had a device that could capture a scene exactly, just as it is in the moment? It is so tedious to draw or paint. One looks back and forth between the thing and one’s drawing, and nothing stays quite still while one does it.”

“And what would you capture with your device?” he asked.

“Oh, so many things. Ramsbury Park, my family. Then we wouldn’t have sit, cross and disagreeable for hours, to have our portrait made.” She struck a stiff formal pose, lifting her chin high, and glancing sideways at him.

“Do you find your family disagreeable?”

“No. Just sitting, silly,” she laughed. “What would you capture?”

A shockingly disloyal thought popped into his head. He dismissed it. He was with Amabel not Lady Cassandra. “Perhaps I’d capture my grandfather. He’s a bit like your family, unwilling to sit for his portrait.”

“He’s very important to you, isn’t he? You’re his heir,” she said with sudden earnestness.

“I am.”

“Will he like me, do you suppose?”

“He will find you adorable.”

“Good. Now where did you say you were staying?”

“I didn’t. I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well then, surprise me.” Amabel plucked at her skirts arranging their fall over her knees.

“Verwood. I’ve taken the place on a lease.”

Her expression was not quite what he expected. Her lips pursed in the familiar little pout, that someday he thought he might kiss. “You’re not pleased?”

She squeezed his hand. “I am. It’s like taking a house at Brighton for the summer. I never thought of that. Only isn’t Verwood terribly run down and neglected?”

“Not at all. One of these days I’ll show you. It may not be as grand as this place, but it has its … beauty.”

A shadow of vexation altered her expression. “But what’s happened to the ladies of Verwood? The dour dowager and the dithery aunt?”

“They are quite comfortable in the dower house.” Raven liked his landladies, but he could not fault Amabel for her words. He had had a similar impression of the ladies at first.

She cast him a sly glance. “Even Lady Cassandra? I suppose she’s quite the invalid these days.”

“What makes you think that?” He was conscious of a stiffening of his posture.

“Don’t be angry, Sir Adrian. It’s just that people have a name for her.”

“And what is that?” He tried to keep his voice level and bland, as if the matter were one of mere curiosity.

“It’s not kind,” she said with an imploring look.

“Can you tell me anyway?” he asked.

“As long as you promise not to be angry. I did not invent the phrase. I know it’s dreadful what happened to her.”

He nodded, nerving himself, keeping his gaze on the view. Across the lake a liveried servant emerged from the house and started down the grassy hill.

“She’s called the dead duke’s damaged daughter.”