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He gestured to his two companions. The one holding the dog deliberately allowed the lead to slacken and the mastiff at the end of it advanced a few paces, making Jacob’s horse give a soft whinny of alarm.

‘We work for Lord Fernley. Who do you think you are to give us orders?’

Meg’s voice came from over the man’s shoulder, so low it was hardly audible among the rustle of nighttime leaves.

‘His brother, Mr Jacob Fernley.’

The man’s face changed instantly. He glared at her, as if daring her to admit a lie, but then Jacob saw panic flit through his eyes.

‘Apologies, sir. I didn’t know. I—we—weren’t aware the master had a brother.’

Jacob exhaled roughly through his nose, every heightened sense still trained on Meg. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

He wouldn’t receive a very warm welcome when he arrived at Wellbourne House, he knew for a fact. Anthony resented his existence with a fervour Jacob imagined was felt in his bones, his dislike rooted in petty jealousy more suited to a child than a man. Anthony had begrudged his father’s marriage to Jacob’s late mother and had never bothered to conceal it, seeing the half-brother who had resulted from the match as a rival rather than a companion. The current Viscount would have much preferred to remain old Ralph’s only offspring rather than share his prestige, and if circumstances hadn’t demanded otherwise he would have been happy to spend the rest of his life pretending he had no brother at all.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, however, that was not an option.

The Viscountess had recently been brought to bed of her first child, a daughter who had come as a bitter disappointment to her son-craving father, and it would be noticed and commented on if the girl’s only uncle—and the current Fernley heir presumptive—wasn’t asked to be her godfather and attend her christening. If there was one thing in the world that mattered more to Anthony than money, it was his precious reputation, and so an invitation had been issued that Jacob would much rather have refused.

He snatched an involuntary glance back at Meg but the lantern had shifted slightly, the darkness now hiding her thoughts from him as well as her face. If she was in any way glad to see him she was doing a good job of concealing it, although he couldn’t imagine that such a thing was likely.

I knew I shouldn’t have come back here.

It wasn’t as though he’d wanted to, he thought with growing aggravation, trying not to notice how she was equally unsuccessfully attempting to melt into the shadows. As soon as he’d read Anthony’s curt letter, he’d made up his mind to reject the request to stand as baby Celia’s godfather and stay far away from the Fernley estate, safe from stumbling into the predicament in which he now found himself; but something had stayed his hand as he’d reached for his pen.

It wasn’t the child’s fault she’d been born to such an unpleasant father, he’d had to allow. Anthony’s anger that he’d been presented with a useless daughter rather than the son and heir he required had been in every line of his short correspondence, his petulance dripping off the page, and it had forced Jacob to reconsider his knee-jerk refusal.

It was clear little Celia did not have a doting papa and some irritating tweak of his conscience had balked at the idea of her only uncle disregarding her as well. One day she might ask questions, and it would be cruel if she should mistakenly think nobody from her father’s side of the family had been glad of her birth, Anthony’s peevish bad temper something Jacob knew he ought to try to offset if he could. For the sake of an innocent child, he’d felt honour-bound to make the long journey from the estate in Derbyshire he’d inherited from his mother to Wellbourne House to endure the christening, although he’d be lying if he said he’d gone even a single mile without muttering curses under his breath.

His feelings as to that were a matter for another time, however. The man he assumed was one of his brother’s gamekeepers was still gripping Meg’s arm and the sight made his fingers twitch briefly into a fist.

‘So, now we’ve been introduced, you’ll release the lady.’

This time there was no excuse for the man to disobey, and yet Jacob’s request was still met with a shake of the head.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The gamekeeper shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘Even if you are Lord Fernley’s brother, we still have our orders. Anyone we catch poaching is to be taken to the jail. We have to do as we’ve been bid.’

‘Poaching?’ Despite the tightness around his lungs, Jacob couldn’t help a short laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I know…knew…this woman. She’s no more a poacher than I am.’

The gamekeeper fidgeted apologetically. ‘She was caught in the act, sir. Two dead pheasants at her feet, and probably more if we hadn’t interrupted.’

Jacob’s stomach dropped. ‘That can’t be true.’

Meg’s raven head didn’t lift from its tilt towards the ground. ‘A woman has to eat, sir,’ she muttered. ‘Things are very different here now than before you left. Food isn’t quite so easy to come by these days.’

Stunned, Jacob stared down at her. The young woman he’d once known so well would never have done such a thing as steal—and neither would she have called him ‘sir’.

As much as he’d tried not to, he’d always wondered what it would be like to come face to face again with the one who had so easily crushed his heart beneath her boot. A hundred different scenarios had occurred to him against his will, but in none of them had her voice contained the same quiet neutrality as a servant’s, every tight syllable denying the passionate closeness they’d once shared. To hear her speak as though they were strangers was like a kick in the gut, that one word—sir—reinforcing the difference in their stations that he had once been so casually confident could be overcome. She didn’t need to say anything more to let him know exactly how she now viewed him, and it stung to realise that, in spite of his best efforts, he still cared enough for it to wound.

Through sheer force of will he beat that weakness back. Of course he didn’t care any longer what she thought of him. She’d shown him five years ago that she didn’t want him or anything he had to offer, and the disappointment of reality had killed the youthful naivety he used to possess in one brutal swoop. He’d been prepared to throw caution and his father’s warnings to the wind, defying what Society might think of his unlikely choice of bride, but at the very last moment it had been her who had changed her mind—or perhaps, as he’d come to think, she’d never truly wanted him at all.

Of my own ill-advised feelings, however, I hadn’t a moment of doubt.

There had never been anyone for him but her, he was powerless to deny, not since the first moment she’d smiled up at him as he’d ridden past her as a boy, lighting up a life he hadn’t realised until then had been cloaked in darkness.

It was when he’d been aged just sixteen that he’d realised he loved Farmer Wheeler’s determined daughter and only two and a half years later that he’d proposed. Their attachment had admittedly started in childish innocence but was still one that would have lasted a lifetime if only she’d been prepared to see it through. At one time she had been closer to him than anyone else in the world, so for her to stand before him now as though nothing had ever passed between them was difficult to reconcile with what he’d once thought to be true.

‘I see.’ He looked at the men around him, determined neither they nor Meg would suspect what ran amok behind the determinedly expressionless mask of his face. ‘All the same. I must insist you let her go.’