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  Strathern laughed, curiously relieved. Though he worked closely with Cedric Ingram to keep Royalist hopes and spirits high in this corner of Southwest England, there was something about the man that he did not like, something he couldn’t pinpoint. The idea of his beloved Alysa wed to Ingram nagged at him, even though the whole neighborhood thought it an excellent match. It did him good to hear Alysa speak so blithely of Ingram, for he had been half afraid that her heart had been lost to him. He touched her gleaming golden hair gently. “Remember, Alysa, be careful. This is not a game.”

  Her eyes danced. “Of course, Papa! But I shall enjoy probing into the motives of Sir Philip Hampton no end!”

  *

  The sleek black stallion arched its crested neck and tossed its handsome head. Philip Hampton automatically gentled the animal with firm hands and knees as he rode down the main street of West Easton. Instinct dictated his moves, rather than conscious thought, for he was very much aware that he was being watched surreptitiously by the people of the village. It was fortunate that he had been riding since he was a tiny child and had been a cavalry officer for so long that he was as one with the horse he rode. Thus, he did not have to waste conscious thought on managing the spirited stallion.

  Instead, his senses were able to capture the small nuances of the town: the main street muddy from the March rain, the solidly constructed frame buildings that housed the shops, the ancient stone church at one end of the town and the timber smithy at the other. Behind the commercial buildings were the dwellings of the merchants and beyond them the cottages of the lesser folk. In the distance could be heard the lowing of cattle or the bleats of sheep. There were smells too. The rank scent of drying earth fought with the pungent odor of burning wood and the sweet smell of flowering fruit trees.

  All in all, West Easton was a village like any other village, with one exception. It was where Philip Hampton must make his home from now on, and until he had been acknowledged by Edward, Lord Strathern, he would always be an outcast.

  His restless gaze sharpened as he noted three ladies emerging from the mercer’s shop. Thoughtfully he drew his horse to a snorting stop, and in one smooth movement, he dismounted. Catching the bridle in his hand, he strolled toward the shop, regardless of the mud sucking at his boots.

  “Lady Strathern,” he said, removing his broad-brimmed beaver hat, jauntily cocked on one side and embellished by a curling ostrich feather. With a flourish, he swept the hat downward in an elegant bow, very conscious of the image he presented to the three women. His short, skimpy doublet, buttoned only halfway down so that the fine linen of his shirt could show through, was in the forefront of fashion, even if it was somewhat drafty on this brisk spring afternoon. The cloak he wore fastened at the neck was thrust negligently over his shoulders, providing little extra warmth. His breeches were wool, but they stopped at the knee in a froth of ribbon loops. Fortunately he was wearing stirrup hose and ankle socks under the soft leather of his long boots. The hose ended in a froth of lace where the flexible leather had been folded down into a cup-shaped top.

  He knew he was the epitome of a fashionable Royalist gentleman. He knew it, but still he could feel the tension tightening his nerves and stiffening his muscles. “What a pleasure it is to meet you, my lady. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Philip Hampton of Ainslie Manor.”

  Abigail, who was dressed very sensibly in a riding habit of sturdy dark brown cloth, which would not readily show either dirt or wear, nodded coolly and said with a small, polite smile, “How do you do, Sir Philip?” She hesitated, as if unsure whether or not to continue, then added, “This is most irregular, but allow me to make you known to my daughters, Alysa and Prudence.”

  The charming smile he used infrequently, but to excellent effect, curled Philip’s lips. “My pleasure, Mistress Leighton, Mistress Prudence. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  Prudence stammered something polite while Alysa returned Philip’s smile with a small, tantalizing one of her own. The expression in her blue eyes was masked by her carefully lowered lids. In another woman, Philip might have thought the look one of modesty. For Alysa Leighton, he was not so charitable.

  “Sir Philip, how delightful to meet you at last,” she said. “You have no idea how much we have all wanted to make your acquaintance.”

  Philip raised his brows. Ainslie abutted on Strathern property. It would have been a simple matter for the lord of Strathern Hall to have bundled his family into a carriage and driven them over to the manor. If there was anything Philip disliked in a woman, it was dissembling. He had seen too much of it in the past and known the damage it could do to those who were victims of it. His antipathy gave him the comforting feeling of being well armored against Alysa Leighton’s undeniable charms.

  For Alysa Leighton was, to Philip’s mind, a typical Royalist beauty. Her face was round and, in a more innocent lady, would have been described as sweet, but the sharp intelligence lurking in Alysa’s vivid blue eyes made sweet an adjective unlikely to be used for her. The jut to her rounded chin and the pouty cast to her bowed lips further emphasized that she was a lady used to getting what she wanted from the men in her life.

  Even the obviously well-used riding habit she wore could not detract from her beauty. The bodice, tailored in the form of a doublet, shaped her breasts, and the froth of fine linen that showed through the open buttons suggested a slender waist, even as the ample material masked it. Her creamy skin and blond hair were seductive against the dark blue of the sturdy cloth, making Philip ache to see her dressed in satin or silk. He suspected she would be exquisite.

  However, though he might dislike the ploys used by Mistress Alysa and her ilk to snare unwary males, Philip had no hesitation in making use of the lady in order to achieve his ends. He was quite happy to play whatever game Alysa was planning, as long as he was the eventual winner.

  Though these cynical thoughts didn’t show on Philip’s face, Alysa seemed intuitively to have understood that he would not be an easy conquest. She laughed softly and touched the back of his hand with her gloved one. “What a burden it is to be the prominent family in an area. The people all look to us, you see, for the lead they are to follow. Papa had to be certain… that is, that you are a respectable person.”

  This time a smile of real amusement twitched Philip’s lips. “And am I?”

  “Papa has given us permission to speak to you,” Alysa murmured, lowering her eyes demurely. “He would not have done so if he believed it to be inadvisable.”

  Tantalizing the mere male seemed to be second nature to Mistress Alysa, Philip decided. Drawing upon skills he had learned from his father, who had been a prominent courtier at the late King Charles’s court, Philip maintained a bland expression as he bowed elegantly. “Lord Strathern is a wise man, mistress. In these troubled times, one can never be sure whether or not an individual is what he seems.”

  “Exactly!” Alysa beamed.

  To Philip’s surprise, the smile seemed natural, which didn’t fit with his view of Royalist women. Long ago, he’d learned they were cold, scheming and heartless, despite the charm of their manners. If a man allowed one to get near to him, he would find himself losing his independence, and everything else he held dear.

  An entrancing dimple danced into life in Alysa’s cheek. “And so, Sir Philip, pray tell us how you find England after your long exile on the Continent.”

  “The longer I am at Ainslie Manor, the more content I become.” His answer surprised him, for he realized it was the truth.

  “That is not unexpected, Sir Philip,” Abigail said. “I’m sure a family manor in England is much more comfortable than a rented lodging on the Continent, even if the manor is in need of refurbishment.” The cautious glint remained in her brown eyes, but there was also a question there as she glanced at Alysa.

  Philip noted that curiously. Evidently she was surprised at the manner in which Alysa was acting. Or was the surprise over what Alysa was saying to him? Possibly La
dy Strathern preferred to keep conversations with strangers to a bare minimum. That would not be surprising, for in an England where brother had fought brother for years and the vanquished had suffered from the heavy yoke of the victor, it was not wise to trust too easily.

  Philip decided not to give Lady Strathern an excuse to slip away too soon. He would keep the conversation going and at the same time reinforce his story about the past. “I rarely had contact with my Uncle Richard before the war and after….” He shrugged. “What happened to Ainslie, and to other estates hereabouts? I had not heard that any skirmishes were fought in this vicinity.”

  “Ainslie Manor, like other properties in the area, was attacked and looted by marauding troops. In the years since, there has not been the money to restore them.” There was an edge of bitterness to Abigail’s soft voice. “Once West Easton was a place like any other. There were those who supported the king and those who did not. After the town was devastated by the parliamentary army, there were only Royalists in West Easton.” Very deliberately, she added, “I would not want to be a Roundhead sympathizer if I lived here.”

  Once more Philip raised his brows. “Then I am glad to say I am not.”

  Alysa interjected gently, “You must have had time to look into Ainslie’s condition, Sir Philip. How do you find the estate?”

  Philip answered evenly, but there was a question at the back of his eyes. Alysa Leighton clearly wanted his attention focused on her, and he wondered why, though it suited his purpose admirably to have the lady fascinated with him. “Ainslie is not as prosperous as I remember it being when I visited as a child, but I believe that with careful management and much work, I will be able to bring the estate back to its old glory.” He paused, then added deliberately, “I also believe that the political climate will soon be more favorable to those who lost much in the war.”

  Alysa smiled approvingly, but a shutter came down over the expression in Abigail’s eyes. Caution gave way to vigilance. “I do not indulge in the discussion of politics, Sir Philip. I think you will find that few in this area do. We have suffered much through the unrestrained results of political disagreements. All we ask is to be left in peace.”

  The warning in Abigail’s words could not be missed, and like the good strategist he was, Philip knew when it was time to retreat. “My pardon, Lady Strathern.” A rueful light glinted in his dark, almost black, eyes. “I fear that my years on the Continent have made me forget my manners. With little to occupy our time but the desire to return to our homes, we perhaps indulged in plotting and political speculation a trifle too much. Now that I am returned, I find the habit hard to break.”

  Though Abigail did not appear to be appeased by his comment, Alysa responded warmly, “Indeed, Sir Philip, you are most fortunate in being able to return. Is it true that you have a brother who adheres to the Roundhead cause and who was willing to plead your case with the Lord Protector when your uncle died, leaving you heir to his estate?”

  “Alysa!” Abigail said reprovingly.

  Alysa raised one dark blond eyebrow, her blue, heavy-lidded eyes amused. To his surprise, Philip felt an answering humor twitch his lips. “Alas, Mistress Leighton, it is true that one member of my family had the poor taste to follow the late Oliver Cromwell. As a result, he throve while the rest of us endured political misfortune.” A sardonic note entered his voice. “Perhaps his conscience bothered him after all these years and he decided to help me claim my legal rights in order to salve it.”

  “Perhaps.” Alysa added gently, “Or perhaps he thought that the gift of Ainslie would persuade you to join the Roundhead cause as he did.”

  Her bluntness sat oddly with the image Philip had created of Alysa as a subtle, insidious schemer. For a moment, his eyes narrowed dangerously, before he was able to hide his thoughts behind a bland mask. “My brother’s reasons are his own and not of my concern. We have always gone our separate ways, merely retaining friendly contact. Politics do not enter into our relationship.”

  “Then you must be the only family in England that it doesn’t!” interjected Prudence. As clear and easy to read as Alysa was complex and confusing, she said fiercely, “I’faith, I grow impatient with the discussions of the past I hear around me. The war is over! Best we all remember that and look to the future instead.”

  “I suggest you moderate your tone, daughter,” Abigail said stringently, before she softened. “However, your words do make some sense. Now, if Sir Philip will excuse us, I would like to visit the bootmaker before we join your father. He said he would be no more than a half an hour at the smithy.” She nodded her head in dismissal. “Good day to you, Sir Philip.”

  “And to you, Lady Strathern. Mistress Leighton. Mistress Prudence.” He bowed politely as he watched them leave and silently thanked Lady Strathern for advising him where her husband was to be found. Having implemented the first part of the rough plan he had concocted, he might as well push to achieve the second.

  The smithy was at the far end of the village, set a little apart to minimize the danger of sparks from the forge starting a fire that would involve the whole community. A young boy who was hovering near the front entry shouted, “Hello, sir! Are you coming to see my papa, the smith?”

  He hurried over to hold Philip’s horse while he dismounted. Acknowledging that was indeed what he was planning, Philip asked the boy to walk the horse while he went inside. He was already halfway through the door as the lad pulled his forelock and promised to take great care of the stallion.

  The heat from the forge was stifling, despite the dampness of the spring day. Philip could not help wondering what made a man like Edward, Lord Strathern, spend a half an hour inside the overheated shed, when his authority and status entitled him to command the smith come to him.

  A gesture of respect from one man to another involved in the same dangerous plotting? A need for privacy, perhaps? The presence of the youthful guard at the door suggested the latter.

  Since interrupting Lord Strathern was his purpose, not eavesdropping on his conversation, Philip called loudly, “Hallo, smith! Are you there?” He paused in the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior.

  “I am,” said the smith, a stocky man with broad shoulders and a sturdy independence to match. “What would you like—Sir Philip, is it not?”

  “Aye, it is,” Philip acknowledged amiably as he proceeded into the building. “I need several of my horses shod and wondered if you could come out to Ainslie Manor this week to see to it.” He caught sight of Strathern, standing by a table on which several bridle bits of excellent workmanship had been laid. Bowing, he added, “But I am interrupting! Pray do not mind me. I will happily wait until you’re finished.”

  “Indeed, my business here is done,” Strathern said. He turned to the smith. “I will have a half a dozen of these new bits, Wishingham. Send them to Strathern Hall when they are ready.”

  Barnabus Wishingham, the smith, bowed. “Of course, my lord.” He turned to Philip. “Now, sir, you were asking when I could come to shoe your horses.”

  “Any time will do,” Philip said, waving the smith away with thinly disguised impatience. “Strathern, a moment, if you please.”

  On his way out, Edward paused. He observed Philip through shrewd, wary eyes. “A moment only. I have promised my wife and daughters to meet them and I have already lingered overlong.”

  Philip’s mouth twitched in what could have been amusement. “The ladies are behind times themselves. I met them but a few minutes ago and they were on their way to the bootmaker.”

  “I see.”

  There was a cool edge to Strathern’s voice that Philip was able to make use of. Feigning hesitation, he said, “It was of your daughter Alysa that I wished to speak to you, Lord Strathern.”

  “Alysa?” Curiosity colored Edward’s voice. “Why?”

  Philip drew a deep breath. “As you know, I am newly returned to England. Now that I am once more a man of estate, I feel it my duty to
marry and start a family. Mistress Alysa has a very fine reputation in the area, and now that I have met her I can see why. I need not mention that her loveliness is such that any man would be delighted to look upon her every day of his life. In that and many other ways, I believe that she would make me an excellent wife. Consequently, I wondered if I might have your permission to visit her in order to press my suit.”

  Not surprisingly, Strathern was startled by the request. He was silent for a moment, his shrewd eyes examining Philip’s face, seeking sincerity in his expression. At last he said dryly, “My daughter has a will of her own, Sir Philip. Yes, you may call upon her, but she will say if she wishes the visits to continue.”

  Philip bowed. “I can ask for nothing fairer.”

  With a nod, Lord Strathern left the smithy.

  Philip stared after him, his expression enigmatic.

  And so, he thought, the game begins.

  Chapter 2

  The family sitting room where Alysa and Prudence were mending sheets on this dull spring day was a small, cluttered chamber. Though the room was not normally used for entertaining, Jenkins, the elderly butler, brought the gentleman who called directly there. After all, it was only Cedric Ingram and he was almost one of the family.

  Cedric Ingram was a small man with a tight, humorless smile and pale gray eyes that were rarely warm. Though fine boned and even featured, his face was not a memorable one, for no spark of life animated his expression. He dressed, however, with the style and panache befitting a man of his status, for in the West Easton area, he was second in rank only to Lord Strathern.