The Master Of Calverley Hall. Lucy Ashford

      ‘What will you call him?’

      It took Elvie only a moment. ‘Little Jack!’ she declared. ‘I shall call him Little Jack—do you think that’s all right?’

      Isobel laughed again—that merry laugh he remembered so well. ‘I think it’s absolutely perfect.’ She turned to Connor and gave him the slightest of nods. ‘I wish you joy of Calverley Hall.’

      And she left.

       Chapter Two

      Connor thought, Damn it. He’d guessed he would meet her some time, but not like this, with Elvie here. And even if they’d met when it was just the two of them, what was there to say? How could they talk about the past or—even worse—the present?

      He glanced down at Elvie and realised she was clutching the puppy to her as if she still couldn’t quite believe he was hers. Connor took him gently from her, then led Elvie to a leather trader’s stall where he bought a proper leash and a red collar with a silver buckle. Connor swiftly adjusted them and handed the leash to Elvie, commenting, ‘It’s quite a responsibility, you know, Elvie, to own a dog. But I think you’ll look after him marvellously.’

      For a while longer they wandered round in the sunshine with Little Jack trotting alongside, to see what else the midsummer fête had to offer. But Connor felt as if the climax of the day had already come and gone. He was haunted by his memories of the past. Especially that night seven years ago, when Isobel Blake had ridden from the Hall to the blacksmith’s cottage where Connor lived with his ailing father.

      ‘Please, Connor. One of my father’s mares is sick. I can’t think of anyone else to ask. Will you help?’

      It was past ten, but he’d ridden back to the Hall’s stables with her in the dark and found the mare suffering from an infected hoof. Really, a qualified farrier was needed—but Connor knew as well as Isobel that no one would come out to work for Sir George Blake, because he was a drunken sot who never paid his bills. So, while Isobel held up the lantern, Connor cleaned out the hoof and poulticed it. He’d all but finished when Sir George arrived.

      He’d tried to strike Connor. Connor, eighteen then, was easily strong enough to hold him off, but Sir George had said, ‘I’ll see you and your father ruined for this. What were you after? My horses? My money? My daughter?’

      Connor had left the stables without a word. Two nights later, the forge and their adjoining home were set alight. Connor’s father, already seriously ill, died just a week afterwards and Connor set off for London, where he made his fortune—but exactly the opposite had happened to Isobel. Her father took her to London when she was eighteen, presumably to find a rich husband, but instead she brought disgrace on herself by going to live with a middle-aged rake, Viscount Loxley, at his London residence near Hyde Park. Shortly afterwards her father died a bankrupt and Calverley Hall was lost. Her mother had died when Isobel was a child and she had no other family—but even so. Even so...

      Society condemned her. She must have had a choice, Connor tried to tell himself. There was no need for her to ruin her reputation so thoroughly. And yet she’d done it. He’d not seen her since that night at the Calverley stables seven years ago, but he heard the London gossip. Heard how she’d become Loxley’s youthful ‘companion’. And when Loxley died, three years ago when Isobel was twenty, she’d moved back to Gloucestershire; she’d chosen to live with an artist, Joseph Molina, who occupied a farmhouse not far from Chipping Calverley and not far from the Hall.

      This time, people muttered, she’s not even troubled to find a rich man to sell herself to.

      For some time, Connor found it almost impossible to reconcile the stories about Isobel Blake with the girl he once knew. He’d tried to excuse and understand her. But the evidence appeared indisputable.

      Couldn’t she have saved herself, somehow? It still smote him to remember her as a girl. There had always been something of the rebel about Isobel and once he’d admired her for it. Admired the way she used to ride up to the forge, her blonde hair windswept, her cheeks golden from the sun as she declared, ‘I had to escape, Connor. I couldn’t bear that house a moment longer! Am I a very great nuisance to you?’

      Sometimes she was—but he’d always made time for her. And he hadn’t thought twice about risking the forge and his livelihood that night long ago by coming to Calverley Hall at her bidding, to tend the sick horse. Well, none of it mattered any more. If she’d stood any chance at all of redeeming her reputation after Viscount Loxley’s death, she’d buried it by moving in with her artist. Connor remembered how Haskins, his steward, had responded when asked if he ever saw anything of her in the neighbourhood. ‘Miss Blake?’ Haskins had spoken with distaste. ‘She’s set up house with a foreign painter fellow. She’s shameless. Quite shameless.’

      And yet, try as he might, Connor still couldn’t banish her from his mind’s eye. There was something about her that made her unforgettable, yes, even in her stupidly large hat and that shabby, clinging dress. She’d been outspoken, too, about the Plass Valley children. ‘They need someone to defend them, Mr Hamilton!’

      The Plass Valley people did trouble him—he’d noted their rough encampment on the day he arrived. But Isobel Blake troubled him even more. He felt his anger rising again, his sense of betrayal—because he’d thought she was different from her disreputable father, but he’d been wrong.

      Now he gently ruffled Elvie’s hair. ‘Time to go home?’ he suggested. ‘Let’s take Little Jack and introduce him to everyone, shall we?’

      And he carried the tired little puppy with one hand, while holding Elvie’s with the other, as they headed for the field at the far end of the fair where Tom waited with the carriage.

      Connor took one last look around. This countryside was idyllic and he had a beautiful new home. The only trouble was—he’d forgotten how powerful were the memories that came with it.

      * * *

      Tom batted not an eyelid at the arrival of the puppy, but promptly took up his perch on the back of the phaeton as Connor gathered up the reins and set off at a spanking pace towards Calverley Hall. Connor pulled up the horses only slightly as they passed through the Hall’s gates, nodding to the lodgekeeper there, then he let the carriage roll on, following the old road as it wound through ancient oak woods, then over the stone bridge that crossed the river.

      Soon afterwards they were clattering into the front courtyard, but suddenly Connor was frowning. There were staff waiting for him there. A ridiculous formality, he thought, since he and Tom could have managed everything perfectly well! But no—there were grooms to take charge of the horses and a footman standing by the front door. And Haskins the steward stood stiffly to attention.

      Most of the Hall’s staff were completely new. The ones who’d stayed on since the old days, like Tom, were a rarity. Housemaids, footmen, gardeners and grooms had been hired by Connor’s business secretary, Robert Carstairs, who’d also appointed the new steward Haskins, together with a housekeeper, Mrs Lett.

      Carstairs was highly efficient. But sometimes, Connor regretted not conducting the interviews himself.

      A young maid hurried forward for Elvie. ‘There now, Miss Elvira! Your grandmother’s waiting for you. Have you had a lovely day at the fair?’

      Elvie nodded shyly, looking longingly at Little Jack; but Connor had the puppy firmly in hand. ‘I’ll take him to meet the other dogs,’ he assured Elvie. ‘The groom in charge of the kennels will see that he’s made really welcome.’ He stooped so he didn’t tower over her and added, ‘You tell your grandmother all about your trip out—yes?—and then in an hour or so, when Little Jack’s settled, I’ll take you to see him.’

      So Connor led the puppy out to the stables, then returned to the house and headed for his study—only to find Robert Carstairs waiting for him.

      ‘Some