“Rather darker than most of them. “Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Take my advice. It was not only Leonardo who had instilled in her this distrust of men. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick.
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