His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. He drew an awed breath. 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. He spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a friend whom he found at last in the billiard room of one of the smaller clubs to which he belonged. There was a pint of champagne and a quart of mineral water (both taboo) at his elbow. “I mean it. ” He said bravely. ’ ‘That’s easy. He shuddered. I suspect he has a bit of vanity. He tried to make love to me.
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