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demurely, but laid down her book. “Now I’m sure the other offi cers will be polite and well bred, so you must be the same.”
    Kydd snorted.
    Renzi sighed. “You have still three issues of the Gentleman’s Magazine to digest, to my certain knowledge,” he said accusingly.
    “And a Spectator, ” Cecilia chimed in. “How can you keep a lady entertained at table without you have small-talk to share?”
    She looked at Renzi in mock despair, then brightened. “Mr Renzi, have you seen our castle? The merest ruin, I’ll grant, but of an age indeed. Mama will be persuaded to come—she knows all the history.”
    “I’m wore out,” said Mrs Kydd, fi nding a wooden bench overlooking what remained of the castle keep. “You two have a good look roun’ by y’rselves.”
    Cecilia was agreeable, and Renzi took her on his arm for the stony path winding about the castle mound. The winter sun had a fragile brilliance, contrasting colour bright with grey and brown tints.
    “It grieves me to say it, but Thomas did not shine at the tea-party in any wise,” he opened. He was uncomfortably aware of her touch—it had been long years since last he had enjoyed polite female company, and Cecilia was now a beauty.
    “Yes—the silly boy, sitting there like a stuffed goose while the ladies made sport of him. I despair, Nicholas, I really do.”
    Renzi assisted Cecilia past a perilous rock. She fl ashed him 34

Julian Stockwin
    a look of gratitude, then dropped her eyes, but her hold on his arm tightened.
    “Miss Kydd . . .” began Renzi thickly, then stopped. With his own feelings about her far from clear was it fair—was it honourable?—to engage her affections?
    “Yes, Nicholas?” she said, smiling up at him.
    He pulled himself up. “I was . . . Your mother confi des that you have secured the liveliest trust in your position with Lady Stanhope.”
    “I have been very fortunate,” she said gravely. Then a smile broke through. “You’ve no idea how many of the highest in the land I’ve seen. Lady Stanhope requires I attend her at all her routs and I’m sure it’s only to fi nd me a husband.”
    “And—”
    “Don’t be a silly, Nicholas. I’m sensible of my fortune in this and, I do declare, I’m not ready to forsake it all now for the te-dium of domestic life.” She tossed her head, eyes sparkling.
    After another few paces she turned to him with a troubled expression. “Thomas—he . . .”
    He knew what concerned her: her brother would fi nd himself fi rst ridiculed and later shunned if he could not hold his own in company. “Time is short, I agree. Do you not think that we are obligated to press him to enter in upon society in a more formal degree?”
    Cecilia bit her lip, then decided. “A dinner party! Now, let me see . . . We have the pick of Guildford, of course, a hostess would die to entertain a brace of heroes from Camperdown, but I rather feel that at this stage Thomas would not welcome the public eye too warmly.” She thought for a moment, then said,
    “I know—I’ll speak with Mrs Crawford, advise her that after such a dreadful battle Thomas relishes nothing better than a small, intimate gathering. I’ll be seeing her on Thursday and shall speak to her then.”

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    “Splendid,” responded Renzi. It would indeed be a suitable occasion for Kydd, if he could overcome his timidity in august surroundings. He beamed approval at Cecilia.
    “Er, Nicholas,” she said off-handedly, “something that I keep forgetting to ask. It’s just my ill-bred curiosity, but you’ve never mentioned your own people.” She stopped to admire a singularly gnarled small tree.
    “My own? Well . . . shall I say they’re just an Old Country family of Wiltshire whom I haven’t attended as assiduously as I might?”
    Kydd sat motionless at the bare table, listening while Cecilia explained and cautioned, his expression hard but in control.
    “No, Thomas, it just will not do. We do not enter like a herd