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family and Bertram believed me to be of much lower status. It was not for me to criticise his brother’s running of the estate.
    â€˜Keep him on?’ finished Bertram for me. ‘I said his agent was a clever man. He’ll know the importance of keeping the locals on side.’
    â€˜Unlike at the hunting lodge,’ muttered Rory.
    I shivered at those memories. The old man opened the gates. Bertram opened his window and tipped the man a coin. We drove on, the gravel drive spewing up dust around us. ‘Newly laid,’ muttered Rory. ‘Can hardly see a thing. I hope I don’t drive into the house.’
    The drive arched away to the left and then, even above the dust clouds, we saw Peterfield.
    â€˜It’s enormous,’ said Bertram.
    In my time, I have had occasion to stay in a few of the great houses of our country and to my eye, Peterfield was no rival. As we grew closer I could see it had some age, though there seemed to be a mixture of old and new stone. The roof was clearly new. It presented a standard square face to us on approach, with a single similarly square tower rising above the wings that ran to a height of two storeys. These wings met at a place that was part house, part wall and part entrance. The actual main house was taller than the entrance, looming above it, and the opening in the front wall as we passed through it showed this section to be no more than one room wide.
    I feel I am not describing the building well, and in my defence, I must say that the whole thing was a mishmash. I think I can best describe it as a building built in the style of the large castles of Scotland, such as Edinburgh, but without either the money for the full extension or the sense of grace and power. Picture a child’s toy fort and you will not be far wrong. Little Joe would have loved it. Bertram was clearly overwhelmed by its faux grandeur, but in the mirror I saw Rory’s upper lip curl into a sneer. For once, I quite agreed with him. The whole structure was a parody and an insult to Scotland’s true castles.
    â€˜Looks like we’ve been sighted from the battlements,’ said Rory as he drove through the archway. There, standing at the top of an impressive stair, stood the unmistakable figure of Richard Stapleford. He had his arm around the waist of a slim, girlish figure. Even from a distance, we could see she was dressed in the very latest fashion. I heard Bertram’s sudden intake of breath.
    â€˜Gosh,’ he said. ‘That must be Lucinda.’
    â€˜I take it ye hadnae met your brother’s intended?’ asked Rory.
    â€˜No,’ said Bertram in a slightly breathless voice. ‘I had not.’
    Rory brought the car to a standstill and, first, helped Bertram and I out. Richard came down the steps with his fiancée, still gripping her around the waist. He held out a hand to Bertram, who shook it without thinking.
    â€˜My dear Euphemia, my dear Bertram,’ said Richard, ‘allow me the very great pleasure of welcoming you to my small Scottish home.’ He paused and turned to look at the girl. ‘And of introducing you to my bride-to-be, the very lovely Miss Lucinda Hessleton.’
    Close to, the beauty of the girl was even clearer. Her eyes were large and of the deep blue that is almost violet. Her face was heart-shaped and she smiled with apparent sweetness and sincerity.
    â€˜We are both so glad you could join us for the wedding,’ she said. The voice was light and pleasing, with only the slightest hint that her accent was due to elocution lessons rather than upbringing.
    By now, Bertram was gulping so hard I feared that we would soon discover if it was possible for a man to swallow his own Adam’s apple. ‘Honoured,’ he said, possessing himself of one of Lucinda’s hands and bowing over it.
    â€˜May I call you Bertram?’ asked Lucinda. ‘After all, I shall soon be your sister.’
    Even I had to