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Father? You know she is the dearest, most good-natured girl. I—”
    “You’ve said enough, girl. Past your bedtime anyway.”
    “Yes, Father.” Aghast that she had disagreed with her father in front of all the fine London company and been reprimanded, Samantha made an awkward curtsey and fled the room, nearly in tears.
    “That was unkind, George.” His wife took Squire to task. “Jacelyn has been a good friend to Samantha, even though she is older.” This last may have been quietly directed at Priscilla who, after a perfunctory kiss in the vicinity of Samantha’s ear, had totally ignored her young cousin in favour of the gentlemen’s company. “Miss Trevaine may be somewhat high-spirited, but even you, George, have admitted that she is pluck to the backbone, as you would say.”
    “Aye, the gel’s got bottom, I’ll grant you that. Just listen to the scheme she’s concocted now.” Squire read the note aloud, then guffawed so hard tears streamed down his red cheeks.
    When he was able to speak again, Captain Highet pressed him for an explanation. “I do not understand, sir. Arthur’s right here, and there is no mention in the letter of any Miss Trevaine. I say, could you let us in on the joke?”
    So Squire sketched a background to the scenario, using such phrases as “like a boil on m’butt,” and “a bitch in heat,” to his wife’s frown, his sister’s pursed lips, and his niece’s twitters. “And now she thinks to diddle me with this farrago of nonsense,” Squire finished, “with Arthur right here!”
    The young men up for the fox hunt were all sympathetic and now shared Squire’s amusement. The lines of displeasure on Lady Ponsonby’s face, though, deepened, until she recalled they might become permanent if held too long. “This is highly unseemly, George. I hope we are not to be subjected to more of this indignity. Kidnapping my Arthur, indeed.”
    “George,” Mrs. Bottwick asked thoughtfully, “if Arthur is here, who do you think penned the note? Whatever Jacelyn might be, and I’ll acknowledge that this does sound somewhat irregular, she is not foolish.”
    “Quite right, Uncle George. She always was a little hellion, but a downy one. She must have thought you’d go for it, but why?”
    Squire was off in a laughing fit again when the captain made the obvious deduction: “You mean the chit’s held up some poor chap she thinks is Arthur here, and is holding him to ransom a dog?” He and Lord Humboldt pounded each other on the back, saying it served the pushy female right. Priscilla and Miss Chadwick, side by side on the sofa, shared haughty looks of feigned disinterest. They’d never be caught doing anything so ill-bred or vulgar, much less anything as silly as getting between a man and his sporting instincts. Mrs. Bottwick was murmuring about the “poor, motherless child” while Clothilda Ponsonby simply looked disgusted.
    “Arthur,” she addressed her son in an effort to change the topic, “I’ve told you not to wear that shade. It makes you look liverish. Or was it the food?”
    Indeed, Arthur had paled to a greenish tint. He ran a finger under his suddenly too-tight collar. “Yes, Mother. That is, no, Mother. I’m quite the thing. A trifle weary. Um, Uncle, perhaps I might—”
    “Dang,” interrupted Squire, “I’d give my best mare to know who the chit’s snagged.”
    Arthur choked. There was no hope of getting his uncle alone, not with everyone looking at him. “Do you remember when I arrived early I said there was another fellow who might come this evening, or else tomorrow, if it got too dark to ride? Another army friend?”
    Mrs. Bottwick was relieved. “That’s all right then, an officer friend of Arthur’s. I’m sure he’ll see that Jacelyn’s just an impulsive child.”
    “Aunt Rosalie, ma’am.” Arthur kept twisting his neckcloth. “It’s not that I’d ever invite a here-and-thereian to your home. Leigh is a fine gentleman and officer, one of