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chest of sheets, but he’d never heard of a man paying to wed a girl. ‘Where did you hear that?’
    â€˜Summat folks have said here and there,’ the woman said with a small air of defiance. ‘Makes sense enough. There’s no one to leave brass to the Gibtons.’
    He considered the idea. Who’d sell their daughter that way? But the more the thought lingered, the more he had to admit that it could happen. With the rich, everything was wealth and power, however they could obtain it.
    â€˜Where do they live now?’
    â€˜Moved out the village.’ She clicked her tongue at the idea. ‘They used to have a cottage close to the crossroads but they left that. It was a pretty enough place, too, bigger than most. If you want to find them, go along the old Roman road, the one that goes to Moortown. There’s a house about half a mile down, set back behind some trees. That’s what they bought with their fortune.’
    He thanked her and set off, leaving an extra coin for the information she’d given him. The place was easy enough to spot, the only building on the horizon, but first he paused to glance at their old house. Perhaps the woman had been right and it had been pretty enough once, but neglect had very quickly eroded its beauty. Now the garden was overgrown, an unkempt tangle, slates hung loose on the roof, windows and door gone, salvaged by the other villagers.
    A few minutes later, as he rode down the driveway, he could see that the house the Gibtons had moved to was neither new nor especially grand. It looked like the home of a moderately prosperous squire. But it had pleasing, even proportions, and was built of ruddy brick with neatly mullioned windows. The grounds were carefully tended, and it was certainly several steps up from where they’d lived before. He glanced back over his shoulder. The cottage stood in the far distance, its outline faintly visible through a thin copse. How far they’d come, but what a small distance. How long before they had it pulled down, he wondered, and rewrote their history?
    A breathless young serving girl dashed out to meet him, bobbing a quick curtsey even as her eyes took in his old clothes.
    â€˜I’d like to speak to Lord Gibton,’ Nottingham announced. She ducked her head swiftly and ran back in the house. He tied the horse’s reins to a tree and waited.
    He’d met people with titles before. At first he’d been nervous, unsure how to address them, how to act around them. Some had quickly put him at ease, pleasant fellows with easy, open manners. Most, however, took their superiority for granted, as if the world had been created solely for their ease.
    Baron Gibton was going to be one of the latter, the Constable thought as the man came down the steps. He was a scrawny man, hardly any meat on his bones, with a deeply lined, careworn face under a glossy auburn peruke. He was dressed in a suit of deep burgundy velvet, the tails of his draped canary waistcoat hanging close to his knees, his stock and hose an unblemished white. In London he’d have fitted in perfectly; out here, surrounded by countryside, he just looked affected and ridiculous.
    â€˜The girl says you want to see me,’ he said briskly, eyes appraising Nottingham’s appearance. ‘Who are you, anyway?’
    â€˜I’m the Constable of Leeds, my Lord.’ Nottingham didn’t bow or look down deferentially at the ground. ‘I’m here about your daughter.’
    Gibton stared for a few moments and then pursed his mouth, showing sharp teeth behind thin lips.
    â€˜Come in. I don’t want everyone knowing my business.’
    He turned quickly on his heel and strode inside.
    The withdrawing room smelt heavily of wax polish. It was sparsely furnished with just a few pieces artfully placed, and looked strangely incomplete. The upholstered settle appeared recently purchased, its fabric still bright and unworn. A