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they had moved further away. Like charred leaves above a bonfire, he thought. A pyre.
    Rampton cleared his throat. ‘It would give me great pleasure if you would stay and dine.’
    ‘Thank you, but I believe I shall ride back to London.’
    ‘There’s plenty of time yet,’ Rampton said. ‘And there is something else that we need to discuss which may perhaps take a while.’
    Rampton paused. Savill said nothing.
    ‘There are the documents I mentioned,’ Rampton said. ‘The notary’s statement and the death certificate.’
    ‘If you have them, sir, I shall take them now,’ Savill said. ‘If not, then perhaps you would send them to me. You know my direction. Nightingale Lane, near Bedford Square.’
    ‘I don’t have them. They are in the possession of Monsieur Fournier. And he has something else of hers that may interest you.’
    ‘I doubt it,’ Savill said, rising from his chair. ‘There is nothing of my late wife’s that interests me.’
    ‘The matter is more delicate than it first might appear,’ Mr Rampton said. ‘And that is why I asked you to wait on me here at Vardells and not in town.’ He smiled up at Savill with unexpected sweetness. ‘Augusta had a son.’

Chapter Five
     
    ‘That scar on your cheek from New York,’ Rampton said when they were at table. ‘I had expected the wound to have healed better over the years. Does it pain you?’
    ‘Not at all,’ Savill said. ‘Why should it, after all this time?’
    ‘I’m rejoiced to hear it, sir.’
    Rampton had ordered the curtains drawn and the candles lit, shutting out the blue sky and the swallows. Even in the country, he lived in some state. There were two manservants to wait at table. The food was good and the wine was better. The presence of the servants kept the conversation on general topics.
    ‘And how is your little daughter?’ he asked as Savill was helping himself to a delicately flavoured fricassee of chicken.
    ‘Lizzie?’ Savill glanced down the table. ‘Your goddaughter is in good health, sir, but she is not so little now.’
    ‘Good, good.’ Rampton nodded and looked pleased: it was as if the excellence of Lizzie’s health was something he himself had worked towards, something for which he could take credit, had he not modestly waived his right to it. ‘Is she like her mother?’
    ‘Yes. In appearance. Her face is softer, perhaps, gentler.’
    ‘As long as her character does not resemble her mother’s. Let us pray it does not.’
    Savill said nothing.
    ‘Her mother was very beautiful at her age. If Elizabeth takes after her, she will have plenty of suitors. I dare say she will soon be of an age to marry.’
    ‘Should she wish to, sir, yes. If she finds a man who pleases her.’
    ‘If you take my advice, sir, you will encourage her to do so as soon as possible.’ Rampton dabbed his lips with his napkin. ‘Though it’s an expensive business, of course. Marriage, I mean. However one looks at it.’ He applied himself to a dish of lamb cutlets.
    Savill sensed something unsaid here; he caught the ghost of its absence. ‘Is this your main residence now, sir?’ he asked.
    ‘Alas, no – I am much at Westminster. I must own I wish it were otherwise. I find I have a taste for country life. Of course this is little more than a cottage, and there’s barely fifty acres with it. But it’s enough for my simple wants. I’m building a wing to accommodate my library with bedrooms above, with a fine prospect over the garden. In the spring, I shall improve the prospect still further by sweeping away those old hedgerows and farm buildings to the west of the drive. Then it will be perfection.’
    If this is a cottage, Savill thought, then I am a unicorn. The house had been refurbished since he had last been here. It now sat in grounds that were in the process of being newly laid out; on the east side of the drive, a great expanse of grass swept towards a small lake that had not been there before. As for the house, the new