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way through the worst of the mud to stand at the reed-thick water’s edge. It was a lovely sight and one that would always tug at her heart.
        The smooth, darkish surface of the lake stretched far away into bushes on the distant banks, invitingly secretive. She and Charlotte had often walked together here, whispering confidences into each other’s ears, or asked the taciturn Nathaniel to row them out onto the lake during the sultry summer afternoons. Today, the place looked a little sparser than she remembered: a few wild birds were bobbing about in the middle where a smallish, tree-filled scrub of land rose from the lake, cut off on all sides by water.
        Tearing her gaze away from the allures of the lake and its dark little island, determined not to revisit the past with mawkish sentimentality, Eleanor studied the muddy track on which she was standing.
        There were her neat footprints, fresh-made in the mud. But whose were these others?
        They were deeper-set and wider apart than her own, perhaps made by the broad heel of a man’s boot as he stopped here to stare out across the lake, much as she had just done.
        Eleanor frowned, and followed the footprints steadily with her gaze. They appeared to lead along the water’s edge, then up the steep path towards the woodlands and boundary stile that lay between her own land and that belonging to Sallinger House.
        Turning her head, she could observe that the bootprints extended no further than the spot in which she was standing, and that a dog, or maybe even two, had accompanied their maker.
        The implication was obvious. Some person – a man, she had no doubt of it – had come recently to stand on this very spot, with a dog at his side, and then returned the way he had come – from the Sallinger estate.
        A poacher?
        Or someone so unutterably arrogant – nay, insolent! – that he believed he could wander at will about her grounds without permission?
        Her cheeks hot and suffused with temper, Eleanor gave a little cry and started forward instinctively, bent over like a hunter following a wild beast’s tracks. She pursued the footprints round the lakeside, up a narrow track into woodland, and as far as the boundary stile, heavily shrouded in ragged gorse and brambles.
        There she stopped, biting her lip. The wooden step on her side was cracked straight across but still usable, she suspected, as long as one did not put one’s full weight upon it.
        Out of breath after her steep climb, Eleanor allowed herself to rest for a moment, leaning her hot face on her arm.
        In truth, she was torn between a strong desire to jump down onto his land in a childish act of revenge, and fear of what might happen were she to be seen on Sallinger land. Not that anyone would dare to question her presence there except him, of course. But the very possibility that he might hear of it was enough to cool her raging blood.
        Eleanor straightened, ordering herself to behave in a more ladylike fashion and return to the house immediately. Seconds later, she gave an audible gasp as she looked up into the eyes of the man whose fury had driven her from this place five years before.
        ‘You!’ she managed, then gave a choking sound as she realised how badly she had given herself away.
        Years of training forced a polite smile onto her flushed face and a courtesy into her voice that she was far from feeling. But there was no disguising her breathlessness.
        ‘What a pleasant surprise to see you again so soon. How … how do you do, Lord Sallinger?’
        Seated on a magnificent black stallion, Lord Sallinger looked down at her with an unfamiliar mixture of hostility and icy politeness. His gloved hands barely bothered to pull on the reins, his powerful thighs controlling the animal with consummate ease.
        ‘I am well, Miss Faversham, thank you,’ he replied, and jerked his head in what