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Ransome? Could this possibly be the same gentleman her father had spoken of yesterday? She took a deep breath, swallowing a little nervously. What would he be like? She smoothed the apricot skirts of her day dress and then began to descend the staircase, the murmur of voices becoming louder as she neared the withdrawing room.
    “Ah, Sarah.” Her father smiled warmly, holding out his hands to her in welcome and leading her into the room; since the day before he had been almost suffocatingly loving. To her relief she saw no sign of Edward and Hermione, who reacted to Stratford’s recent outburst in a circumspect manner which Sarah found even more difficult to bear than their previous attitude. They had taken to glancing meaningfully around at others in the room, catching whatever eye they could and holding the person in a stare of injured pride. Sarah preferred even their open hostility to this, and was glad to see they were absent.
    Her father led her to the center of the room and she found herself standing before a stranger, a tall man with sandy hair and thick side-whiskers. He was somewhere in his late twenties and she immediately liked his relaxed manner and soft brown eyes. He was dressed well, in a dark gray coat and breeches, but never could have been called fashionable. Tall black leather boots and a top hat completed his appearance as he bowed before her, taking her hand in his firm grip. “Miss Stratford.”
    “Sir?” She knew that he must be Paul Ransome, but she waited for her father to complete the introduction.
    “Ah yes, Sarah, this is Paul Ransome of Mannerby. Ransome, my daughter Sarah Jane.” The gong sounded and Stratford took Paul’s arm. “We were about to eat. Shall you join us?”
    The newcomer inclined his head, stepping aside as Sir Peter bent to take up a pearl-handled walking cane which rested against a chair. “A cane, Sir Peter? I trust it’s nothing serious.”
    “Damned leeches can’t tell me anything. Nothing wrong, they swear. Nothing wrong! Prattling fools—let them suffer this cursed pain for a day and then swear there’s nothing wrong!”
    “Perhaps it’s merely the winter rheums.”
    Sir Peter grunted disbelievingly, and everyone stood aside as he crossed the room toward the door, turning to beam at Sarah and hold his hand out in an unbearably paternal manner. Coloring slightly she went to him and the party adjourned to the dining room.
    Throughout the many courses of the meal Sarah’s thoughts were mixed. She was relieved to think that her future guardian seemed so pleasant, that he was young and not some ancient ogre whose company would be dreadful. She was glad too to be leaving Rook House for the time being. She could not help thinking of her foolishness in meeting Ralph Jameson, or her incredible misjudgment of his character and intentions.
    Other, more unsettling thoughts crept into her head, too, thoughts of Jack Holland which kept her awake at nights. Her appetite was poor and she picked at her meal, her heart plagued with different emotions, but most of all filled with a yearning for Jack. She could see his red-gold hair and his dark gray eyes, the twist of his lips when he smiled and feel the touch of those same lips as he kissed her. Her spoon hovered halfway between her plate and her mouth and she stared at the white tablecloth, lost in her thoughts.
    “Sarah, are you feeling unwell? I’faith you’ve nibbled at your food like a lovesick rabbit!” Tinkles of polite laughter greeted her father’s words and she glanced up, startled. Paul Ransome was looking closely at her, sipping his glass of wine, his good-natured face pensive.
    A blush crept over her at having caused such amusement. “I’ve little appetite today, Father.” She picked up the crystal glass by her plate and drank deeply, as she had seen the other ladies do. The dark red liquid was heady and she felt its progress to her stomach where it rested warmly.
    Attention moved away from her and she