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what was little better than a Corinth, and it had been necessary to hire in York three far from respectable wenches to wait on the raffish company. As for the amusements of these dashing blades and their convenients, his late lordship, declared Imber, must have turned in his grave to see such lewd goings-on in his ancestral home. If the guests were not indulging in vulgar rompings, such as playing Hunt the Squirrel, with those shameless lightskirts squealing fit to bring the rafters down, and egging on the gentlemen to behave in a very scandalous way, they were turning the house into a gaming-hell, and drinking the cellar dry. Not one but had had to be put to bed by  his valet, and that my Lord Utterby (a loose-screw, if ever Imber had seen one!) had not burnt the Priory to the ground was due only to the chance that had carried the smell of burning to the nostrils of Mr.  Ansford‟s peculiar, who—had not scrupled to track it to its source, though she had been clad only in her nightgown—not but what that was a more decent cloak to her opulent form than the dress she had worn earlier in the day!—and had torn down the smouldering bed-curtains, screeching all the time at the  top of her very ungenteel voice.
    These orgies had lasted for seven days, but they had provided the neighbouring countryside with food for gossip that lasted for months.
    However, nothing further had been heard of Damerel. He had not come north for York
    Races this year, and, unless he meant to come later for the pheasant-shooting, which (from the neglected state of his preserves) seemed unlikely, the North Riding might consider itself free from his contaminating presence for another year. It came, therefore, as a surprise to Venetia, serenely filling her basket with his blackberries, when she discovered that he was much nearer at hand than anyone had supposed. She had been making her way round the outskirts of the wood, and had paused to disentangle her dress from a particularly clinging trail of bramble when an amused voice said: “ Oh, how full of briars is this working-day world !”
    Startled, she turned her head, and found that she was being observed by a tall man mounted on a handsome gray horse. He was a stranger, but his voice and his habit proclaimed his condition, and it did not take her more than a very few moments to guess that she must be confronting the Wicked Baron. She regarded him with candid interest, unconsciously affording him an excellent view  of her enchanting countenance. His brows rose, and he swung himself out of the saddle, and came towards her, with long, easy strides. She was unacquainted with any men

of mode, but although he was dressed like any country gentleman a subtle difference hung about  his buckskins and his coat of dandy gray russet. No provincial tailor had fashioned them, and no  country beau could have worn them with such careless elegance. He was taller than Venetia had  at first supposed, rather loose-limbed, and he bore himself with a faint suggestion of  swashbuckling arrogance. As he advanced upon her Venetia perceived that he was dark, his  countenance lean and rather swarthy, marked with lines of dissipation. A smile was curling his  lips, but Venetia thought she had never seen eyes so cynically bored.
    “Well, fair trespasser, you are justly served, aren‟t you?” he said. “Stand still!”
    She remained obediently motionless while he disentangled her skirt from the brambles.  As he straightened himself, he said: “There you are! But  I always exact a forfeit from those who  rob me of my blackberries. Let me look at you!”
    Before she had recovered from her astonishment at being addressed in such a style he had  an arm round her, and with his free hand had pushed back her sunbonnet. In  more anger than  fright she tried to thrust him away, uttering a furious protest. He paid no heed at all; only his arm  tightened round her, something that was not boredom gleamed in his eyes,