‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. ‘You have made a serious mistake, Melusine. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine. We are in love. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. I was helpless.
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