Sir George had declared for the King, but the declaration was by no means public. The Parliamentary leaders of the county still had hopes of his support and, in an attempt to discover his loyalties, they sent the County’s Committee for Assessment to Lazen.

The Committee for Assessment visited each property within Parliamentary lands and levied, according to the property’s size, a tax that helped pay the costs of the war. Sir George, the Roundheads decided, would pay the tax if he was still of their persuasion while, if he refused, they would take that as a declaration of enmity.

The Committee for Assessment, delayed by rain, arrived late one afternoon. Sir George, polite as ever, invited them into the hallway of the Old House where they stood, cloaks and scabbards dripping. He offered them ale. They were mostly known to him, men who were neighbors, but might soon be enemies. One or two he did not know, and he needed an introduction. One name interested him. “Sir George? This is the vicar of Werlatton, the Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey.”

Hervey bobbed his head, smiling ingratiatingly at the evidently wealthy owner of Lazen Castle. Faithful Unto Death had still not achieved the fame and fortune he so much desired, though he was pleased to be on the Committee for Assessment, a position he owed to Sir Grenville Cony who had been prompted by Ebenezer Slythe. Faithful Unto Death spoke his usual greeting when visiting houses he hoped to tax, “May the Lord be in this house.”

“Quite so,” Sir George said.

At that moment Campion came into the hallway, laughing with Caroline. Both girls were dressed for early dinner, Campion brilliant in red silk draped with dyed muslin. She dropped a polite, shallow curtsey in the direction of the visitors.

Sir George did not falter for one second. “My daughter, Caroline, and my niece, Lady Henrietta Creed.”

The lie alerted Campion. She kept her smile, looked at the visitors, and saw, half lit by the hall lanterns, the lean, sallow face from her past. The Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey stared back, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a rat trapped in a barley sack. His mouth opened to speak, but Sir George anticipated him. He gestured the girls toward the private parlor. “I’ll join you, ladies, in a moment.”

Campion leaned against the linenfold panelling in the parlor. She had gone pale, and her hand clutched the seal on its chain. “He recognized me! He recognized me!”

“Who?”

“That priest out there.”

Sir George dismissed her fears. “My dear! It’s impossible! Your hair, your clothes, everything about you is different. Everything! He asked me. I told him you were my niece from Leicestershire and he merely said you reminded him of someone he once knew. Calm yourself!”

Campion would not be calmed. “He recognized me!”

“He did not. And what if he did? It doesn’t matter. Now, I challenge you to a turn at cribbage before you read to Margaret.”