‘Think what you damned well like, I couldn’t give a gipsy’s curse for the lot of you.’ Profanities and blasphemies came fast and ugly. ‘Bastards you are, one and all. God damn it, even the heathen serf Trenchard is here.’

Clem had walked slightly behind the two baronets all the way, his hands held jauntily behind his back. Once, twice, thrice, Sir Oliver had glared round at him, and each time he had raised his head higher. He took a step backward now and bowed his head, as if in respect, but in reality jubilant at Luke Pengarron’s disgraceful behaviour and the lord of the manor’s discomfort and wrath.

‘Jack!’ Oliver exploded. ‘Take Mr Pengarron up to his chamber and stay with him. On no account allow him to leave before I join you.’

The news of her son’s monstrous disrespect flew rapidly through the manor, and Kerensa was discontented when Oliver forbade her to accompany him to confront Luke about its cause. The Beswethericks, thankfully a forgiving family, were ready to forget the whole incident on Luke’s apology, putting his outburst down to illness. Kerensa was grateful for Rachael’s observation, ‘The dear boy hasn’t looked well since his return from the capital.’ It brought Kerensa little comfort. What was ailing Luke? Was it possible for him ever to settle, be content?

She wanted to apologize to Clem for Luke’s abuse, but Catherine was keeping him at the other end of the great hall, and who could blame her after Rachael’s unfortunate remark. She had hoped all day for the chance to speak to him alone.

Oliver had stayed in the stable yard long enough to placate the guests – most thought the incident a social hilarity, ripe for repeating at future events. Arriving at Luke’s door via the back stairs, he ordered Jack to leave the room, despite Luke’s protests that he stay.

Oliver glared at his son and heir. Luke had tidied himself, or Jack had done it for him. He stood with his hands on his hips, as if mocking his father’s often used stance. The expression on his dark face was so insolent, so cruel, that Oliver, who had rarely taken a hand to any of his children, wanted to shake him into sense and submission.

‘Well?’

‘Well, Father?’

‘Sit. We shall speak for as long as it takes, for you obviously have something on your mind.’

Oliver seated himself in one of the armchairs beside the double window, replacing his sternness with an air of one willing to listen and counsel.

Luke thought to disobey, but this would make him appear a sulky child. He wasn’t willing to own that label – one often thrown at him. And he could no longer keep up his devil-may-care attitude.

He sat, facing his father. ‘Sir, you have my apologies for disturbing the peace of your house.’