PROLOGUE
The County of Devon, England, 1825
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a gentleman recovering from a cold and high fever, needs rest, peace
and quiet. Mr Ryder Mallory, at twenty-two years of age, like most young men did not suffer illness with patience and a longsuffering attitude but rather with impatience and a shortness of temper.
He was too hot, his head ached and he had been glad to have escaped from his much older brother’s breakfast table to recline in a low chair under a tree in the Raindown parsonage orchard, where the late summer breeze could lull him to sleep.
Dreaming feverishly of dancing with a divine girl he had met only last week, his fantasy vanished as something hard hit him on the cheek. Groaning in annoyance, he opened his eyes just as another twig hurtled past his ear and he heard a muffled giggle coming from the dense branches above his head.
“Jacob Mallory—I know that’s you up there! Come down at once!”
His young nephew had teased and plagued him every day of his visit from London to recuperate, but Ryder had thought himself safe for a few hours as the boy should have been at lessons with his father and the other boys the Reverend Mallory tutored in history, mathematics, Latin and Greek.
The only reply was another twig that bounced off his head and cursing, Ryder swung himself off the chair and had just got to his feet when there was a crashing and yelling from above him and two bodies half fell, half jumped to the ground.
One of the boys—his nephew—leapt to his feet and fled across the garden, back to the house. The second lad tried to run, but his ankle had twisted in the fall and in two long strides, Ryder had caught him, his hand twisting in the back of his collar, lifting him off the ground, his boots kicking fruitlessly.
He seemed to be about ten, glaring up at his captor from bright green eyes in a freckled face. A large cap was pulled down over his head but Ryder could see that bright brown curls were escaping down the nape of his neck.
“Stop struggling, you little devil. I should take my belt to you!” He dropped the child onto the grass, his bad temper evaporating as he remembered the many times he had thought what fun it would be to climb that particular tree.
“Are you much hurt, lad?” he asked. “Here, let me help you up. Where do you live? That foot needs to be examined. I’ll carry you into the vicarage and the housekeeper will no doubt send for your parents. And I hope they give you a good larruping!”
“I can walk home, Sir.” The voice was husky and the boy tried to stand and hop away.
“Come, come, lad! You will do more damage.”
Without thinking, he picked the boy up in his arms and carried him through the orchard and the large kitchen gardens to the back door of the parsonage which was flung open as he reached it and the housekeeper, Mrs Newton, stood there, arms akimbo.
“Now, what have you been up to? Just you wait till I tell your aunt.”
“Just the ankle is damaged, Mrs Newton. Twisted, I think. It will soon mend. There!”
He walked with his burden into the kitchen and placed the boy on a chair. Without thinking, he reached up and pushed off the cap and, to his surprise, a cascade of brown curls descended around what was now obviously a little girl’s face.
“Good grief! I am sorry, lass. I thought you were—” he stared at the breeches, the torn shirt and boots and realised the bright green gaze was now haughty and cross.
Mrs Newton laughed. “Why, Mr Mallory, you never thought her ladyship was a boy! Well, I never. I’ve told her and told her to dress like a little lady, but no one can stop her from running around in breeches and boots. They used to belong to young Jacob but he grew out of them. She’s a wild child and no mistake! Poor little neglected orphan, and her family do say as she is a little bit simple, but she seems to understand all that is said to her.”
She sighed: “She sits in the room when the boys have lessons. I don’t see as how it hurts and your brother doesn’t mind. I try to keep my eye on her afterwards, but she will run free. But there, she does no one any harm. Let me introduce you—Lady Merryn Bowyer, Mr Ryder Mallory.”
And Ryder found himself bowing to the dirty-faced child who was scowling up at him, realising that this was the reclusive Lord Bowyer’s only granddaughter, a child very few people had ever seen or met.