Phoebe regarded him doubtfully. She could understand how one might find her husband distant and intimidating. She’d found him so herself until without volition she’d tumbled so violently into love and lust with him.

“I am his heir, Phoebe. And it pains me that we should be so constrained. It was inevitable when I took the other side in this damnable conflict, but now… now that I’ve seen the justice of Parliament’s cause…” He shrugged eloquently. “I have provided him with vital information. And still I believe he hesitates to trust me.”

“Yes, I can see that it must be hard to understand,” Phoebe agreed. “But Cato is never unreasonable. He’ll not hold past mistakes against you. I’m certain of it.”

“Ah, one would hope so,” Brian said. “One would hope so.” Then he smiled and reached into his pocket. “But I was forgetting. I was in Banbury yesterday and I found this in a bookshop. I thought you might like it.” He handed her a small leather-bound volume.

“Oh, the poems of Thomas Carew!” Phoebe exclaimed. “Why, how thoughtful of you. I am most particularly fond of his elegy on John Donne.”

“I find ‘The Rapture’ most appealing,” Brian said, watching her with a glint in his eye.

Phoebe regarded him suspiciously. “It is a very fine love poem,” she said after a slight hesitation.

“But a trifle licentious; you’re quite right,” he said, his smile broadening. “Perhaps too much so for innocent sensibilities.”

“I am no innocent!” Phoebe protested, feeling he was making fun of her. “I have read very widely, sir.”

“Oh, forgive me. It was not meant as an aspersion,” Brian said hastily. “Of course, as a poet yourself you would regard the more risque literature with more sophistication than the average young woman.”

“I do not know whether you’re mocking me or not,” Phoebe said frankly. “But you will not put me out of countenance, that much I can tell you.” She dropped him a curtsy. “I thank you for the gift, sir.”

Brian caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Forgive me. I meant no insult. Perhaps I was teasing you a little, but I find you quite enchanting.”

Phoebe blushed. “Indeed, you should not say such things. I am a married woman.” She pulled her hand free and turned to leave in some disarray.

Brian stood watching her. Absently he scratched his head. There was something about her… something elusive and yet curiously appealing. It was absurd that he should find such a tangled naif attractive. And it was very dangerous.

His lips thinned. He was here to destroy her, not make love to her… much as it would amuse him to cuckold that cold fish Granville. His stepfather was not the kind of man to appreciate Phoebe’s rich and vibrant brand of sexuality. Was she even aware of it herself?

Phoebe hurried from the house. Had he been trying to flirt with her? She gave a fastidious shudder. She could never imagine Cato flirting with her, or indeed with anyone. It was a pathetic game. So unstraightforvvard.

But it wouldn’t do to alienate Mr. Morse, she decided. If she played her cards right, he could prove quite useful. His fashion sense couldn’t be faulted, for a start. And if she could get him to tell her what Cato wouldn’t, then maybe she could surprise her husband with her informed commentaries on all those matters that absorbed him.

That conversation she’d overheard last night, for instance. Cato and Cromwell had been at outs. The situation had been defused, but it had sounded serious. A difference of opinion on how to conclude the war. That had to be a most serious question. Perhaps Brian would have some insights if she approached him discreetly.

Phoebe strolled through the village, surprised at how quiet it was. Usually at this hour of the morning, particularly on such a fine day, there would be folk around, working in their gardens, tending their chickens, chopping firewood. She saw a few backs as people hurried into their cottages, and as she passed the Bear a murmur of voices drifted through the open door into the street.

They were male voices and Phoebe didn’t pause. If the village men were gathered in the taproom, they wouldn’t welcome a woman’s presence. The men who remained in the village considered womenfolk irrelevant to their own manly pursuits, which were of course of supreme importance and quite beyond the ken of a mere female.

Phoebe gave a scornful little sniff at this reflection. She had seen too much of the way country women kept body and soul together, the sacrifices they made for their families, the selfless way they shouldered their own burdens and those of the menfolk, to have much time for the entrenched belief in the superiority of the male.

The woods were quiet, the snow covering long melted, and Phoebe thought she could smell the first faint intimations of spring. A snowdrop raised its fragile head above the moss-covered roots of an old beech tree, and a pheasant started from a bush heavy with berries at the side of the path.

Phoebe’s heart lifted as it always did at this time of year. It always seemed as if there was so much to look forward to.

Meg’s front door stood open, and the black cat sat on the threshold washing himself. He gave Phoebe an incurious stare from his greeny gold eyes.

“Meg!” She stuck her head in the door. There was no sign of Meg. “So where is she?” Phoebe demanded of the cat, who blinked and yawned, rose, stretched and arched its back, and stalked daintily away down the path, his tail aloft.

Phoebe shrugged and followed him. The cat always knew where his mistress was to be found. Hardly mistress, Phoebe corrected herself. Companion was probably the correct word. Cats acknowledged no superior. Cood examples, perhaps, she thought with the same exuberant lift of her spirits that had accompanied her walk.

Meg was milking the goat in the little shed at the back of her kitchen garden. She looked up with a glad smile as Phoebe came into view, walking behind the cat.

“Well, and it’s glad I am to sec a friendly face.” She squeezed the last of the milk from the teat into the pail and stood up, slapping the nanny on the rump with careless affection. “I haven’t seen a soul since you were here last.”

“No one’s had need of you?” Phoebe kissed her.

“No one’s come anywhere near me,” Meg replied, picking up the pail. “Either everyone around is healthy as elves, or there’s trouble still abrewing.”

“I’ve heard nothing,” Phoebe said. “Granny Spruel wasn’t in her garden when I passed just now, so I wasn’t able to get the latest gossip.”

Meg shrugged philosophically. “Well, come and have some tea. That’s a very elegant riding habit.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Phoebe said complacently. “I’m astonished you recognized me.”

“I wouldn’t have, except the hem has a water stain, and your shirt is hanging down below your jacket, you’re missing a button, and your hat brim is only half turned up,” Meg pointed out.

“Oh, well, you know what they say about silk purses and sow’s ears,” Phoebe responded dolefully, tucking her shirt back into the waistband of her skirt. “Nothing stays done up on me for more than a minute. I doubt even Brian Morse can work the necessary miracle.”

“And who’s that gentleman?”

“Oh, let me tell you all about him.”

They sat in Meg’s kitchen, drinking blackcurrant tea while Phoebe expounded her theory that Brian Morse could be put to good service. She would permit him to flirt with her, although why he would want to she couldn’t imagine, but he could do so and she would pick his brains at the same time. He would surely be able to give her some insights into Cato’s military preoccupations so that she could surprise her husband with her intelligent contributions. It could turn out rather well, she thought.

The cat had returned with them, but he was restless. He paced the kitchen, jumped onto the table, onto the shelf above the range, back to the floor. Then he stalked to the door and went off down the path.