A Crowning Mercy

‘Why not?’

‘Your father!’

‘My father will fall hopelessly in love with you.’

‘Toby! You said he won’t even meet me!’

Toby smiled again, one finger on her cheek. ‘He will. He’ll have to. He can’t refuse to meet my wife, can he?’

She looked at him, a small frown on her face. ‘Are we mad, Toby?’

‘Probably.’ He smiled. ‘But all will be well, I promise you. All will be well.’

She believed him, but then she was in love, and lovers always believe that fate is on their side.

Sir George Lazender, alone in the upstairs parlour of the house he would leave in two weeks’ time, lit a pipe of his beloved tobacco and wished that the popular belief, that the tobacco-leaf was a dangerous substance giving rise to unnatural fervour and strange fancies, was true. He faced too much reality, too many problems.

He was about to alienate his son-in-law and his eldest daughter. He did not think the enmity would run deep, but they would undoubtedly become enemies.

Now he had estranged Toby.

Twice the soldiers had searched the house for his son, and twice Sir George had truthfully said that he did not know Toby’s whereabouts. He suspected his son was staying in the city and he hourly dreaded the news that Toby had been arrested and imprisoned.

It was the girl’s fault. The Slythe girl. Sir George felt anger. She must be a conniving, ambitious girl to have snared his son.

He walked to the eastern window and stared down into the street. It was dark, the lights of a few torches fitful. Two soldiers, their helmets catching the red glare of the flames, paced towards the Royal Mews. An empty cart went the other way.