![]() ![]() She wriggled further along the narrow path between the herb beds and stretched for a plant some two feet off it eluded her because the folds of her skirt caught, behind her, on a shrub. The small basket at her side was half-full of small yellow petals. If young ladies of quality will insist on the actual practice of gardening instead of merely admiring the results, thought Bryce, they must be safeguarded against their own foolhardiness.Īmy was engrossed in her work. A wide canvas apron protected her taffeta gown her head was protected from the buffeting sea breeze from the Solent by a straw hat securely tied down with a broad blue ribbon over her little high-heeled shoes were slippers of bast, woven by the adoring hands of the under-gardener. Miss Tyrrell was on her knees in the herb garden, harvesting the blossoms of the cinquefoil for the making of a skin lotion, a preparation much in demand among the friends and neighbours who thronged to her father’s house. But could she trust him? When he took his pay in savage kisses and warned her of the final reckoning? Her father was accused of murder- framed by the smuggling gang who made up jury and judge, who would stop at nothing to see a government man hang.Īmy despaired when he was thrown into Winchester Gaol. But Jeffrey Maldon mattered little to her in the tumultuous whirl of balls and fetes and the attentions of a certain dark-eyed courtier. ![]() Amy Tyrrell named him the Fortune-Hunter. ![]()
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