But to go courting a slave-girl, at the risk of physical hurt! A shudder of distaste wrinkled her shoulders. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Neat little toy. I was one of the few. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ‘And, if this was not enough,’ went on the lady furiously, ‘you dare to say I am French. An astonished Jack Kimble was revealed in the aperture. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. It was 1582.
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