Chapter 1

It was pure pleasure, Peter Trevayne decided, to be seated in his own drawing room in England, entertaining an unmistakably English vicar, as undoubtedly English rain streamed down the tall windows. An excellent English fire flared in the grate, and tea and cakes beckoned from the tea tray that his indubitably English butler had caused to be provided.

"You must miss the Indian sun," the Reverend Magnus Pottersby said, surveying with a sigh the rain that had begun to fall since he had entered the elegantly appointed drawing room.

Trevayne, jolted from his small reverie, responded abruptly. "No, not at all."

He liked the young man before him, though he seemed naive and was very earnest. He thought Pottersby probably ten years younger than his own five and thirty; a good-looking lad whose sincerity and devotion to his parish was palpable. Trevayne knew enough of English society to be aware that the man's piety would mark him unusual among the clergy these days.

He clarified his response to the vicar's comment. "I did reside in India for twenty years, and I did enjoy my sojourn there. In fact, there was a time when I believed I would not return to England. But now that I am returned, I miss nothing about that complex and ancient world, least of all the sun which burns as it shines unceasingly. This is where I belong."

The young vicar consumed a cake hungrily. "Well, we certainly hope you will stay. You have done the parish a great service, reviving Fencombe Hall and its lands. We have all watched with great interest the work you put in train. Now that you have taken up residence, you will be inundated with visitors."

"Whom I shall be pleased to welcome. I had not thought it would take me so long to arrange matters to my liking," Mr. Trevayne said. "There was more to be done than originally I thought. An absentee owner cannot do credit to all his holdings. I am grateful that the earl realized it and sold me one of his properties. This corner of Cambridgeshire suits me very well."

"It does me also. " Pottersby set aside his cup and rose with obvious reluctance. "I must take my leave."

Trevayne rose also, and pulled the bell. A maidservant immediately answered the summons and he instructed her to produce the vicar's greatcoat and hat.

"I hope you have your carriage? It is raining most heavily," Trevayne said as they trod down the polished oak staircase.

The younger man blushed, then grinned engagingly. "I walked over. But it would not have helped had I driven. My 'carriage' is a gig, with a sadly defective hood."

"Then you will oblige me by allowing my carriage to return you home. Both the coachman and the horses could use the exercise." Trevayne was a little concerned that his proposal might be taken amiss. He had no wish to be thought encroaching.

Pottersby welcomed the offer. "Very kind of you."

Trevayne gave a quiet order to the butler who had appeared with the vicar's garments.

The younger man shrugged into his greatcoat, assisted by the butler. "Ah...I very nearly forgot. I brought you a bottle of wine. Well, m'sister required I bring it. I've given it to your housekeeper."

Trevayne was surprised, but said, "How thoughtful of your sister. I am partial to a good wine, and a country vintage might be just the ticket."

"My sister is forever mucking about with herbs and plants; she grows and gathers, then distills, mixes and bottles. Makes elderberry, cowslip, dandelion wines; I think I have brought an elderberry. She is at the moment occupied with something she calls 'comet wine'. I don't know what can be in it."

"A mysterious wine for a mysterious phenomenon. It is appropriate surely in this year of the great comet?" Trevayne possessed only the slightest interest in the vicar's sister and her wine, but the comet was another matter.

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