For Francis Cambridge, the look on Emma's face as he walked into the back parlour was easy to read. Total confusion. On Emma, it was a particularly attractive attitude and one wig which he was thoroughly conversant. With a grin, he went to her and took her hand, kissed it and tucked it into his arm. "Let's go into the garden. I want to talk to you."

As talking to Francis in gardens had become something of a habit, Emma went with him, curious to know what he wished to say and wondering why her heart was leaping about so uncomfortably.

Francis led her down the path that bordered the large main lawn until they reached an archway formed by a rambling rose. This gave access to the rose gardens. Here, they came to a stone bench bathed in softly dappled sunshine. At Francis's nod, Emma seared herself with a swish of her muslin skirts. After a moment's consideration, Francis sat beside her. Their view was filled with ancient rosebushes, the spaces beneath crammed with early summer flowers. Bees buzzed sleepily and the occasional dragonfly darted by, on its way from the shrubbery to the pond at the bottom of the main lawn. The sun shone warmly and all was peace and tranquility.

All though the morning, Emma had been fighting the fear that in helping Antonia Norwood she had unwittingly earner Francis's disapproval. She had no idea why his approval mattered so much to her, but with the single-mindedness of youth, was only aware that it did. "Wh...What did you wish to tell me?"

Francis schooled his face into stern lines, much as he would when bawling out a young lieutenant for some silly but understandable folly. He took Emma's hand in his, his strong fingers moving comfortingly over her slight ones. "Emma, this scheme of yours, m'dear. It really was most unwise." Francis kept his eyes on her slim fingers. "I suppose Margaret told you how close-run the thing was. If she hadn't arrived in the nick of time, Felix and Henry would have been off and there would have been no way to catch them. And the devil to pay when they came up with Finley."

A stifled sob brought his eyes to her, but she had averted her face. "Emma?" No lieutenant he had ever had to speak to had sobbed. Francis abruptly dropped his stance of stern mentor and gathered Emma into his arms. "Oh, sweetheart. Don't cry. I didn't mean to upset you. Well, yes, I did. Just a bit. You upset me the devil of a lot when I thought you had run off with Finley."

Emma had muffled her face in his coat but she looked up at that. "You thought... But whyever did you think such a silly thing?"

Francis flushed slightly. "Well, yes. I know it was silly. But it was just the way it all came out. At one stage, we weren't sure who had give in that blasted coach." He paused for a moment, then continued in more serious vein. "But, really, sweetheart, you mustn't start up these schemes to help people. Not when they involve sailing so close to the wind. You'll set all sorts of people's backs up, if ever they knew."

Rather better acquainted with Emma than his brother was, Francis had no doubt at all whose impulse had started the whole affair. It might have been Maribella who had carried out most of the actions and Sophia who had worked out the details, but it was his own sweet Emma who had set the ball rolling.

Emma was hanging her head in contrition, her fingers idly playing with his coat buttons. Francis tightened his arms about her until she looked up. "Emma, I want you to promise me that if you ever get any more of these helpful ideas you'll immediately come and tell me about them, before you do anything at all. Promise?"

Emma's downcast face cleared and a smile like the sun lit her eyes. "Oh, yes. That will be safer." Then, a thought struck her and her face clouded again. "But you might not be about. You'll...well, now your wound is healed, you'll be getting about more. Meeting lots of l-ladies and...things."

"Things?" said Francis, struggling to keep a straight face. "What things?"

"Well, you know. The sort of things you do. With l-ladies." At Francis's hoot of laughter, she set her lips firmly and doggedly went on. "Besides, you might marry and your wife wouldn't like it if I was hanging on your sleeve." There, she had said it. Her worst fear had been brought into the light.

But, instead of reassuring her that all would, somehow, be well, Francis was in stitches. She glared at him. When that had no effect, she thumped him hard on his chest.

Gasping for breath, Francis caught her small fists and then a slow grin, very like his brother's, broke across his face as he looked into her delightfully enraged countenance. He waited to see the confusion show in her fine eyes before drawing her hands up, pulling her hard against him and kissing her.