Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. It creaked slightly. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone.
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