Mike chortled. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. It was a sovereign easily earned. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. He would be off her case just as soon as his fever for her broke and he found a lover, and she imagined he must have plenty of girls from ritzy families lining up to choose from.
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