MADEMOISELLE AT ARMS

In the quiet of an autumn afternoon, the deserted mansion slept. Or appeared to
do so. Concealed among the trees that edged the estate grounds, the watchers
paused.
There were two of them. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey
facings—insignia of the county militia. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke
of rank. Officers were these. Too skilled to advertise their presence by a show of
arms and men. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis
Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares.
Wary they might be. Sanguine they were not. In fact, one of them was
downright sceptical.