The Jacobite IV. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Concealed among the trees that edged the estate grounds, the watchers paused. Gifts came from Florence: rubies and emeralds, a beautiful statue of Santa Maria for their garden grotto, a gorgeous silk tapestry of a hunting scene that alone made the price of her dowry look paltry. I also have eyes, and I have seen the picture. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. He has a heart that is easily broken. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here.
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