This Way to Heaven by Barbara Cartland

but that was his business. There was no way he was going to talk about Somerton Castle to anyone, least of all some foreign outsider.
    â€œI cannot help you, sir, and I’ll bid you good day!” he said and strode out of the inn, letting a cloud of cold air rush into the muggy room.
    The bearded man looked furious and turned to rap on the bar with the gold sovereign.
    He ordered a large brandy and was standing sipping it, when the door opened again and Pardew, who had until that very morning been the butler at the castle, came in, his face like thunder.
    â€œYou don’t look happy, Mr. Pardew,” the landlord called to him, reaching for a glass. “Look as if you’ve lost a shilling and found sixpence. What’s up?”
    â€œI’ve been given my marching orders, that’s what,” he snarled. “By that appalling young whipper-snapper who calls himself the Earl of Somerton.
    â€œOh, it’s all right for the high and mighty Lords and Ladies to drink themselves stupid, but us poor fools who work for them aren’t even allowed to have a quick sip of brandy to keep body and soul together.
    â€œIt’s a pity we never had the revolution here like they did in France!”
    The foreign stranger looked up, his eyes narrowing, as he pulled another sovereign from his waistcoat pocket.
    â€œSir, I am a stranger to these parts, but have quite a knowledge of revolutions in different countries. May I buy you a drink and perhaps hear your story?” he enquired.
    The landlord watched uneasily as the man ordered two double brandies and led Pardew to a distant corner of the inn.
    He harboured the oddest feeling that whoever this foreigner was, he was up to no good.
    Outside The Golden Lion , George Radford paused and pulled the collar of his coat tighter round his neck.
    The wind was still bitterly cold, freezing the snow as it lay and George trudged along the path that had been cleared around the inn and headed for the stabling at the back where he had left his pony.
    It was time for him to return to his farm.
    Not that there was much he could do there in this weather except make sure the stock were cared for, but stubbornly he would keep trying.
    In the stable yard a young lad was walking a large black horse round and round keeping him warm.
    â€œThat be a good-lookin’ animal you’ve got there, young Joe,” observed George, running his hand down the animal’s neck, admiring the glossy coat and the fine arch of his head.
    The horse danced away skittishly, fretting at the bit in his mouth and George reckoned he would be a devil to ride.
    â€œAye, belongs to a foreign gent just gone into the inn,” replied Joe, controlling the horse, then glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, he pulled something out from his pocket and showed George a half sovereign.
    â€œLook at what he did give to me to keep his horse exercised!”
    â€œYour lucky day, lad!”
    George stared at the horse.
    It was odd.
    The saddle seemed far too lightweight for a man. It was made from fine pale leather, more suitable for a lady.
    As Joe started to walk on with the restless animal, George reached up almost automatically to straighten the saddlecloth that had become twisted underneath the horse’s girth.
    He felt a shiver run down his spine.
    The saddlecloth was a deep dark blue and there in the left corner was a heavy gold embroidered crest.
    And George was in no doubt who owned that proud mark.
    This horse was the property of the Duke of Harley!
    So why on earth was it being ridden by a stranger to the valley who possessed so much money to throw around that he could afford to give a stable lad ten whole shillings?

CHAPTER SIX
    Jasmina spent the rest of the morning wandering through the castle investigating chilly rooms. Some had been locked and left to the dust and spiders, but in others she could tell that the servants had made at least some attempt to keep