Lady’s maid…

To wedded lady?

Lady’s maid Jane Bailey’s life is turned upside down by the arrival of wealthy gentleman Robert Kendal. He’s come to take Jane to visit her long-lost aristocratic grandfather. Traveling together, they succumb to a mutual attraction. Yet Jane knows a maid should not hope to love a gentleman, even if she’s suddenly wearing silk dresses and dining with the family. Society decrees they cannot marry, but how long can Jane deny her heart?

CATHERINE TINLEY has loved reading and writing since childhood, and has a particular fondness for love, romance and happy endings. She lives in Ireland with her husband, children, dog and kitten, and can be reached at catherinetinley.com, as well as through Facebook and @CatherineTinley on Twitter.

Also by Catherine Tinley

The Earl’s Runaway Governess

The Chadcombe Marriages miniseries

Waltzing with the Earl

The Captain’s Disgraced Lady

The Makings of a Lady

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Rags-to-Riches Wife

Catherine Tinley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90125-7

RAGS-TO-RICHES WIFE

© 2020 Catherine Tinley

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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For my sisters, Donna and Aisling, with love.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue
January 1800, Duxford, Cambridgeshire

‘Your papa has passed away.’

‘What? I do not understand.’ Even as she spoke, the impact of the doctor’s words swept through Jane. It was as though they were a dark cloud, seeping through her ears to contaminate every part of her. ‘Passed away?’

The doctor looked pained. ‘I am very sorry, little one. I tried very hard to save Mr Bailey, but the fever was too strong.’

Behind him, his assistant, a middle-aged woman, emerged from the bedchamber with a dish filled with blood.

They bled him, yet still he died? Her own internal words sank in. He is dead. Papa is dead.

‘Impossible!’ Her voice sounded strange, as if it was not her own. ‘I want Mama!’

Before the doctor could stop her she dashed forward, then stopped abruptly in the doorway. This was her parents’ bedchamber—the place that had always been her haven, her refuge. When she was upset, or had a nightmare, they sometimes allowed her to share their bed. Snuggling up to Mama and Papa had always been her moment of perfect happiness—even though she had recently celebrated her eighth birthday and had a tiny chamber of her own.

Her eyes were drawn immediately to the bed. There he was, looking white and strange and still and most unlike himself. ‘Papa?’

‘Oh, my darling Jane!’ Mama rose from a hard chair beside the bed. Her eyes were red with endless tears and lack of sleep. ‘He is gone. Papa is gone.’

They held each other, crying together for an eternity. The doctor quietly closed the door.

In the days that followed Jane gradually understood that losing Papa had more implications than simply being the cause of untold grief. Without Papa’s earnings as clerk to Mr Simmons—the best lawyer in Duxford—they would no longer be able to stay in Rose Cottage, their little rented home.

Jane was old enough to understand a little of how things worked.

‘But Mama, where shall we live? And how shall we get money for food?’

‘Hush, child. We shall manage.’

Yet Mama looked worried, as if she was not entirely sure just how they would manage.

Jane thought about it carefully. ‘What of Papa’s family? He spoke to me of my grandfather and told me they had become estranged. Could we not write to him? Perhaps—’

‘Out of the question!’ Mama’s tone was sharp. ‘Your father’s family wanted nothing to do with him. That has not changed—in fact it is even less likely now Papa is gone. Your grandfather’s cruelty towards my Ned was implacable. There is no way back. Do not speak of it again!’

Jane gulped. ‘Yes, Mama.’

Mama’s face softened. ‘When I met your papa I was a servant—and a very good one. I shall find us a situation and we will both work hard so we can be comfortable.’

Without Papa? Jane thought. I shall never be comfortable again.

Chapter One
January 1815, Beechmount Hall, Yorkshire

Robert strode along the hallway to his uncle’s library. He entered without knocking, his mind still half-lost in the ledgers he had been reviewing with the steward. The estate’s finances were in good shape, so perhaps this would be a good year to build a few new cottages in the lane beside the east field...

‘What kept you?’

His uncle’s barking tone immediately made Robert’s hackles rise. Biting back the retort that came to mind, instead he said simply, ‘I was with the steward.’

‘When I send for you I expect you to come immediately!’

His uncle was sitting ramrod-stiff in his armchair, the fire in his eyes contrasting sharply with the signs of his advanced age. His walking stick rested by the fireplace, just within reach, and his valet had provided plump cushions at his uncle’s back. The old man’s morning brandy rested on the table beside him, along with his hand bell. It was no longer easy for him to walk to the bell-pull, so his valet had come up with this solution. The valet would be working within earshot, ready to attend to his master’s needs instantly.

Good.

Robert sat in the facing armchair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. ‘And here I am.’ Robert took a deep breath and reminded himself that nothing was achieved by arguing with his uncle.

‘Pah! Do not indulge me! I am no child!’

Robert ignored this, instead asking mildly, ‘Why did you send for me?’

‘I have an errand for you.’ His uncle picked up the sheaf of papers that had been resting in his lap. ‘I have just received an interesting intelligence and I must... But no, it would not do to speak of it... The report is well written and yet I cannot be certain—No, not until I see her...’

Robert waited patiently. In recent months his elderly uncle had become increasingly introspective, without losing any of his fire and cantankerousness.

Refocusing, his uncle looked at him directly. ‘Last autumn I hired a Bow Street Runner.’

Robert lifted an astonished eyebrow.

A Runner? What on earth is he up to?

‘I paid him in coin, so you and that officious new steward would not find me out.’ His uncle cackled with glee at his own ingenuity.

‘But, Uncle, you may spend your money on anything you wish. You are master here.’ He forbore to point out that the ‘new’ steward had been there almost ten years.

For this impertinence he received a glare. ‘Your saying so is the surest proof that I am no longer any such thing!’

Robert frowned. ‘Now, that is unfair. I have taken some of the burdens from your shoulders these past years only to assist you, never to undermine you.’

His uncle waved this away. ‘Make no mistake, I would not wish to have them back again. What care I now about the concerns of the steward or the tenants or my fortune? My days are ending and I have other fish to fry.’

‘Nonsense! Why, you will outlive us all—just to spite us!’

This earned a brief guffaw. ‘Nevertheless, there are things I must do.’ His eyes dropped to the papers in his lap, then back to meet Robert’s gaze. ‘I need you to fetch someone. A visitor.’

Robert’s senses were suddenly fully awake. ‘What visitor?’

‘Her name is Miss Bailey—Jane Bailey—and she may be found at or near...’ He consulted the report, ‘Ledbury House, near the village of Netherton in Bedfordshire.’

‘Bedfordshire! Wait—you wish for me to travel all the way to Bedfordshire and back again? Can’t you send a servant?’

He nodded. ‘That’s it. And, no, it must be you.’ A sly look flitted briefly across his face.

‘Who is she?’

‘Good question. In truth, I do not know for certain...the Bow Street Runner has hit upon her as a possibility, but I cannot be sure until I see her, assess her...’

What is he talking about?

‘What can you tell me? Why did you commission a Bow Street Runner?’ Robert was struggling to comprehend the situation.

Has he finally run mad?

The old man pondered for a moment, then nodded to himself. ‘I can tell you I mean her no harm. As for the rest,—it is best if you do not know. You might say something to her that may complicate the situation.’

Unacceptable.

‘Then I cannot go. You are not asking me to travel a few miles, to Knaresborough or Harrogate. You are asking me to go all the way to Bedfordshire and back—four or five days each way. Before I agree to such a thing I need to understand the reasons behind it.’

‘You seek to bargain with me, boy? How dare you!’ His ire raised, the old man’s eyes flashed fire at Robert. ‘You shall do this because I order you to!’

‘Indeed?’ Robert sat back, adopting a languid pose. ‘It seems to me that it will be my decision, not yours.’ Just occasionally, Robert felt the need to stand up to his uncle.

His uncle half rose from his chair, his face mottled with anger. ‘You—’ The papers slid from his lap and dispersed onto the richly coloured carpet. His hands gripped the arms of his chair tightly, the knuckles white. Then he sank down again.

After a brief pause, Robert bent to pick up the papers. Resisting the temptation to read, his eye nevertheless caught sight of a name—Lord Kingswood. As far as he knew, there was no connection between his uncle and Lord Kingswood. His curiosity increased further.

He glanced at his uncle as he handed him back the papers. The old man looked smaller, defeated.

I should not have pushed him so far.

‘Robert.’ A claw-like hand gripped his. ‘This is important to me. I cannot tell you why—not yet, leastways.’ He swallowed. ‘I am making a request. Please grant me this.’

Five days there. Five days back. In winter. Inns and a jolting carriage and endless inconvenience.

‘Very well,’ he heard himself say. ‘I shall fetch her for you.’

Two weeks later, Ledbury House, Netherton, Bedfordshire

The day Jane’s life changed began just like any other. It was one of those early February mornings that could not decide whether to wallow in winter or look forward to spring. The pale blue sky teased with the promise of sunshine, but the blustery wind argued in favour of warm shawls and smoking chimneys.

As personal maid to Marianne Ashington, Lady Kingswood, it was Jane’s responsibility to anticipate her mistress’s needs, and weather predicting was part of it. Miss Marianne might wish to walk in the garden today, or visit friends, or she might be content to read or embroider inside the house. Jane, therefore, needed to prepare both a fine silk day dress and a stouter wool walking gown.

Normally the Countess spent much of her time with her young son, John, and Jane’s life was complicated by the impact of grubby hand marks and food spills on her mistress’s fine gowns. Still, one could forgive little John almost anything, she thought, picturing the child’s angelic smile.

‘Good morning, my lady,’ she said cheerfully, entering the Countess’s room a little after nine, as usual.

She pulled back the heavy curtains, allowing the pale winter sunshine to spill into the chamber. One of the scullery maids came behind her, immediately beginning to clean out the fireplace. Jane eyed her mistress closely. The Countess yawned and stretched, mumbling a sleepy greeting.

‘I hope you have slept well, my lady.’ Jane picked up the chamber pot and passed it to Aggie, the scullery maid, who disappeared with it. Everyone in the household knew their place and their tasks.

‘I slept very well, thank you.’ The Countess eased herself into a sitting position. ‘Even though I had company.’ She indicated the small tousled head beside her.

The Earl was in London, dealing with matters of business, so Master John had, it seemed, undertaken to keep his mama company in his papa’s absence.

Jane smiled. ‘Good morning, Master John.’

The child was awake, eyeing her with solemnity. Within minutes, Jane knew, he would be up and running around like a spinning top. At nearly two years of age he was the undoubted darling of Ledbury House. His parents adored him, as did all the servants, yet he was in no danger of being spoiled. His mama was not over-indulgent, and neither was—

‘There you are, my lambkin!’ Nurse bustled into the room, all starched white cotton and kind efficiency. She scooped little John up into her arms and he nestled into her ample bosom. ‘I shall change those damp linens immediately, my lamb!’

The Countess, smiling indulgently at her offspring as he disappeared, accepted a cup of tea from Jane with a murmur of thanks.

‘Would you like a bath today?’ asked Jane. Miss Marianne had talked of it yesterday.

The Countess shivered. ‘Perhaps later, when the chamber is warm. For now—’ she threw back the covers ‘—I shall get up.’

After her mistress had washed, Jane helped her dress in a clean shift and, following some debate, a stout walking dress of fine russet merino. Lady Kingswood’s favourite nightgown was in need of a wash, so she folded it to take downstairs.

Aggie had returned, and lit a fire in the Countess’s fireplace. As the morning chill began slowly to ease a little the Countess took her seat before the mirror, sipping a dish of tea and allowing Jane to dress her hair.

Jane smiled inwardly. She loved this part of the day. The Countess’s hair was long, dark and lustrous, and Jane adored brushing and styling it. She had cared for Lady Kingswood for almost ten years—since she was plain Miss Marianne Grant and Jane, then thirteen, had been assigned to serve her. Inwardly, and sometimes aloud, she still called her Miss Marianne.

After Papa had died, Jane had had to adapt quickly from the carefree life she had lived while he was alive to one where she earned her keep. The first year after Papa’s death had been particularly harrowing. Once their meagre savings had run out, Mama and Jane had left their little cottage and sought temporary work in a series of taverns. They had frequently gone hungry that winter, and their clothes had become decidedly ragged. Thankfully Mama had secured a position in Miss Marianne’s home the following summer, and had risen eventually to the exalted position of housekeeper.

Jane, too, had done well for herself. After starting as a scullery maid in the same household she had, given her gentle manners, been promoted to the role of upstairs housemaid. At thirteen she had been offered the opportunity to train as Miss Marianne’s personal servant, and had been devoted to her mistress ever since.

More recently, in the year Miss Marianne had married, Jane and her mama had followed their mistress to Ledbury House, where Jane’s mother was now housekeeper. Apart from a dark few months spent apart, Miss Marianne had been the centre of Jane’s life since she was thirteen.

‘Now, Jane. Some French today, I think.’

‘Yes, Miss M—I mean, my lady.’

Miss Marianne, discovering that Jane had, until the age of eight, been raised as a gentleman’s daughter, had decided to continue her education. Over the years Jane had developed a creditable knowledge of French, German and Italian, along with an appreciation of history and philosophy. The Countess was a born tutor, and had used her skills as a governess when she had had to leave her home following the deaths of her parents.

Jane frowned, remembering that dark time. Miss Marianne’s stepbrother, Henry Grant, had importuned her, causing Miss Marianne to leave her home in the dead of night. Two months later Jane and her mother had been forced to follow, after Master Henry had attempted to violate Jane herself.

She shuddered. Do not think of it!

Thankfully Henry had died four years ago, leaving Miss Marianne free to marry the man she loved, and Jane and her mother safe in her employ.

He no longer has the power to hurt us, she reminded herself as she responded to Miss Marianne’s French conversation.

And yet Henry was always with her, lurking in the shadows of her heart. Laughing at her.

We are safe here in Ledbury House.

But for how long? Ever since that day when the fever had taken Papa, Jane had felt as though the ground beneath her was soft, uncertain. Hunger and insecurity had worked its way into her bones during that year of mourning, of scarcity, of homelessness. Much more had vanished along with her papa—Rose Cottage, a regular income, food, warm clothes...

But Mama and Jane had worked hard—harder than most of their colleagues—and their industry had been rewarded with long-term positions. Jane had just begun to settle after a few years, begun to believe they had found a new home, when all had shifted again. The master and mistress they had been serving had died in a terrible carriage accident, leaving Miss Marianne orphaned and under the care of her stepbrother.

Once again the home Jane had come to love had been taken from her, when Master Henry’s evil intent had meant it was not a safe place to live. Once again she and Mama had found themselves homeless and needing to start again.

But then they had followed Miss Marianne here, to Ledbury House, where they had now been living for almost five years.

In her heart, though, Jane could not feel fully at ease. Always it seemed to her that some disaster would surely occur, causing her once again to lose her home. She felt as though her life would be ever thus—that she would always be at the whim of others, never the mistress of her own fate. Memories of hunger, of poverty, of homelessness lay buried within her, rising at times to flood her with anxiety.

When she had voiced her worries to Mama, her mother had not understood. ‘But we are secure here with Lady Kingswood! So long as she remains pleased with us we need not worry.’

‘But what if she becomes ill, or—or dies? What if some disaster occurs and Lord Kingswood loses his riches? What if—?’

‘Oh, Jane! Do not allow your mind to run away with you. Why, you are lost to all common sense! Why should such things occur? Now, stop thinking of things that are not real and focus on what you can do to keep in favour with Miss Marianne!’

Mama’s words made sense. Jane knew how close she was to her mistress, and she could not in truth imagine displeasing the Countess so much that she would be let go, but there were so many other possibilities that might lead to them once again being homeless. That fear had never left her.

For now, though, she would do as she always did: she would work hard and hope to stay as long as possible.

Having directed the housemaids to make up Miss Marianne’s bed, Jane picked up the Countess’s nightgown and tripped lightly downstairs. No one but her, she had decreed, must deal with milady’s clothing. She washed, ironed and mended everything herself, ensuring Miss Marianne’s personal needs were met.

She also advised the Countess on fashion—poring over the fashion plates in Miss Marianne’s magazines and periodicals and never once wishing for such finery for herself. She and Miss Marianne had an unusual relationship—if it had not been for the differences in their station Jane might even have called her a friend. Miss Marianne was all kindness, and treated Jane with much more warmth and flexibility than she ought.

Sometimes the Countess gave her an old dress she no longer wanted—but, despite her mistress’s protests, Jane would remove the lace and flounces before wearing it. Jane suspected that Miss Marianne looked for ways to be kind, but she herself still heeded Mama’s warnings.

‘You are a servant now, Jane. Never forget it.’

And, as a maid, she should always wear plain, simple clothing and dress her hair neatly.

But she had the pleasure of seeing Lady Kingswood well turned out, and the joy of caring for embroidered silks, delicate lace-trimmed gowns and delightful bonnets.

In those early years in the servants’ quarters of Miss Marianne’s childhood home she would never have dreamed of reaching the great heights of becoming a lady’s maid. And yet here she was. The other servants treated her with respect, she shared a comfortable chamber and private sitting room with her own mama, she had a secure wage and her very own tea allowance, and she had the sweetest, kindest mistress any servant could wish for. It made her secret fears seem even more preposterous.

My situation is a good one, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. How many servants have the opportunities Miss Marianne has given me?

Miss Marianne’s parents, like Jane’s own papa, had not subscribed to the popular view that a lady’s brain was not strong enough for book learning, and Miss Marianne had had an excellent education—much of which she had passed to her maid.

Jane made her way to the scullery with Miss Marianne’s nightgown and spent the next half-hour washing and scrubbing it, along with two shifts and some stockings. The lye was sharp on her hands, which were perpetually red and chapped from her work. Oh, she knew the laundry maid would happily do this task, if asked, but Jane had no notion of surrendering Miss Marianne’s nightgown to anyone else.

She sang softly as she worked, conscious of a strong sense of purpose in her life. Today her deepest fears seemed far away, and the anxious voice inside her quiet. For now.

‘I declare, Jane, you have the sweetest singing voice I ever heard.’ Jane’s mama bent to kiss her on the cheek.

Jane laughed. ‘You always say so, Mama, and I always repeat that your ear is attuned to my voice simply because I am your daughter. Now, I see you are dressed to go out. Do you need me to do anything while you are gone?’

‘Nothing in particular,’ Mrs Bailey replied, tying her plain bonnet under her chin. ‘Thomas will take me to the village, where I must speak with the butcher. All is quiet upstairs, and Mrs Cullen is content, so now is my chance to slip out for an hour. I have told them all that you speak for me in my absence.’

‘Yes, Mama.’ As housekeeper, Mrs Bailey rarely left Ledbury House, but when she did Jane was an able deputy. ‘Though I am sure nothing untoward will happen.’

Jane returned to her laundry work and Mr Handel’s aria.

Once satisfied, she stepped outside with the wet nightgown and spread it on a bush near the kitchen door. There it would remain for a couple of hours, until it was nearly dry, at which point Jane would bring it indoors to air in front of the kitchen fire. If it did not rain the nightgown would be dry and pressed long before Miss Marianne’s bedtime.

She paused for a moment, enjoying the sensation of the pale winter sunshine on her face.

I am content here, at Ledbury House, she realised.

Then the wind whipped up again and sent her scurrying inside to her mending.

Chapter Two

Bang! Bang! The persistent knocking at the door finally penetrated Robert’s slumber. He grunted, gritting his teeth. His chamber at the inn was positioned directly over the taproom, and he had, he believed, just suffered the worst night’s sleep of his life.

Until near dawn he had tossed and turned in the narrow bed, listening to the collective voices of what had seemed like hundreds of local farmers and tradesmen talking, laughing and occasionally singing. Finally the sounds had dwindled, but now, what seemed like only moments later, the landlord had returned to torture him anew.

‘Mr Kendal? Mr Kendal, sir? You asked me to wake you up in the morning, sir.’

‘Very well,’ Robert managed. ‘I am awake.’

Thankfully this was enough to get rid of the man. Robert lay there, contemplating his fate. Having left home five days ago, his bones felt as if they were still rattling with the trundling carriage. Five days of endless roads, of feeling trapped within the coach. Five nights of inns of various quality. Five long days of his own unalleviated company.

Today—finally—he would reach his destination, for it lay only a few miles from here. The name of it, as with every other aspect of this unexpected and unlooked-for assignment, was by this point permanently etched into his brain: Ledbury House.

Disorder had erupted in the scullery. One of the parlour maids had bumped her head, causing a small wound to bleed profusely. The other two were clucking around her like distressed hens, making a tragedy out of what seemed to Jane to be a commonplace injury.

‘No need to fuss,’ she told them, with a hint of her mother’s sternness in her tone. ‘Just let me see to it.’

They continued to exclaim loudly, while trying to mop blood from their friend’s face with towels and wet rags, splashing the bloodstained water far and wide.

Jane, notoriously calm in such situations, pressed a rag to the wound to slow the bleeding. ‘Hold this in place.’

‘Lord, what’s amiss?’ It was Mrs Cullen, the cook, a tray in her hands.

The injured party and her two friends tried to explain, simultaneously and with a cacophonous lack of clarity.

‘Never mind! Who will bring the tea to Miss Marianne and her guest?’

Everyone knew the Countess had welcomed an unexpected visitor, and tea and refreshments had been ordered.

‘Me!’

‘I shall!’

Jane frowned in puzzlement. These girls were not normally so dedicated to their work.

Something is wrong here.

She decided to intervene. ‘Neither of you can do it, for you both have Mary’s blood on your clothing.’

It was true. They looked at the stains with dismay.

Jane’s own gown had thankfully been spared. ‘I shall take it myself.’ She took the tray from Cook, wondering at the parlour maids’ evident disappointment.

‘But—’ Sarah, the more impudent of the two, looked as though she would defy Jane.

‘Yes, Sarah? There is something you wish to say?’ Jane made a fair approximation of her mother’s steely glaze. It had the desired effect. Sarah subsided, looking rather mutinous, and ceased her protest.

‘Come back for the sweetmeats, Jane,’ Cook advised.

‘I shall.’

Keeping an eye on the tray, which was laden with everything Miss Marianne would need for tea for herself and her guest, Jane walked carefully up the back stairs and pushed the door open. The second footman opened the door to the drawing room for her and Jane stepped inside.

Robert appraised the setting. The drawing room at Ledbury House was a comfortable, nicely presented room, with luxurious wall hangings and a well-maintained air. His hostess, Lady Kingswood, had welcomed him inside, bidding him sit and ordering refreshments. She was an elegant, good-looking young woman who looked to be a few years younger than he. She still held his card in her delicate hand and there was an air of puzzlement about her.

As well there might be when Robert himself did not even know why he was here!

‘Your husband, Lord Kingswood, is not at home?’

‘He is not.’

‘I see.’ His discomfort increased. He had hoped to speak to the Earl directly. ‘Might I ask, Lady Kingswood, if you are acquainted with my uncle—?’ He corrected himself. ‘With Mr Millthorpe of Arkendale, in the West Riding of Yorkshire?’

She frowned. ‘I am not familiar with the name, no. My own family is from Cambridgeshire.’

‘Does your husband, perhaps, have links to Yorkshire?’

‘None that I am aware of.’

‘Curious...’ He shook his head. ‘Beyond curious.’

She was waiting patiently.

‘I apologise, Lady Kingswood. No doubt you are wondering why I am here.’ Her puzzled expression confirmed it. ‘Let me explain. I—’

The door opened, admitting a serving maid. Robert bit back his words in frustration. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the chair as the maid set the tray down on a small table beside her mistress, then proceeded to move the items from the tray to the table-top. It seemed to take an age.

‘Have you come far today, Mr Kendal?’ asked Lady Kingswood, filling the silence with an innocuous question.

‘I stayed last night at the inn at Netherton,’ he confirmed.

‘A most excellent establishment, don’t you think?’

‘Indeed,’ he lied, pushing away the memories of last night’s raucous farmers’ choir. To be fair, the place had been clean, and his mood had been somewhat assuaged by a hearty breakfast less than an hour ago.

He accepted tea in a delicate china cup. Thankfully the maid had finally left, murmuring to her mistress about sweetmeats.

Lady Kingswood eyed him keenly. ‘You were about to tell me what brings you to Ledbury House.’

He set the cup down. ‘I was.’

How to begin? She clearly has no inkling what this is about either.

‘If you will indulge me, I should wish to tell you a little of the background,’ he said.

She lifted her own cup. ‘I am all curiosity, Mr Kendal, I can assure you.’

Jane chuckled to herself as she tripped lightly back downstairs. Well, that mystery was now solved. Whoever Miss Marianne’s visitor was, he was the most handsome young man Jane had seen in a very long time. It was no wonder the parlour maids were all of a giggle. They must have seen him arrive.

Lord Kingswood was held to be good-looking, and Jane had been delighted when her beloved mistress had chosen to marry a man of looks as well as character. But this man, whoever he was, quite cast His Lordship into the shade. Piercing grey eyes under arching brows, a perfectly formed jawline, high cheekbones and luxuriant dark hair combined to create a visage the Great Masters would surely have wished to capture on canvas.

And he was every inch the gentleman, Jane had noted with a sweeping glance, with long, muscular legs encased in pale buckskins and glossy boots. His lean frame and broad shoulders were shown to advantage in his fine coat made by Weston, Jane surmised, her connoisseur’s eye having recognised the cut and style of the master tailor. Yes, a fine-looking man indeed—and one who had clearly caught the eye of the parlour maids.

Jane idly wondered who he was and what business he had at Ledbury House. Perhaps he was a suitor for Lady Cecily? The Earl’s ward was now seventeen and was possibly thinking of marriage.

Jane tutted at herself. A servant should never speculate about such matters. It might, as Mama had so frequently warned her, lead to an urge for gossip and tittle-tattle. That would never do. And nor should she, a servant, allow herself to feel drawn to a gentleman visitor.

But drawn to him was exactly what she felt. He had not noticed her, of course—and why should he? Yet Jane’s senses had been momentarily rather disordered by the sight of the mysterious young man. Master Henry’s treatment of her meant she avoided men wherever possible. But she was no nun, and could appreciate a fine face and firm male body as much as any other girl.

Settle, she told herself. He is not for you.

Five minutes later she was on her way back to the drawing room, this time bearing a selection of tempting sweetmeats and pastries. When she stepped inside she felt immediately the changed atmosphere in the room. Miss Marianne was leaning forward, her eyes huge and her attention completely gripped by whatever her guest was saying. Neither of them seemed even to notice Jane’s arrival.

Quietly, and as unobtrusively as possible, Jane walked across the room towards Miss Marianne’s table, intending to deposit the refreshments and leave without disturbing their attention. It was one of the greatest skills of a good servant.

‘And he gave you no notion of why you were sent to fetch her?’ The Countess looked astounded.

The gentleman spread his hands. ‘None whatsoever. I was hoping you might enlighten me.’

She shook her head. ‘It all sounds most peculiar, Mr Kendal. But can you tell me the name of the woman you are sent in search of?’

‘I can. Her name is Jane Bailey.’

Chapter Three

Crash! Tray, dishes, pastries and sweetmeats tumbled to the floor in a clatter of china, cutlery and food, the debris spreading far and wide. Jane could not understand why the visitor had said her name, but her attention had been completely diverted to the horror now adorning Miss Marianne’s best carpet.

It was a servant’s role to be unnoticed, unobtrusive. A shadow. Never to be seen unless the quality chose to interact with you. Since beginning her training as a scullery maid at the age of eight Jane had understood that to do what she had just done was the worst possible error she could ever make.

‘I am so sorry, my lady,’ she muttered, bending to gather some of the debris.

One of Miss Marianne’s prized Chamberlain Worcester plates was broken in two. Jane could not even begin to think how much the delicate china was worth. If any of the other girls had caused this calamity they would get a rare telling-off, and possibly even a warm ear from Mrs Bailey.

Just because the housekeeper happened to be her mother it did not excuse Jane from this culpability. What would this gentleman think of her? Of Ledbury House?

Lady Kingswood, issuing soothing reassurances, had already rung the bell for another maid, and shortly afterwards Sarah arrived—still with faint bloodstains on her sleeve.

Jane groaned inwardly. Of course it would have to be Sarah.

Together they swiftly gathered up the tumbled food, cutlery and crockery, while Lady Kingswood and her guest engaged in stilted empty conversation.

Oh, please, let us be done here, for I cannot bear to be in this room a moment longer!

Miss Marianne would think her stupid and clumsy. And what if she was so displeased she consigned Jane to work below-stairs?

Part of Jane’s mind was aware this was neither rational, nor likely, but the other part—the part currently overcome by fear and anxiety—could not at that moment be logical.

Thankfully, before long they were done. Jane would return later, to sweep the crumbs, but for now at least all the noticeable debris had been scooped up into her and Sarah’s aprons. Jane stood, bobbed a curtsey, and left alongside Sarah without a backward glance.

As they descended below-stairs in silence she could sense Sarah’s glee at her misfortune.

Oh, Jane was well aware the other servants thought she saw herself as better than them, but it was not true—not really. Being highly educated, and being a lady’s maid as well as daughter to the housekeeper, meant she had never been able to form friendships with any of the maids near her own age. But it was not that she saw herself as above them. Why, she had even served tea today in order to be helpful.

It was more that she could not be comfortable with their conversation—which focused mainly on village scandals, family gossip—and their fixation on flirting with any eligible lads in the district.

And moments like this is when I pay for it.

Sarah was clearly delighted that, having deprived the other housemaids of the pleasure of serving the handsome gentleman, Jane should have suffered such a spectacular calamity.

Jane maintained a stony silence and walked on.

Robert’s sense of disquiet was growing by the moment. Already uneasy about being sent on this wild mission by his uncle, he had felt his discomfort increase when he had realised Lord Kingswood was absent.

Apart from his mama and his aunt—and the occasional society of a courtesan or ladybird—Robert did not often find himself in the company of women, and had no idea how to respond to the archness, flirtation and simpering often displayed by the young ladies of his acquaintance.

Thankfully, Lady Kingswood had so far displayed none of these tendencies, and he had dared to hope he could communicate his delicate tale without sounding like an utter fool.

Until the maid had decided to trip over nothing and fling pastries and plates across the room.

He had glanced down at her, absently noting her pink cheeks and mortified expression. Strangely, it had made him feel a little easier, knowing that someone in the room was even more agitated than he.

She is very pretty, he had noted, surprising himself with the thought.

Another maid had arrived to help, and this one had immediately sent him a sideways bold glance.

Robert had looked away.

‘I do hope your postilion is being looked after,’ Lady Kingswood had offered politely, after murmuring reassuring words to the two maids.

‘Your groom came out to meet us,’ he had confirmed. ‘I have no doubt they are even now discussing horseflesh and poultices and whatnot.’

She had smiled. ‘Grooms and coachmen share a common language. Do you ride?’

‘I do.’ Wistfully, he had pictured the green hills around Beechmount Hall. ‘I am fortunate to live close to some of England’s finest countryside.’

‘My husband is a fine horseman.’ Lady Kingswood had not disguised her pride. ‘Such a pity he is not here today.’

‘Indeed.’

There had been a short silence.

Thankfully the maids had now completed their task and departed, the second one once again trying to catch his eye.

Robert kept his gaze firmly and politely on Lady Kingswood.

The door closed behind them and Lady Kingswood’s demeanour instantly changed. Bringing her hands together, she narrowed her eyes. ‘I must tell you, Mr Kendal,’ she asserted, ‘Miss Bailey is very dear to me, and I should not wish her to become embroiled in anything unsavoury or anything that might bring her harm.’

‘Then she exists and you know her!’ Seeing her startled expression, he made haste to explain. ‘My uncle—that is to say, Mr Millthorpe—was very clear that he wished to speak to Miss Bailey and that she would come to no harm by it. I think,’ he added reflectively, ‘that he sent me in order to reassure Miss Bailey and those close to her on that very point.’

‘And do you know why he wishes to speak with her?’ There was a decided crease on Lady Kingswood’s brow.

‘I do not—not for certain, at least. I confess until this moment I was not convinced Miss Bailey even existed, or that I would find her here. My uncle is elderly and in poor health. While this was decidedly not a deathbed request—for he enjoys reasonably good health—he made it clear he wishes to meet Miss Bailey before he leaves this earth.’

This elicited a response—a flicker of something in the Countess’s eyes. Recognition? Memory? Then it was gone, and so quickly he might have imagined it.

He coughed politely. ‘Mr Millthorpe is aged, and somewhat eccentric, and likes to try to make me do his bidding.’ He grimaced. ‘That sounds wrong. I have great affection for him. But I confess that although we have lived in the same house for most of my life, he still manages to surprise me on occasions.’

Lady Kingswood nodded politely, clearly believing it would be indelicate for her to comment on this.

‘So,’ he offered, leaning forward. ‘Might I enquire a little about Miss Jane Bailey? Does she live nearby? Might you be able to give me her direction? I confess I am curious about her. Is she a woman in her middle years, perhaps?’

The Countess tilted her head to one side. ‘I shall consider the matter, Mr Kendal. But tell me: what led you to believe you might find news of her here, at Ledbury House?’

A decided rebuff. He had travelled all this way and might yet fail. He would have to tread carefully with Lady Kingswood. If she denied him, Robert would be obliged to return to Yorkshire empty-handed.

‘Ah! That I do know. My uncle indicated that he had commissioned a Bow Street Runner to investigate the whereabouts of Miss Bailey. While he would tell me nothing of his motives, he was most proud of his methods.’

‘A Bow Street Runner!’ She shook her head in bemusement. ‘Mr Kendal, I shall be frank with you. I have never met you before, and I am unsure whether I should trust you with the information you seek. You have made it clear your undertaking is not simply to speak with J—with Miss Bailey, or to pass on information. Instead you wish to take her hundreds of miles away to the wilds of Yorkshire, with only yourself to accompany her.’

The wilds of Yorkshire? It was hardly deepest Africa! But Robert noted she seemed genuinely concerned for Miss Bailey’s safety.

He nodded. ‘I see that. But I know not what further reassurance I can provide, save my word as a gentleman.’

Her lip curled. ‘Both Miss Bailey and I are aware that supposed “gentlemen” do not always behave honourably.’

Robert blinked, noting this for future reference. Politeness prevented him from asking the Countess for more details.

He cast around his mind, but no further strategy came to him save honesty. ‘Then we are at a standstill. I know not what I can say or do to convince you. Certainly on a practical level I can undertake to hire a maid to travel with her—perhaps one of your own maids?’

For some reason, an image of the pretty pink-cheeked maid suddenly filled his inner vision. Cease! he told himself sternly. Now is certainly not the time for dalliance.

For some reason this seemed to amuse her.

She thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Mr Kendal, I shall make you an offer. Come back tonight for dinner, at half past six, and we can discuss this further. I hope you understand I need time for consideration?’

‘Indeed, and I am grateful that you have not sent me away with a flea in my ear.’ He rose. ‘I thank you for your time, and I shall indeed return.’

He bowed, smiled, and departed.

‘Oh, Lord!’ Jane cradled her head in her hands. ‘I am so sorry, Mama!’

Miss Marianne might understand, but Mama had such high standards for both of them Jane felt she had let them both down.

Mrs Bailey was still removing her bonnet and shawl. ‘What on earth happened, Jane? Sarah could not wait to tell me that one of the Worcester plates had broken and that it was not her fault!’

‘It is true.’ Jane’s tone was rueful.

She gave her mama a brief summary of the disaster in the drawing room.

‘The gentleman has not yet left, but when he does I shall be sure to go directly to my mistress and apologise.’

‘I should think so! But why were you there? And what on earth made you do it? You are not normally clumsy.’

‘Ah, that I must tell you... Mary cut her head, so I decided to take the tea. Then the gentleman said my name, and it was so unexpected that I dropped the tray.’

Jane, still lost in mortification, could not even describe the disaster properly.

‘He said your name? What on earth are you talking about? Honestly, Jane, sometimes you baffle me with your incoherence.’

‘Sorry, Mama. There is truly little more to tell. I was not particularly listening to their conversation—you have always encouraged me to develop the skill of not attending to business that does not concern me. Then suddenly he said, “Her name is Jane Bailey”.’ She nodded furiously. ‘Yes, I know! I am puzzled too. I have been racking my brains, but I cannot think of why he might be here, or why any gentleman might be seeking me.’

As she spoke, a bell on the wall rang—Jane’s bell—swiftly followed by the housekeeper’s bell. Miss Marianne wanted them both!

They glanced at each other, then wordlessly rose, making for the drawing room.

The gentleman had gone—Jane ascertained as much from the second footman as they went through the hall. Strangely, Jane felt a pang of—something—at this news. But of course he was gone—which was why they were now summoned to their mistress.

‘Enter!’

The Countess’s voice rang out in response to Mrs Bailey’s gentle scratching on the door. Jane was conscious that her heart was beating rather quickly. Despite all her years of service to Miss Marianne, and knowing of her kindness and her loyalty, a servant’s greatest worry was always that of being dismissed.

Lady Kingswood was seated in her favourite armchair, looking pensive.

Jane glanced automatically towards the carpet, instantly spotting various crumbs and tiny shards of china—clear evidence of the recent mishap.

‘Oh, my lady, I apologise! I do not know what came over me, for I am not normally so clumsy.’

Miss Marianne snorted. ‘Well, if you do not know, Jane, I most certainly do. Lord, when he said the name of the woman he was seeking I almost collapsed in shock. If I had been holding a tray I have no doubt I, too, would have dropped it. No—’ she waved a hand ‘—I do not wish to hear any further apologies. It is forgotten!’

Jane smiled weakly.

See? You need not have worried, the rational part of her brain offered complacently.

Her still racing heart and moist palms could not agree.

Mrs Bailey was frowning. ‘Might I ask, my lady, who is this gentleman? And what is his interest in my daughter?’

‘I confess I do not fully understand it myself.’ She picked up a card. ‘His name is Mr Robert Kendal and, in essence, he says he has been sent here by an elderly relative of his to fetch Jane to visit the old man in Yorkshire before he dies. Although his death is not imminent. The old man’s, I mean.’

She was looking closely at Mama, as if waiting for her to say something.

Mama remained silent.

‘But why?’ Jane was mystified. ‘I know no Mr Kendal, nor anyone with the name Kendal, and I have never seen this gentleman before.’

That I am sure of, for I would not have forgotten a gentleman so handsome!

‘Mr Kendal himself seems not to know why you are sought, Jane. In fact, he hoped I could enlighten him.’ Lady Kingswood’s eyes danced. ‘I suspect he thinks you may be the result of a youthful adventure on his relative’s part. He pictures you as middle-aged.’

‘Youthful adventure? What—? Oh!’ Jane gaped.

Mrs Bailey was bristling with indignation. ‘Well, I shall tell him straight! My Jane is no man’s by-blow, for me and my Ned were married fair and square! And my own parents were as respectable as they come! Youthful adventure, indeed!’

‘Of course, Mrs Bailey!’ Lady Kingswood’s tone was soothing. ‘I suspect Mr Kendal knows very little about either of you, and so he has reached his own conclusions.’

‘Well, if he thinks I shall allow my Jane to go off with him to visit some unknown elderly gentleman—’ Mama broke off, as if an idea had just come to her. ‘Did you say Yorkshire?’

‘I did. Does that mean something to you?’

‘Did Mr Kendal specify which part of Yorkshire?’

‘Er—the West Riding. A place called Ardendale or something.’

Mrs Bailey gasped. ‘Ardendale...or Arkendale, perhaps?’

‘Yes—Arkendale!’

‘And his relative’s name?’

‘Mullinthorpe? Melkinthorpe?’ Lady Kingswood was frowning with the effort of trying to remember.

‘Millthorpe?’

‘That’s it! Millthorpe!’

Mrs Bailey put a hand to her chest. ‘Mr Millthorpe! Never again did I think to hear that name!’

Jane rose, touching her mother’s arm. ‘Who is he, Mama?’

‘If it is him, and not some other relative—’ she looked directly at Jane ‘—he is Ned’s father. Your grandfather!’

‘My grandfather?’ Jane almost squeaked in shock. ‘But why is his name not Bailey? And I thought he would have nothing to do with Papa—with any of us—after Papa married you?’

‘So Ned always said. As a servant, I was not good enough for the Millthorpe name, apparently. Ned defied him by changing his name to Bailey—which was from his mother’s side.’

Jane’s mind was reeling. ‘Then—my grandfather may be still alive and wishing to meet me?’

‘So it would seem.’

Jane’s knees felt strangely soft, as if the bones were melting. She had not thought of Papa’s family in years.

My grandfather! What is he like? Do I look like him? Has he, perhaps, forgiven Papa?

An image of a tender deathbed reunion filled her mind. She shook it away—there was nothing to suggest what Mr Millthorpe’s motives might be in trying to find her.

‘And who, then, is this Mr Kendal? A servant?’ Mama’s tone was sharp.

‘No, definitely a gentleman.’ The Countess tilted her head on one side, remembering. ‘He referred to Mr Millthorpe as “Uncle”, yet clarified that he is not truly his uncle but a distant relative. I did wonder if there was some connection with your husband’s family...’

‘Hmph! The whole thing smacks of Mr Millthorpe’s desire to manage everyone around him. That was Ned’s abiding memory of his father. Even now, with my poor Ned long gone, his domineering father seeks to control him through my Jane!’ Mama wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron.

‘Mama!’ Jane touched her arm. ‘Of course I shall not go, if you do not wish it.’

Mama never cried. After that day—the day of Papa’s death—Mama had been careful to keep her grief to herself. Jane had come upon her suddenly on a couple of occasions, and seen her mother wipe away tears, but never had she allowed herself to cry in front of Jane. For her to do so today was shocking, and Jane felt the force of it.

Mama continued, her voice tight with pain and anger. ‘Mr Millthorpe was cold and cruel. He pushed away his only child—and why? Because Ned had the misfortune to fall in love with me: a servant. I have never met the man, but my impression is that he thinks of me—of all servants—as vermin, to be used and discarded. He has no heart, no conscience. He must have known Ned would struggle, yet he never made any attempt to reconcile with him.’

Jane, her mind too disordered to operate clearly, nevertheless felt the force of Mama’s pain. And Papa’s.

Lady Kingswood’s brow creased. ‘How awful! I remember, of course, that your husband had died not long before you came to us, and that he was a gentleman, but I do not recall hearing any more about his family.’

‘I did not speak much of it.’ Mama pressed her lips together. ‘Again, I should like to know, who is Mr Kendal and what is his role in all of this?’ She eyed her mistress. ‘What have you told him about Jane?’

‘Not a word,’ Lady Kingswood assured her. ‘He knows I am acquainted with Jane, but has no notion that he himself has already met her!’

Jane, still in something like shock, voiced her bemusement. ‘My grandfather is alive! Why would he wish to see me? What if he is still angry with Papa, and wishes to punish him—or me...?’ She shuddered. ‘I cannot put myself in any man’s power.’ Cold fear trickled through her belly as Master Henry threatened to resurface in her memory. ‘What is to happen next?’

‘Well,’ said Lady Kingswood diffidently, ‘I thought you both might like to meet him yourself before he knows who Jane Bailey is.’

‘Thank you, Miss Marianne. I declare that is sensible.’ Mama was all gratitude. ‘But how shall we contrive it?’

‘I have invited him to dinner. Lady Cecily is returning later—please prepare her room, Mrs Bailey—and I have sent a note to Reverend Burns to make up the numbers. It is only right that we should attempt to discover more of his character, and of Mr Millthorpe, before you decide whether Jane should go with him.’

Mrs Bailey shook her head. ‘I am not sure she should go anywhere near the old man, no matter how personable this Mr Kendal may be.’

Jane listened with trepidation, and more than a little confusion. At this moment she had no notion of what she wanted, beyond a sneaking suspicion that she would very much like to see Mr Kendal again...

Chapter Four

Strange...thought Robert idly, glancing at the few remaining russet, gold and yellow leaves still clinging to the trees as his carriage rumbled through the country lanes towards Ledbury House. Even in February some of their trees still hold a few autumn leaves, while in Yorkshire winter has been with us for nigh on four months already. Winter comes later and kinder this far south.

He felt a pang of nostalgia for his home. He was often gone from Beechmount Hall on matters of business, but after a few days away he always ached to return. Not long now. If Lady Kingswood would only tell him where he could find this Jane Bailey, then...

Then his next task would be to convince her to come with him—but what method of persuasion Robert was to use he honestly did not know.

He sighed as the carriage pulled up outside the front door. The postilion dismounted from the lead horse and let down the step. Robert descended, glancing around instinctively. Ledbury House was a fine dwelling, comfortable and cosy without being imposing. The contrast with Beechmount Hall, where he had lived for the past twenty years, was stark.

His hostess was there to greet him and introduce him to her guests—the local vicar and a young relative whom she addressed as Lady Cecily. Apparently she was Lord Kingswood’s ward and lived at Ledbury House. She had been away visiting relatives and had just returned.

How could he discover more about the identity and whereabouts of Jane Bailey when there were four of them for dinner?

Shortly after his arrival, dinner was served. Robert accompanied Lady Kingswood to the dining room, with the Reverend Burns and Lady Cecily following. Naturally rather reticent, he had learned over the years to endure social gatherings with an appearance of equanimity. Afterwards, he always found himself drained by the effort of being in company.

I do believe, he thought now, my aversion to empty social intercourse goes back to my circumstances at the time when I first moved to Beechmount Hall.

Tonight, however, Robert had a purpose, and he intended to make the most of the opportunity.

He had the honour of being placed on Lady Kingswood’s right, and as the first course was served she politely drew him out, asking if Yorkshire had always been his home.

‘It has,’ he confirmed. ‘I was born in Harrogate and lived there with my parents until my father died, after which my mother and I moved to Beechmount Hall. I was eight, so that was exactly twenty years ago.’

The vicar and Lady Cecily were conversing politely at the other side of the table. Robert absentmindedly thanked the footman who was serving the first course—soup, along with a squab pie and some leeks. He tried a forkful, which tasted delicious.

‘Your mother is related to the family there?’ Lady Kingswood continued.

‘Distantly,’ he confirmed, as a middle-aged female servant entered, carrying further dishes. She was followed by a maid—the pretty one who had dropped the tray earlier.

Females waiting at table? Unusual. A deliberate informality, Robert suspected.

Lady Kingswood was politely waiting for him to say more.

‘My mother’s aunt is Mr Millthorpe’s second wife—his first having died many years previously. Aunt Eugenia is my mama’s only living relation, so it made sense for us to move there.’ He shrugged. ‘I was too young to fully understand the reasons, but I believe my mother and her aunt provide female company for each other, so it suits both of them.’

‘Wait. Mrs Millthorpe is your great-aunt, and yet you also address her as “aunt”?’

‘Yes—at Mrs Millthorpe’s request. I should explain I call her husband my uncle, although he is in fact only my great-uncle by marriage. Mrs Millthorpe desires me to call them simply “aunt” and “uncle”, as my mother does, declaring she would not suffer the indignity of being anyone’s great-aunt!’

Lady Kingswood smiled at this. ‘And are they both still there at Beechmount Hall?’

The servants, having placed all the dishes on the table and removed the covers, now stood back impassively, waiting for them to eat. Normally Robert would barely notice, but the maid with rosy cheeks continually drew his attention. Not that she was doing anything in particular.

It is just that she is remarkably pretty.

A footman served Robert a slice of pie. ‘Er—yes, they are. My Aunt Eugenia swears she could not manage without my mother.’ He frowned.

Lady Kingswood glanced briefly across the table, to where the vicar and Lady Cecily seemed entirely focused on their own conversation. ‘And it is your uncle who has sent you here?’

Robert nodded. ‘It is.’

‘Tell me more of Mr Millthorpe.’

For the next two hours Robert attempted to reassure Lady Kingswood of his honourable intentions. He could not be dishonest about his uncle, but carefully used words such as ‘eccentric’ and ‘strong-willed’ to signal something of the old man’s character without, he hoped, frightening the Countess.

At times Lady Kingswood conversed politely with the vicar, while Robert chatted about botany and books with Lady Cecily. However, each time the table turned he and Lady Kingswood returned to their discussions of Beechmount Hall and those who lived there.

The name Jane Bailey was not mentioned.

All in all it had been a most pleasant evening, if tiring, he concluded, climbing into his coach while the coachman held up a lantern for him. And hopefully a useful one. Lady Kingswood had asked him to return on the morrow, which he took as a positive sign.

As the post chaise made its way down the lanes by moonlight towards the inn at Netherton his thoughts turned again to the pretty housemaid. It had been a long time since a woman had caught his eye. He had had his share of discreet liaisons—most recently with a London courtesan, and until just two months ago a flirtatious widow in York. He had no thought of marriage, so restricted himself to encounters where the woman involved would understand what he could and could not give.

Respectable servants, no matter how beautiful, had never been of interest to him. Until now.

I wonder what her name is, he thought idly. She should be Diana, goddess of the woods. The huntress, the wild one...

He chuckled at his own flight of fancy.

Ah, but she is a goddess, hiding in a servant’s livery.

‘My fair Diana!’ he muttered aloud, imagining himself offering her a sweeping bow, before kissing her hand. ‘Lord!’ he told himself. ‘You are drunk, Robert. Do not let a flirtation distract you from your obligation.’

Yet as the carriage trundled on he lost himself in imaginings which would have shocked the ladies of Ledbury House.

Jane awoke early, before the first light of dawn began seeping into the basement window of the chamber she shared with her mother. Serving at table—not something she or her mama normally did—had been challenging, and she had needed all her years of training to remain impassive as Mr Kendal had talked of her grandfather, his second wife and her father’s family home.

Until yesterday she had known very little about such things. Sensitive to her mother’s pain—and to her decree that they must not speak of Papa’s family—Jane had kept her curiosity to herself, where it had burned in a glowing ember, deep within her.

Once her mother had frowned at her, and she had, with effort, torn her eyes away from Mr Kendal’s handsome profile. He had been entirely focused on his conversation with Miss Marianne, but Lady Cecily had been eyeing her with puzzlement.

Jane had diverted her gaze from the good-looking visitor, instead staring fixedly into the middle distance, over the heads of all the diners, with, she hoped, no interest. Lady Cecily, who knew full well that the housekeeper and Lady Kingswood’s personal maid should not be serving, had, after a moment, returned to her conversation with the vicar.

After that Jane had been careful not to look directly at Mr Kendal, though in truth she had remained entirely conscious of him throughout the evening. At times she had struggled to hear his words over Lady Cecily’s conversation with the vicar and the scrape and clang of cutlery on china. But she believed she had the essentials.

I find him interesting.

The thought made her heart flutter in a strange and novel way. If he had been, like her, a servant, she might have sought to get to know him. The realisation was disturbing. Ever since Master Henry had attacked her four years ago she had been wary of men of all classes, but particularly gentlemen, some of whom seemed to believe they could use their power however they wished.

She turned over on to her side, watching the light slowly grow on the unadorned wall in front of her.

Will Mama permit me to travel to Yorkshire?

Looking into her heart, she was unsurprised to find her own wishes were now clear. She wanted to meet her grandfather and spend time in the place where Papa had grown up.

And, she admitted to herself, I wish to see Mr Kendal again.

Mr Kendal would return today, she knew, hoping to have an answer to his request for information.

Ten minutes later Mama awoke, and they both rose and prepared for the day. Conscious that her hands were shaking a little, Jane donned a plain grey gown with a lace fichu and buttoned herself into stout boots. She brushed her hair and tied it up, then added the crisp white cap denoting her status, along with a clean apron.

Mama did not mention Mr Kendal, and nor did Jane, yet there was an air of expectancy about everything. It tingled just out of Jane’s reach. Something different. Interesting. Exciting.

In only a few hours all would be resolved one way or another.

‘There you go, my lady,’ said Jane, adding one final pin to her mistress’s coiffure. ‘You look beautiful.’

Lady Kingswood patted her hand. ‘Thank you, Jane. Now...’ She turned as she spoke, away from the mirror, to look at Jane directly. ‘What did you make of Mr Kendal?’

Jane felt a slow blush build in her cheeks. ‘He seems a true gentleman.’

Miss Marianne’s eyes narrowed. ‘I believe he is.’

Unspoken between them were their experiences at the hands of Master Henry.

‘I know,’ said Lady Kingswood after a moment, ‘that you will heed your mother’s advice, but if it were up to you, would you wish to travel to Yorkshire?’

Jane nodded firmly. ‘I would. I have never met my grandfather, and it sounds as though this may be my only opportunity. I assume my grandfather will pay the costs of my travel, and as a serving maid I need no chaperone. In that sense my going will inconvenience only myself and you, Miss Marianne!’ She bit her lip. ‘How should you manage if I am not here to assist you? I could not leave you for so long. Why, it will take nigh on a week to get there, and another to come back, plus whatever time I spend there...’

Lady Kingswood seemed to be considering her words carefully. ‘Jane, you have been my maid since we were but children ourselves, and I shall, of course, miss you dreadfully. But I believe it is important you take this opportunity, should your mama permit. I shall ask Mary to assist me while you are gone.’

‘Mary!’ A spasm of anxiety coursed through Jane.

What if Miss Marianne prefers Mary? What if I am ousted from my place on my return?

She frowned at her own fears. Miss Marianne would not do such a thing!

‘Yes, Mary,’ Lady Kingswood repeated firmly. ‘She can at least dress hair, though I am not hopeful of her mending skills being anywhere near yours.’ She smiled. ‘Do not fret, Jane. There is much more between us than mistress and servant. Your place in my heart makes it impossible you could be forgotten.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ Jane replied gruffly.

‘Mr Kendal is expected in the next hour. Ring the bell for Mrs Bailey and we shall see what is to happen.’

‘Lady Kingswood!’ Robert gave a smart bow, conscious that the moment of truth had finally arrived.

Was he going to be obliged to return to Yorkshire having failed in his task? He could just imagine his uncle’s biting reaction if that were the case.

The old man could go from mild-mannered and easy to severe and sharp in an instant—particularly when his demands were thwarted. As a child, Robert had quaked in his boots at such moments. Now, remembering his uncle’s wistful expression as he had contemplated the report on Miss Bailey, Robert felt a burning need to succeed in the task set for him.

Do I still seek my uncle’s approval, even after all this time?

‘Good day, Mr Kendal. Please be seated.’

Her expression gave nothing away. They exchanged niceties—he being careful to thank her once again for her hospitality and for the excellent dinner the night before. Then there was a pause.

‘Lady Kingswood,’ he ventured. ‘You understand I have come here in the hope that I may finally be informed about the whereabouts of Jane Bailey. I have been away from home now for a week, and must soon either speak to her or return to Yorkshire.’

She nodded decisively. ‘I am aware.’ She tapped her fingers lightly on the arm of her chair. ‘Let me be frank with you, Mr Kendal. You have given me information about your uncle, and about your home. You have also indicated that you are unclear about why Jane Bailey is being sought in Yorkshire.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Miss Bailey has never been away from her family before, and is not well-travelled. Can you guarantee no harm or upset shall come to her should she go with you?’

He was conscious of a thrill of victory—which might be premature. ‘Whatever is in my power to influence I shall do so in order to protect her, I assure you.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Your phrasing does not inspire me with confidence, Mr Kendal.’

He spread his hands. ‘I only meant to say I am not in control of the roads, the weather, disease, or unexpected events such as accidents. But I can assure you, my lady, her happiness and comfort will be my priority. I have brought my own post-chaise, and intend to hire horses and postilions at the posting inns. We shall travel by easy stages, and no more than forty or fifty miles per day.’

In his head he was imagining Jane Bailey as a fearful, vulnerable, middle-aged lady, anxious about travel and nervous about being gone from her home.

How am I to endure five days with such a person?

‘And what of her personal safety? She will travel without a chaperone.’

Ah, so she is not a gentlewoman. Perhaps, then, my notion is correct and she is a by-blow of my uncle.

Lady Kingswood was regarding him evenly. With a start, he realised the Countess was checking to see if he might have designs on a vulnerable female in his care. His temper rose.

‘You have my word,’ he said coldly. ‘She will suffer no harm from me.’

This seemed to please her. ‘Good. In that case, I am happy to inform you that I have...er...been in discussion with Miss Bailey and her mother, and she has agreed to travel to Yorkshire for a short visit.’

His heart leapt. But he was puzzled. Miss Bailey’s mother yet lived? Why didn’t his uncle wish to see the mother of his child?

‘How short?’

‘No more than two weeks. Given the distance, that would require her to be gone from home for nigh on a month. She must return by early March.’

‘Very well,’ he returned, with the air of a man conceding a point.

Inwardly, he was delighted. Even a few days would have been enough. To have her at Beechmount Hall for an entire fortnight was more than he had hoped to offer his uncle.

‘I shall write to my uncle to make him aware of Miss Bailey’s impending arrival. Will she be free to leave tomorrow morning?’

‘She will.’

‘And might I meet her before then?’

She glanced away, frowning slightly, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘Unfortunately, as I am sure you understand, she will be busy today, packing for her journey. It is no little undertaking for someone unused to travel.’

‘Of course.’ He had no wish to press the point, content with his achievement in convincing Lady Kingswood of his respectability and trustworthiness.

It was only afterwards, back in the inn for one final night, that he realised Lady Kingswood had told him exactly nothing of Jane Bailey herself, nor of their relationship with each other.

‘Now, Jane, you be careful.’ Mama hugged her tightly.

‘I shall.’

Tears sprang into Jane’s eyes. Never had she and her mama been apart. Even after the incident with Master Henry, when they had left his employ, they had done so together, following Lady Kingswood to London and then on to Ledbury House. Those were the only long journeys Jane had ever undertaken in her life. The thought of travelling all the way to Yorkshire was daunting, yet strangely exciting.

Standing in the hallway, awaiting the arrival of Mr Kendal, Jane suddenly shivered. Change had come to her and, while it was exciting, it was also more than a little frightening.

At her feet was a large trunk, stuffed to the brim with clothing that Miss Marianne had suddenly and inexplicably decided she no longer needed, and which ‘would do Jane very well’.

Jane had protested to no avail as dresses, stockings and slippers had been thrown in a heap onto Miss Marianne’s bed. She and Jane were of a similar size, which had always assisted Jane when mending Miss Marianne’s dresses, or making new ones. And Jane had stood frozen in stunned silence as she tried to understand that all these beautiful things were now hers.

This morning, though, she had resolutely donned her maid’s grey gown and white fichu as usual, unwilling to wear finery in front of Miss Marianne, Mama and the other servants.

I should not wish them to believe I am acting above my station.

As well as her trunk she had a battered bandbox, containing the essentials for her journey—the main items being a spare grey dress, her hairbrush and some wool stockings. Miss Marianne had also given her a reticule as a present, embroidered with a trail of blue flowers and with a blue silk drawstring ribbon. Inside was a handkerchief, some coins, and a small scrap of paper on which Mama had written a note.

Go well, my Jane, and never forget who you are.

Never! Jane had vowed, tucking it back into the reticule and hugging Mama again.

Mama had warned her to be wary of all—and particularly Mr Kendal. ‘He will no doubt attempt to influence you to be forgiving towards Ned’s father, but you must resist. If Mr Millthorpe has genuinely repented you may discover that for yourself. Until then I advise you to keep your own counsel.’

Jane had nodded thoughtfully. ‘That is wise advice, Mama. Indeed, I shall endeavour to avoid speaking of anything to do with Papa or Mr Millthorpe.’ She had frowned. ‘Mr Kendal may think it odd, yet it seems to me to be the wisest course of action.’

Miss Marianne had agreed. ‘Mr Kendal seems perfectly amicable, and yet we know nothing of his motives, nor of Mr Millthorpe’s. I think it best to keep your views on Mr Millthorpe’s treatment of his son to yourself. And the easiest way in which to achieve that is to avoid being drawn into conversation about either of them.’

‘Promise me, Jane, you will tell him only what you must. Keep your own counsel until you meet the old man yourself,’ her mama had begged.

Jane had promised, shivering a little with apprehension.

Miss Marianne, whose generosity knew no bounds, had then passed her three more coins, equivalent to a full two months’ salary. When she had quailed, Lady Kingswood had hushed her.

‘Remember, Jane, that while I was a governess, before my marriage, we were fully friends for a time. This is my gift to you in memory of that friendship.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’

Jane’s words had been choked with emotion as the money had been stowed safely deep within Jane’s trunk. And that feeling was strengthened now, as the carriage drew up and Mr Kendal stepped out.

Jane had been trying, with little success, to ignore how handsome he was in face and form, and how thoughts of him had disturbed her sleep these past two nights. Today he wore fine buckskins, gleaming boots, and a shoulder-hugging claret jacket.

He would be considered a fine-looking man by anyone who encountered him, Jane knew. And the thought of being alone with him in a carriage for much of the next week sent a shiver through her. Anxiety? Anticipation? Delight? She could not be sure. Nigh on a week travelling, then two weeks in Yorkshire, followed by the journey back...

The housemaids were agog with interest and envy at Jane’s good fortune.

‘Why could it not be me?’ Sarah had wondered aloud. ‘I should love to spend five days locked in a carriage with the delightful Mr Kendal!’

There had been something earthy and raw in her laugh that had left Jane feeling both uncomfortable and yet strangely in harmony with the sentiment.

Miss Marianne arrived in the hall to greet her guest. The footmen picked up Jane’s trunk and carried it out to the carriage, where Mr Kendal’s postilion strapped it on. Jane took a breath, then donned her cloak and bonnet.

Her action caught Mr Kendal’s eye. He looked from Lady Kingswood to Jane, and for an instant his gaze blazed into hers.

‘Are we to take a maid with us to accompany Miss Bailey after all?’ he asked Lady Kingswood.

Miss Marianne did not respond directly. Instead she looked at Jane.

The moment had arrived. She must speak.

She stepped forward, looking him in the eye. ‘I am Jane Bailey.’

Chapter Five

‘I am Jane Bailey.’

For a moment, Robert could not take it in. Already distracted by the sight of the beautiful maid putting on a cloak, he had felt his spirits raised at the prospect of her accompanying them. To discover that she was, in fact, Jane Bailey herself, seemed impossible.

‘Pardon me?’ he managed.

Lady Kingswood intervened. ‘Now, Jane, I trust you will enjoy your time in Yorkshire and return to me safe and sound. I shall be lost without my personal maid for an entire month.’ She turned to Robert. ‘I do hope, Mr Kendal, you realise just how much of a sacrifice we are making. Jane will be greatly missed here at Ledbury House.’

She is personal maid to the Countess!

Robert, conscious of the interested gaze of his hired postilion, two footmen, and a disapproving older servant, decided his best option was to take the situation as he found it.

‘Indeed. In that case I shall be sure to return her to you as soon as I may.’ He addressed the maid directly. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Bailey.’

He bowed politely, feeling deeply uncomfortable. He never liked public attention at the best of times. The pressure of saying the right thing in such a delicate situation was even more fraught.

‘And I you,’ she replied.

Her voice was soft and pleasant, and sent an unexpected jolt through him.

The older servant embraced her, as did Lady Kingswood, and a few moments later he handed her up into the carriage. She wore no gloves, and the warmth of her hand in his discomposed him somewhat.

Lord! This is a complication I had not counted on.

He sat opposite her, in the small backwards-facing seat. His post-chaise was larger than many, and fairly comfortable, yet after his long journey down he had come to hate it. Now five more days on the road lay ahead. Five days backwards-facing. Five days in the company of—he stole a glance at her—truly one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

She kept on waving at the Ledbury House ladies until they were out of view, so he took the chance to study her. Her dark hair was just visible under the simple straw bonnet which framed quite the prettiest face he had seen in a long, long time. Her eyes were blue, and trimmed with long dark lashes. A straight little nose, tempting pink lips and a rosy complexion completed the vision.

He tried to assemble his disordered thoughts. The mysterious Jane Bailey was a young woman—a lady’s maid working as a servant in Ledbury House. Surely too young to be his uncle’s by-blow. Who, then, was she?

They had turned out of the Ledbury House drive now, and he was disconcerted to see that Miss Bailey was a little emotional. Wordlessly, he offered her a clean lawn handkerchief.

‘Oh! Thank you, but I have...’ She rummaged in her reticule, pulled out her own rather dainty handkerchief, then blew her nose with a no-nonsense air that impressed him a little.

‘Forgive me, but you have not been away from home before?’

The fact that she was a servant made it easier for him to converse with her. Particularly when the servant was as beautiful and as intriguing as this one!

Social gatherings generally bored him. He still remembered the ordeal of having to perform like an actor on a stage any time he was brought into his aunt and uncle’s presence. He had suffered it many times as a child, and echoes of it still sometimes came to him in empty gatherings.

She shook her head. ‘Never! Well, that is to say I have never before left my mother behind.’

It only took him a moment to work it out. ‘The other lady you embraced just now?’

She nodded. ‘My mama is housekeeper at Ledbury House.’

The pride in her tone was unmistakable.

‘Indeed? I should tell you I was impressed by Ledbury House. A well-run household, I think.’

He was rewarded with a slight smile for this.

‘My mother is an excellent housekeeper, and we are fortunate to serve at Ledbury House.’

‘Have you always lived there?’

‘No.’ Her brow creased slightly. ‘I grew up in Cambridgeshire, in service to Miss Marianne’s—Lady Kingswood’s—own family. After Miss Marianne’s marriage my mother and I—er—we followed her here.’

Abruptly, she closed her mouth, as if reluctant to say more.

There is some story there. Too soon to press for more information now, though.

‘And have you ever been to Yorkshire, Miss Bailey?’

‘Never.’

Her face closed. She clearly did not wish to discuss her connections with the north, whatever they were.

Too many questions too soon, Robert. You have five full days to discover whatever she might tell you.

‘Today we shall travel as far as Market Harborough. I have written to the King’s Head to reserve rooms for us there. I trust that is satisfactory?’

She nodded, and then sat back to look out of the window. He took the opportunity to watch her surreptitiously and to review what he knew about her. A servant...the daughter of a servant. Already lady’s maid to a countess at a young age—which indicated both capability and dedication. Lady Kingswood thought highly of her...that much was also clear.

What had she to do with his uncle? From what he had seen Miss Bailey’s mother had been a good-looking girl in her youth. Could his uncle have had a liaison with the mother only twenty or twenty-five years ago?

Robert tried to calculate Miss Bailey’s age and his uncle’s likely age when she had been born. He frowned. It was possible, though unlikely.

He glanced at her again.

My, she is beautiful!

He shifted slightly in his seat. As a servant, she needed no chaperone to accompany her. Not that she should need one. As a gentleman he had vowed to protect her and he would do so. He must. Honour required it.

He frowned. He had not brought a footman on the journey, preferring to make his own travel arrangements, so they would be alone apart from the various postilions who would steer the horses as they journeyed.

In blithely assuring Lady Kingswood of his good behaviour he had not known the temptation which was to follow. The temptation currently sitting opposite him, wearing a fine grey dress that hugged her form.

Some gentlemen, he knew, entered into liaisons with willing servants and ensured they did not suffer afterwards. This generally amounted to ensuring they gained another suitable post and that any children resulting from the association were brought up in suitable safety and comfort.

He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Viewing Miss Bailey’s innocent face—currently she was gazing at the passing landscape—he could not imagine anyone being so lacking in principle as to pursue her for an irregular relationship. Despite her possible origins she had clearly been raised by good people with strong moral values. Everything about her—her demeanour, her demure clothing, her reserved conversation and the complete absence of anything resembling flirtation—confirmed it.

Shockingly, he found himself wishing she was otherwise...

‘I am sorry, sir. Nuthin’ I can do about it.’

The innkeeper’s face was twisted with concern—as well it might be. Mr Kendal’s expression was thunderous.

This is all about me.

Jane, used to remaining unseen and unnoticed, was deeply uncomfortable at this unwarranted attention.

‘I specifically requested two bedchambers,’ Mr Kendal repeated.

‘That you did, sir,’ the landlord acknowledged. ‘But I got your letter just this afternoon and I only have the one room free.’ He glanced at Jane’s servant garb. ‘Your servant may share a room with our chambermaids, if you like. We have three of them in the one room, with a spare bed free.’

A perfectly suitable arrangement! Jane breathed a sigh of relief.

Mr Kendal, however, was not to be diverted so easily.

‘Or Miss Bailey could have the bedchamber and I could sleep somewhere else.’

Jane gasped. ‘I am quite content with the innkeeper’s suggestion, sir. I am well used to sharing a bedchamber with other female servants.’

His gaze swivelled towards her, grey eyes meeting blue. ‘But...’ He frowned. ‘It does not seem right.’

Has he forgotten I am a serving maid?

‘It is entirely reasonable, sir.’

He looked confused, then nodded slowly. ‘I suppose you have the right of it.’ He turned back to the landlord. ‘Very well. I should also like a private parlour for dinner.’

‘Yes, sir. That I have got.’

The innkeeper’s relief was palpable. Taking a key from a cupboard behind him, and a lighted candlestick from the table, he led Mr Kendal up a twisting narrow staircase to the upper floor. Jane trailed behind, hovering on the narrow landing as Mr Kendal followed the innkeeper into his allocated bedchamber.

The landlord lit a branch of tall wax candles from his single one, casting warm light around the room. Moving to the fireplace, he lit the fire that had been set there. From her position in the dark corridor Jane glanced around. The chamber looked spacious, comfortable and clean.

‘Would it please you to dine in one hour, sir?’ The innkeeper paused, awaiting his guest’s response.

Mr Kendal consulted his pocket watch. ‘Very well. Er... Miss Bailey?’

Jane started. She moved to the doorway. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘I shall expect you to dine with me.’

‘Yes, Mr Kendal.’

He frowned. ‘That is to say I should like to request that you dine with me.’

Jane’s brow creased in bewilderment. What was the difference? ‘Yes, sir.’

‘But, no, I...’ He glanced at the landlord, whose puzzled expression mirrored Jane’s own. ‘Never mind.’

Jane considered the matter as she followed the landlord to the servants’ quarters, but was unable to fathom Mr Kendal’s meaning.

‘Here you go, miss.’ The innkeeper opened the door at the top of the attic stairs and stepped inside.

Jane followed, shivering as a blast of icy air hit her.

‘A bit draughty in here, mind, but once all the others are in here with you it will soon warm up. They are all busy below, and shall be until around ten o’clock.’ He lit a small tallow candle, which sputtered in the draught. ‘This bed is free.’ He pointed to a slightly stained pallet—the second in a row of four to Jane’s left. ‘I shall send up a sheet and a blanket for you later.’

‘Thank you.’

The door closed behind him and Jane sank down onto the thin pallet. Oh, how she ached from being stuck in the jolting carriage for most of the day! The pallet was nothing to her comfortable bed at Ledbury House, but was typical of servants’ accommodation in less wholesome establishments.

Reaching for the tallow candle, she carefully inspected the pallet for lice and fleas. There were none visible, which gave her some hope. They might not survive in a room this cold.

She shivered again. Nor might I!

Carefully she searched in her bandbox for her woollen stockings and put them on, on top of the thin pair she was already wearing. Keeping her cloak on, she wrapped it tightly about her, but decided to remove her bonnet as the straw was beginning to scratch at her scalp.

Drawing the hood of her cloak up, she concentrated on watching her breath fog the air in front of her and, despite the cold, on enjoying not being in a moving carriage.

Finally—thankfully—she judged that almost an hour had passed, based on the tallow candle having shrunk to half its length. She unfolded her legs and stood up slowly. Since sunset the temperature had kept on dropping. There would be a sharp frost in the morning.

With some regret, she removed her cloak, folded it, and left it on the pallet.

The thought of seeing Mr Kendal again made her heart skip momentarily. She could not quite divine why it was behaving so erratically.

As she descended she could feel the air getting warmer. By the time she had reached the ground floor there was a welcome warmth which danced on her skin and heated the air in her lungs.

One of the chambermaids showed her to Mr Kendal’s private parlour. He had not yet arrived. Jane made straight for the fireplace, which boasted a small but cheerful fire. Hurrying across the room, she held her frozen hands out towards it. It surely was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen!

The door opened and closed behind her, sending a puff of smoke billowing out into the room. It must be him! Briefly, the heat reached all the way to her elbows, then subsided again.

She turned. ‘Good evening, sir.’ Her voice sounded normal. Good. At least her stuttering heart had not revealed itself in her tone.

Mr Kendal had changed his clothing for dinner. She could not resist running her eyes over his fine figure.

‘Good evening, Miss Bailey.’

He frowned, causing her to run a nervous hand over her hair, wondering if she were untidy. There had been, of course, no looking glass in the attic. At her back, slight heat from the fire began to penetrate through her dress and thin shift. Strangely, and most inconveniently, she now began to shiver. But she was warming up. It made no sense.

He strode towards her, peering into her face. He was still frowning. ‘Miss Bailey,’ he announced. ‘Your lips are blue.’

She brought a hand up to touch her mouth. ‘Th-they are?’

He nodded grimly. ‘Give me your hand.’

She obeyed instinctively. He took her right hand, then the left, but she could barely feel his touch. With a muffled exclamation he wrapped both his hands around hers, rubbing gently.

‘You foolish girl! You are half-frozen!’

‘Oh, n-no!’ she lied. ‘I am j-just a little chilled.’

‘Your teeth are chattering, your hands are like ice, and your lips are as blue as—as your eyes,’ he muttered. ‘How on earth did you get so cold? Have you been outside?’

‘No! Of course not!’ His eyes bored into hers. ‘I have been in my chamber.’

His lips pressed into a single angry line. Releasing her hands, he walked to the table and drew forward a stout wooden chair. The stiffness in his spine and the set of his shoulders displayed his irritation. Arranging the chair directly in front of the fire, he bade her sit.

She did so, anxiously aware that she had displeased him. Schooled her entire life to be complaisant, obedient, and most of all unobtrusive, she was aware that right now she was being much too visible.

Without a word, he left the room, closing the door gently and carefully behind him. She shuddered at this evidence of his carefully banked anger.

Oh, no, he meant to speak to the landlord!

Unhelpfully, at that precise moment her mind decided to entertain her with the memory of a previous occasion on which she had caused trouble for those around her. It had been four years ago, when Lady Kingswood—then living under a false name—had been working as governess to Lady Cecily, Lord Kingswood’s ward. Jane had inadvertently revealed that the governess was not, as His Lordship had believed, Anne Bolton, but Miss Marianne. This had led to Miss Marianne leaving in great distress and no one seeing her for weeks afterwards.

Overcome by shame, Jane held her head in her hands. From what she knew of Mr Kendal he seemed generally mild-mannered and calm. Her instinct told her he was not the type of gentleman who customarily challenged innkeepers or expressed displeasure with their services. Yet, because of her, he was forced to leave his warm parlour to take issue with his host. She felt terrible to have caused this much inconvenience.

The door opened, admitting a different serving maid. ‘Good evening, miss. Dinner is almost ready, so I am here to prepare the table, if you will permit?’

‘Of course! Mr Kendal has asked me to dine with him. I am honoured, but I am used to dining with the other servants.’

‘Ah! So you are the maid who will sleep in our attic tonight?’ The maid began setting out crockery, cutlery and carving knives on the clean table cloth.

‘I am.’ Jane paused. ‘I was upstairs earlier. It was very cold.’

‘That’ll be the gap in the eaves. When the stuffing falls out it gets powerful cold up there.’

‘The stuffing?’

‘Aye, me and the other girls have stuffed an old mattress into the hole. It works a treat, but now and again it falls out, and the wind whistles through like the very devil!’

‘That explains it! I did wonder how you managed to survive, sleeping in such a cold room.’

The maid laughed. ‘It’s not perfect, but we are glad to have a roof over our heads and an honest day’s work. Though I shan’t get the chance to nip upstairs and stuff the mattress back in place until after dinner, and even then we might be busy in the taproom.’

She moved around the table competently, arranging everything in neat formation. Watching her, Jane was struck by the similarities in their station—and the differences. They were both servants, but Jane was used to rather more luxury than a cold attic bedroom with holes in its walls.

‘Is that your master in the taproom?’

Jane raised an eyebrow at the maid’s question.

‘The good-looking gentleman as is giving my uncle an earful about something?’

Jane closed her eyes briefly. ‘Er...yes.’

The maid departed, satisfied with her work, giving way to Mr Kendal in the doorway. ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Not at all.’

He is considerate towards servants, Jane noted.

He moved towards her and she searched his face for hints as to his mood. The earlier irritation had gone. What she saw now was—Was that an air of satisfaction?

‘How do you now, Miss Bailey?’

‘I am perfectly well, thank you, sir.’

He threw her a sceptical look. ‘You are still shivering. And yet—’ he leaned forward to inspect her more closely ‘—your lips are returning to their normal rosy hue.’

He paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on her mouth, then he seemed to shake himself out of it.

He took a step back, stating in quite a different tone, ‘I wonder what delights our landlord will offer us for dinner?’

Food was not uppermost in Jane’s thoughts. She was freezing, exhausted, and still stiff from a full day stuck in the carriage. Yet, strangely, her heart was fluttering foolishly and her insides were melting with a curious warmth. It was, she recognised, to do with Mr Kendal’s proximity and the way he had looked at her mouth just now.

What is happening to me?

Since Henry Grant’s assault upon her person she had never felt this way. Of course she had encountered attractive men on occasion, but her appreciation of them had been impersonal, almost scholarly. Never visceral.

Never like this.

Before she could gather her thoughts the innkeeper appeared in the doorway, leading a procession of three maids and a manservant, all bearing dishes.

In the ensuing fuss, she found her equilibrium again, and not long afterwards her appetite.

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