Chapter One

September 1818

A loud cry pierced the cool, still air of the early autumn evening, causing Samuel to startle. He had been enjoying his usual slow promenade around Hayton Hall's fine gardens, appreciating the quiet calm, observing the changing light and admiring the late blooming plants as one season ebbed into the next. Or at least, so he told himself. He found that he told stories to himself frequently these days, as though such works of fiction, if repeated often enough, could eventually embody the truth. He'd tell himself that he was simply a country gentleman, relishing some moments of peaceful solitude before retiring for the night. That he took just as much pleasure in doing his duty as he always had. That he was his own man, in charge of his own destiny. That he did not mind being alone. That he did not spend most evenings walking in that garden, listening to his doubts as they whispered to him, about just how bleak his prospects now seemed.

Samuel looked around him, shaking his head at himself in an uncomfortable acknowledgement of the darker turn his thoughts had taken before that brief, shrill noise had intruded. The gardens of Hayton Hall fell back into silence once more, readying themselves for the impending dark as, above them, the sky's pink hues deepened. His gaze shifted towards the wood beyond, its trees still thick with summer's lush green foliage, the leaves only now hinting at beginning to turn. He stood still for several moments, listening for anything which might betray the origin of such a sound. All he could detect, however, were the occasional caws of the crows as they came home to roost for the night.

‘You see, Samuel,' he muttered to himself, ‘you've naught but the birds for company.'

Naught but birds, and his servants, of course. Or, rather, his older brother's servants, since it was Sir Isaac Liddell who was the master here. Samuel was merely the caretaker, appointed to look after the family estate while his brother travelled with his new bride.

As Samuel turned his back to the woods and continued his gentle promenade, he found himself counting the weeks since Isaac and Louisa's departure, and considering how much, and how little, had changed since. At first, he'd embraced the responsibility his brother had bestowed on him with his usual cheerful enthusiasm, but although he believed he'd discharged his duties competently, he'd quickly wearied of just how solitary and tedious running a country estate could be. It pained him to admit it, but he resented how it tied him, quite literally, to its acres. He'd never have thought it possible, but he was tired of the sight of his ancestral home. Tired, too, of his own company.

Yet solitude, he'd discovered, was infinitely preferable to being the subject of ceaseless gossip. As happy as he was for his older brother, he could not fail to acknowledge that Isaac had left quite a scandal in his wake, and the news of his elopement with a woman who'd borne a naval captain's child out of wedlock had quickly spread. For the first time in his life, Samuel had become disenchanted with Cumberland society, as he found himself either invited to dinner parties to answer questions about the scandal, or not invited at all. In the end, declining such invitations had been a blessed relief, but it had made his world grow smaller still. It was hard to believe that last year he'd been on the Continent, enjoying picnics on the shores of the Swiss lakes and attending lavish dinner parties in cities like Geneva, Milan and Venice. It was hard to believe that he'd been surrounded by so much culture and good company, and yet now...

A crow cawed again, taunting him.

Resigned to his lonely routine, he sauntered back towards Hayton Hall, to the servants waiting to greet him, to offer their deferential smiles whilst always keeping their distance. They played their roles as well as he knew he had to play his. He'd seen that clearly, the first and only time he'd ventured to suggest that Smithson, his brother's butler, join him for an evening brandy. The ageing man's jaw had just about hit the floor, and Samuel had reddened at his transgression, unable to decide what was worse—the awkward excuses the butler offered as a refusal or the look of pity in his eyes.

Since then, he'd not strayed from his side of the line which divided servants and masters, even though he was not master of anyone—not truly. It was just a part he had to play for a little while longer, until the real master of Hayton Hall returned. Then he would revert to his real role, that of the younger brother, free to do as he pleased, to spend his time and inheritance as he wished. Of the unattached gentleman, untroubled by land or titles.

Or, more realistically, of being the less attractive prospect, the wrong brother. Or at least that was what his rejection by a certain young lady that summer had taught him. As he drew nearer to Hayton Hall he shuddered—at the cooling air, perhaps, or at the memory of her bright red hair, the smattering of freckles across her nose, her broad smile. Remembering her biting words to him that afternoon as they'd walked together and he'd dared to suggest he was fond of her, that he would like, with her father's permission, to begin a courtship.

‘Why would you think to even ask such a thing? When I am my father's only daughter, and you are a younger son. When you have no property, no title...'

Samuel grimaced, his mind suddenly filled with the images of her usually pretty face contorted into a look which was part-offence and part-mockery as she quashed his hopes and stamped upon his heart. He held no affection for her now; he'd seen her true fickle nature too clearly for that. But her rejection of him had been thoroughly humiliating and whilst the hurt he'd felt no longer burned his insides, it still stubbornly smouldered somewhere within him, its embers always ready to be rekindled in his quiet, contemplative moments. And, as God only knew, he'd had too many of those during the preceding weeks.

‘Pull yourself together, man,' he muttered under his breath, reminding himself that in the coming days his solitude would be over. His friend Charles Gordon had mercifully responded to Samuel's plea that he should visit, gladly accepting and venturing to suggest that he bring his sister with him too. He had much to look forward to, Samuel reminded himself. He'd met Charles during his Continental travels, taking an instant liking to the man's convivial demeanour and outrageous sense of fun. Seeing his friend again would lift his spirits, and he was intrigued about making the acquaintance of Henrietta Gordon, especially since, until Charles had mentioned her in his letter, Samuel had not known about the existence of a sister at all.

Another loud yell breached the silence. It was deeper this time, longer and angrier, almost a roar. Samuel spun around, his eyes darting warily back towards the wood. Up in the trees the crows began to squawk frantically, and it occurred to him then that it could be a fox. He decided he would mention the noise to his brother's steward; the estate's tenants would need to be put on their guard, especially those who raised sheep.

Then, before he could think any more about it, a final cry rang out. This one, however, put paid to any theories he'd entertained about foxes, instead betraying its origins as being unmistakably human. This one, he realised as he ran instinctively towards the trees, was not a scream or a roar, but a plea.

‘Help!'

As she lay on the ground, pain pulsing through her as she watched a murder of crows circling overhead, all Hope Sloane could think was how much easier her bid to escape would have been if only she'd had a breeches role. Men's clothing was without doubt far more suitable attire for dashing across the countryside than a flimsy gown of muslin and lace. However, if there was one thing that life had taught Hope, it was that you played the hand you were dealt, and you seized your opportunities when they came. And so she had, running for her life across fields and through woodland, hoping she could get far enough away before falling under the cloak of inevitable darkness.

Unfortunately, the only thing she'd fallen upon was the uneven, branch-strewn ground. She hadn't gone down quietly either, letting out an almighty scream at the pain as it seared through her. Truly, she could not have announced her whereabouts more clearly if she'd tried. She could only hope that her disappearance had not yet been discovered, that there might still be sufficient distance between herself and those who sought to capture her.

Namely her father and the man to whom she'd been promised as though she was nothing more than contraband to be smuggled and traded.

Hope shivered, the short sleeves and thin fabric of her gown doing nothing to ward off the early autumn chill. They'd made her put on this gown, her father and the man. They'd insisted that she should look nice and tidy her hair and make an effort. She was going to celebrate with them, they'd told her, for in a matter of days she would be wed. The following day she would depart for Scotland, where she would smile and make her vows before God, or risk her father's wrath. Then she would go to live with this man, the one her father called George, although she had not cared to even know his name. She would spend the rest of her days on his farm near the Solway Firth, only leaving the place to run whisky over the border and into England by wearing a belly canteen which made her look as though she was heavy with child.

‘Except when you're actually having a bairn, of course,' the brute George had said as he leered at her, placing an unwelcome arm around her waist and pulling her roughly towards him.

Both men had laughed and raised their mugs in a toast while Hope had bitten her tongue, resolving to say nothing and to bide her time. Foolishly, after making her change her clothes, they'd left her unbound, instead ordering her to wait on them hand and foot. Recognising the opportunity for what it was, Hope had turned on the charm, forcing a smile on to her face for George's benefit while she'd plied both men with more and more drink. There was no stronger liquor in Cumberland than that which came from her father's stills. All she'd had to do was wait until they passed from stupor into slumber. The moment they did, she'd hurried to escape.

Hope shivered again, wincing as she pulled futilely at the muslin sleeves as though they could somehow be stretched to cover her bare arms. Forcing her to wear that gown had been a form of mockery, she knew that. It was the gown she'd been wearing when they'd grabbed her that night at the theatre, not long after the play was over. It was her Lady Teazle gown, a beautifully embellished but ultimately thin piece of frippery befitting the flirtatious and spendthrift gentleman's wife she'd played in Sheridan's The School for Scandal . It was a relic from a life she might never know again, thanks to her own na?ve foolishness.

Why had she not tried to excuse herself, when she learned her theatre company were to tour in Cumberland in addition to their usual destinations in Westmorland? Why had she not feigned illness, or injury? She was an actress, after all.

Why had she ever thought that several years of absence and a stage name would be enough to protect her from recognition? Why had she fooled herself into thinking she could slip in and out of Lowhaven, undetected by her father's many spies? Why, on that day five years ago when she'd crept out of her family's damp cottage for the final time, had she believed that running away to Yorkshire would ever be far enough?

Hope's teeth began to chatter. And why, she asked herself for the umpteenth time, had she not taken a breeches role? She was going to freeze to death in that ridiculous gown! A potent mix of anger and anxiety coursed through her veins as she forced herself to sit, desperation and determination gripping her as she realised she must drag herself, somehow, towards shelter.

Using all the strength she could muster, she tried to pull herself to her feet, only to fall down once more as a dizzying pain in her head overwhelmed her, and her right leg refused to bear her weight. Furious now, she pounded her fists into the ground, letting out a loud, guttural cry—at the pain, made worse by the sudden movement, and at her predicament. At the unfairness of it all.

She'd run away once before; back then, she'd had more time to think and to plan, to pack clothing and gather coins to aid her escape. She'd got on one coach, then another; she'd put many miles between herself and Cumberland and carved out a life she could call her own. A life which was not beholden to the whims of cruel men, or to the tides of fortune which dictated whether she escaped the grasp of constables and excisemen, or found herself in gaol, facing the noose. A life in which she'd played many different parts, and lived many colourful lives. A life she could enjoy once again, if only she could get herself out of this terrible mess.

Above her the crows still circled, their squalls growing louder and more urgent as though they too understood the severity of her situation. Hope cast her eyes around, trying to get some sense of where she was. Trying to ignore the way pain spread from her head to her neck as well as searing up her leg. Through the trees, she caught glimpses of stonework in the near distance, and her heart began to race at the prospect of having stumbled upon a house, upon the possibility of rescue and shelter.

Play the hand you've been dealt, Hope, she thought to herself as a fresh wave of dizziness threatened to consume her. Play the hand, even if it means placing yourself at the mercy of fortune's tides once more.

At the top of her lungs and with the last vestiges of her strength, Hope mustered one final cry.

‘Help!'

By the time Samuel found her, the crows had fallen silent, and so had she. Above him, the sky was ink-blue and the sun was long gone, leaving the woodland to languish in the gloomy shadows of its many trees. He bent down at her side, his instincts racing ahead of his thoughts as he tried to assess the situation. The woman before him lay very still, her eyes shut, her arms perishingly cold to the touch. Little wonder really, he thought, since the evening gown she wore was completely unsuitable attire for wandering about the countryside at dusk. She needed warmth, and the attention of a physician. Whoever she was, and whatever had happened to her, it was clear that something was gravely wrong.

Carefully, he lifted her off the ground, simultaneously concerned and reassured by the brief groan which escaped her lips in response to the movement. At least she still lived, although how badly injured she was, he could not tell. Holding her in his arms, he walked back towards Hayton Hall, calling out for his servants once he reached the formal gardens he'd been sauntering around just a little while ago. The noise he made seemed to rouse her slightly, and she began to murmur again—pained moans littered with sobs, and in amongst all that, a few words. Words which seemed to distress her greatly.

‘No...not going with him...' she whimpered.

‘Hush,' he replied softly, anxious to reassure her. ‘You're safe now.'

The woman's eyes rolled and closed once more and, to his horror, he sensed her grow limp in his arms. With increasing urgency, Samuel hurried towards the door of Hayton Hall, from which several servants were rushing towards him, their brows furrowed as they responded to his calls.

‘Prepare a bedchamber!' Samuel barked his orders, playing their master once more. ‘Fetch some water and light a fire! This lady needs our help.'