Chapter One

      Cambridgeshire, England, January 1810

      Marianne tiptoed along the landing towards the servants’ staircase as quietly as she could manage. How different everything looked at night! A sliver of silver moonlight from the only window pierced the curtains, pointing at her. Look! it seemed to say. She is trying to escape!

      Her skirts whispered as she moved through the darkness and her cloak billowed behind her like a black cloud. The creak of a floorboard under her feet sounded unnaturally loud, and she had to be careful not to allow her bandboxes to crash against the walls or the furniture. Shadows, unfamiliar and darkly threatening, loomed all around her, growing and shrinking ominously as she passed, her small candle gripped tightly in her right hand.

      Downstairs a window rattled in a sudden gust of wind, and in the distance a vixen called mournfully. The candle flickered briefly as she reached the end of the landing, sending shadows scuttling and then reforming all around her.

      She paused, listening for any sound, any indication that someone might have heard her.

      Nothing.

      Her heart was pounding—so much so that it was hard to hear anything above the din of her own blood rushing rhythmically through her body. Her mouth was dry and her palms sticky with fear. But she must not tarry! The longer she delayed, the greater the chance of being discovered.

      Raising her candle, she carefully lifted the latch on the door to the back staircase. It gave way with a complaining click and Marianne bit her lip. She moved inside in a swish of silk and closed the door behind her.

      She released her breath. Her first task was accomplished safely. Now for the next part.

      She stepped down the stone stairs, her stout walking boots making a clatter that sounded thunderous to her ears. But with a closed door behind her hopefully it would not be loud enough to awaken anyone.

      Reaching the bottom, she scuttled along the narrow passageway until she reached the chamber that the housekeeper shared with her daughter. The door was ajar, as arranged, and as she reached it Mrs Bailey opened it wide and bustled her inside, closing it securely behind her.

      ‘Oh, Miss Marianne! I never thought to see this day!’ Jane, the housekeeper’s daughter—Marianne’s personal maid—was sniffling into a handkerchief.

      ‘Hush now, Jane!’ Mrs Bailey admonished her daughter, though she herself also looked distressed.

      Marianne set the candle down and touched the girl’s hand to soften her mother’s words. ‘We talked about this. You know it is for the best, Jane.’

      They spoke in whispers, conscious that the housemaids were asleep in the chambers on either side. ‘But surely I should at least come with you?’ Jane protested.

      Moved, Marianne enveloped her in a brief hug. ‘I love it that you would be willing to do so, but we all know there is no sense in it. Your place is here with your mother.’

      Mrs Bailey, despite her stoicism, wiped away a tear. ‘Your own poor mother would break her heart if she knew you were running away from home, miss!’

      Marianne felt the familiar pain stab through her. Mama and Papa had died over six months ago, yet she felt their absence still. Every waking moment.

      ‘Mama would want me to be safe, and I am no longer safe here.’ Even talking about it caused a wave of fear to flood through her.

      ‘I know, Miss Grant. It is best that you go.’ Mrs Bailey shook her head grimly. ‘Now, what have you packed?’

      Marianne indicated the bandboxes in her left hand. ‘I fitted in as much as I could. My other black dress, two clean shifts, slippers, my reticule and my jean boots. A book. And Mama’s jewels.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I refuse to leave them here for him!’

      ‘They belong to you, miss. That was clear from the will, so they say. And when your parents made Master Henry your guardian they believed it was for the best.’

      ‘I know.’

      Mama and Papa had refused to accept the truth—that Henry had no kindness in him, no sense of right and wrong. They would never knowingly have placed her in danger.

      ‘He is your brother, after all.’

      ‘My stepbrother.’ That had never seemed so important. ‘You know my real father died when I was a baby.’

      Mrs Bailey acknowledged this with a nod. ‘The master and mistress were good for each other. Both widowed, both with a child to rear. It seemed a good marriage.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘I have often wondered,’ she confessed, ‘if losing his own mother so young changed Master Henry.’

      Marianne had no time to consider this. ‘He is who he is. I only know that I must escape before he...harms me.’

      ‘Of course you must.’

      Unspoken between them was the fact that Mrs Bailey had rescued Marianne when Henry had cornered her a few hours earlier, in her chamber. He had been drunk, of course, but his unnatural interest in his stepsister was of long standing.

      Marianne had been keenly aware of how the servants had kept her safe these past months, ensuring that Henry had no opportunity to be alone with her. Until today nothing had ever been said, but the butler had instructed the second footman to fit a new lock to Marianne’s chamber door just last week. Behind the locked door she had been able to relax a little.

      Until tonight, when he had lain in wait for her within her own chamber.

      Believing Henry to be still drinking with his raucous friends, in what had been her mother’s favourite drawing room, Marianne had hurried