Hugh turned a corner. There was the entrance to the kitchen. He slipped quietly up to the door and stopped to listen. Nothing. He tried the door. It would not move. He shook it, but the lock held. He walked on. There must be another way in.

Sure enough, a small door led to the scullery. Hugh rattled it. It was locked, but flimsy. It gave a little to his touch. Hugh gathered his strength, put a heel against the lock, and kicked forward with all his force. A crack rent the quiet, the lock splintered and the door swung open.

Hugh stepped inside, tense, ready to defend himself, but all was quiet. He slipped out of the scullery, through the kitchen and up the back stairs. Still, he met no one. At last, he burst through the servants’ door into the house itself.

Muldrow stood in the hall, a lantern in one hand, a hessian-shod foot on the bottom stair. His accomplice was close behind. Muldrow’s head jerked round. “You!” The scoundrel grasped the banister, poised in mid-step. Cold green eyes flashed, angry, but he spoke smoothly. “How very unexpected. Perhaps you have come to rescue the young lady. If so, I am afraid you have sadly miscalculated.”

Hugh ran at Muldrow as Joseph made himself scarce through the front door, but Muldrow’s next words stopped Hugh in his tracks. “She is my wife, you know.” Hugh froze in shock. “I will thank you to be off.” Muldrow smiled at Hugh. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to use the front door?” He sneered. “Or, perhaps I should keep you here, for I believe the esteemed local constable is looking for you.”

“Philomena is not your wife! She will never be so, by God, if I can prevent it, no matter what you have done.” This time, Hugh did not wait for an answer, but landed his right fist squarely on Muldrow’s jaw. Muldrow swung round under the force of the blow, tripped over the bottom stair, and fell heavily to the ground.

Hugh pushed past, taking the stairs two at a time. Muldrow thrust out a foot, and Hugh fell. In an instant, Muldrow snatched a knife from his sleeve and slashed it forward, aiming at Hugh’s face, missing by a fraction of an inch. Hugh cursed himself for arriving unarmed.

He dodged back, then sideways. The blade slashed and glinted, inches from his face. Muldrow swished the knife, unskilled but vicious. Hugh ducked and swerved but his foot slipped on a rug and he fell, grasping blindly at the banisters. Muldrow slashed again. The blade whistled through the air and tore into Hugh’s arm. Hot pain seared through him. Desperate, with a mighty effort he stood, gathered his strength and dived at Muldrow.