Philomena shook her head. At least she was not on the run from the law or from creditors. “I’ve committed no crime, and I owe no one a single penny.”

“Hmm.” He looked into her face for a long moment, as though debating inwardly whether to believe her. “Very well,” he said at last. Ice glimmered in his grey eyes. “If you say so.” He brushed mud from his coat.

Philomena’s stomach lurched. How could she make him trust her, while in disguise?

“I really think I ought to know your name, before we proceed, don’t you?” Lord Thatcham continued. His voice was lazy, now. “Are you not running away from the peelers in London?” His eyes searched her face.

“I can assure you I’m not in the least trouble with the law. My name’s Phil—” Her hand flew to her lips. How nearly she’d given it all away. No female of virtue would take the train unescorted. She would not confirm this arrogant man’s low opinion of her. She had some pride. He must not think her someone’s light o’ love. It would be easy to believe that, or worse, of a lone female.

She tried again. “I’m Philip.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, er—Philip.” His eyes narrowed. “As you will have doubtless been informed already, I’m Hugh Dainty. Lord Thatcham.” He nodded once. “Hmm. Philip, now. That must be Greek. Would that not be so? It means something about horses, if my time at Oxford serves correctly. Your father must be a scholar.” Was he sneering? His eyes glittered.

“My father is dead, my lord.” Philomena felt herself blushing again. In truth, she had no idea whether her real father was alive or dead. Samuel was her guardian, no more. Her own parents were lost.

All she had of her mother was a likeness on a brooch that Samuel had given her. Was it even her mother? The woman in the portrait was beautiful, with long, blonde hair teased into elaborate ringlets. She wore a blue gown and jewels glinted around a long neck. A diamond sparkled on one finger. She was wealthy. She was hardly likely to be related to Philomena, whose own hair was black, curly, and wayward and who owned nothing but the clothes she stood up in. Even these belonged, strictly speaking, to Joseph.

Philomena had no family name. She had adopted Samuel’s surname, Tailor. She did not even know her place of birth. Lack of family set her free to build the life she chose. She smiled. She would not worry about the past. She had escaped Joseph, and that must be enough for now. So long as Lord Thatcham believed her honest, he would not care about her history. She would move on soon and he would sigh with relief.

“Well,” said Lord Thatcham. “The thought of a dead parent seems to have revived your spirits. Shall we continue our discussion? You claim to have no fear of the law. Pray explain, then, why you were rushing away from the Hall at such speed. Has someone harmed you?”