She blushed. “No, my lord, I am no scholar. I do not remember when I first learned to read. Samuel, my guardian, was a tailor. Sometimes, his patrons gave me their old books to read. I believe, my lord, they found my interest in reading something of a joke.”

“Amusing, no doubt,” said Lord Thatcham. He smiled, and the years fell from his face. A thrill chased down Philomena’s back.

“But enough talk for now.” He spoke abruptly. “Return to the kitchens and change your clothes. Remember to ask Mrs. Bramble for a new set.” He paused, looking her up and down once more. This time, though, real humour lit his face. “Tell her to choose the breeches with care.”

He nodded, swung himself effortlessly into the saddle, gave the horse its head, and disappeared in a crunch of hooves on gravel.

Philomena flipped her purse from hand to hand, waiting for her rapid heartbeat to slow. The shiver that ran through her body had little to do with the cold and damp of this December morning and everything to do with Lord Thatcham’s sudden smile. Had he noticed her reactions? What did he think of her? He was a strange man.

At least she had maintained the disguise. The thought gave her little pleasure. She spun on her heel and hurried back to the kitchen.

The servants of the Hall soon found better things to do than worry about an unknown young man when there was work awaiting their attention. Had they been the only people in the kitchen, she would have slipped away to enjoy a bath. All would have been well.

However, Lord Thatcham’s young son, last seen in nightclothes, now sat in the comfort of the kitchen. He must be a favourite of the cook. He looked older, now, in a velvet jacket with breeches and a cravat. He sat at ease, rosy cheeked, on a stool at the far end of the table, one hand in an earthenware jar, the other clutching a fistful of raisins. He beamed. “Why are you dressed like a boy?”

Chapter Five

Hugh strode through the passageway to the kitchen. His boots clanged on the flagstones, the sound echoing through the hall. The youth from the train left him at a loss. Perhaps his unease stemmed from guilt at the postponement of parental duty. He should have punished John for misbehaviour yesterday but had deferred the unpleasant interview.

His own father would never have allowed such a duty to remain incomplete. “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” he liked to say.

Hugh recalled this morning’s resolution to put responsibilities before pleasure and straightened his shoulders. “John, where are you hiding, you young scoundrel?” he bellowed. “I wish to have a serious conversation with you. Be sure you will not escape by hiding in the kitchen.”

He flung the door wide and noted, satisfied, the loud thud it made as it crashed against the wall. He leaned his shoulder on the doorpost, flicking a riding whip against the tall hat he cradled. “You are already in enough trouble…”