Hugh turned back to the window. “In the meantime.” He gazed unseeing into the darkness, where the wind whined through the trees. “While you remain at the Hall, I expect you to obey the rules of the house.”

“Of course,” she whispered.

He tapped the whip on the glass of the windowpane, but spoke softly. “I am sure you will want to explore the Hall.” He turned. “Resist the temptation. The house is old. It is undergoing restoration, but the work takes time. Some parts are dangerous. Keep well away from the East Wing.”

He pointed towards the gothic tower that loomed darkly through the trees. “Make sure John does not go there. You must keep a close eye on him.” She said nothing. “Do you understand?” The woman nodded.

“Then, I will leave you.” Tiredness hit Hugh with a sudden, overwhelming desire to sleep. “Please make yourself as comfortable as possible here during your short stay.” Without another word, he stalked from the room.

His head whirled. He could not tell whether the woman told the truth or not. Why had fate brought her here to disturb the peace of the Hall? Hugh wanted no more complications. He desired her, but he would not let such feelings corrupt him.

He would let no one, not even such a pretty young woman as this, distract him from his duty to the Hall and to John. There would be no repetition of the foolish marriage to Beatrice. Lured into a web of beauty and charm, he had believed every lie. No woman would make such a fool of him again. He was no longer a callow youth, to be bowled over by bright eyes and dimples.

He yawned. He needed sleep. By morning, he would not give a fig for the woman.

Chapter Nine

Philomena sat upright on a chair, her mind in turmoil. She had slept through much of the previous afternoon. She hardly needed more slumber. The room was dark. By degrees, the wind died until silence lay all around the Hall, except for an occasional creaking branch and, once, a sudden terrifying shriek that brought Philomena scrambling to the window. She peered fearfully out into the dark. Used to the relentless bustle and noise of London, the quiet unnerved her.

What could have shrieked like that? A rabbit perhaps, caught by a weasel. Or, could it be an owl, speeding on silent wings to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse? She shivered. Was she the mouse and Lord Thatcham the owl? Had he believed her? She had tried so hard to convince him, but that grim expression spoke of doubt and disbelief. If only she could tell the truth.

Yet, how could anyone believe her story? Only Philomena knew the depths of Joseph’s depravity, the horror of his touch and her fear of the future. She alone knew of the man with cold green eyes. Lord Thatcham, surrounded by luxury, could never understand the ways of the poor in London. The Hall was a world away. She squirmed, remembering the look on Lord Thatcham’s face as he listened to the false story.