She tucked wilful black curls into her cap, tugging them ruthlessly until her scalp ached. She smoothed down the starched apron. She refused to glance in the mirror. She would not look at the glow that spread over her cheeks whenever she chanced to remember yesterday’s scene in the woods. It was anger alone that caused her heart to thunder so, pumping blood through every vein until each fingertip tingled. She would acknowledge no other feeling. It was simple anger she felt as her thoughts returned, despite her best efforts, to those moments in the woods. Lord Thatcham’s arms around her had sent that unfamiliar rush of need through an untested body. That had led to a foolish but almost overwhelming yearning to caress the master’s face.

Philomena kept her eyes firmly turned away from the scene through the nursery windows, for fear they should betray her by gazing out towards the trees. She did not want to remember. She would certainly not succumb to the kind of foolish weeping that overcame her yesterday. How foolish to cry such bitter tears simply because the rich, spoilt owner of Thatcham Hall had tried to dally with her. No doubt, he behaved so with any servant who took his fancy. Perhaps most would not dare to refuse the advances of such a powerful man.

“Very well, then,” Philomena said.

She would forget all about Lord Thatcham. Today was Boxing Day, so both Lord Thatcham and Selena would be absent. They planned to ride out with the Hunt. The Dowager had expressed the intention of visiting neighbours, so would also be away for most of the day. Philomena and John would have no one but the servants for company. She was safe from any encounter with Lord Thatcham.

A new plan insinuated itself into Philomena’s thoughts. Lord Thatcham had warned her to keep away from the East Wing. The warning had piqued her interest. What did the man have to hide? His presence was unsettling, even when she could not feel his breath on her face or the beat of his heart. It would be entertaining to find out more about Lord Thatcham.

Philomena shook her head. She must not allow herself to dwell on thoughts of the master. She forced herself, instead, to wonder about his wife. Lord Thatcham grew at times so angry that he might be capable of any wickedness. How mysterious Lady Thatcham’s death was. No one would speak about it, even Mrs. Rivers who, no doubt regretting yesterday’s loose tongue, had allowed no further gossip to pass her lips.

What if…

Philomena hardly dared to think it, it was such a dreadful notion, but she could not rid her mind of the idea. Could Lord Thatcham have done away with Lady Beatrice? Or, worse still, what if Lady Thatcham was still alive, shut away in a part of the Hall that her cruel husband forbade anyone to enter?