The kitchen throbbed with activity. Philomena felt distant, as though she watched from outside a pane of glass. The cook clattered spoons in a bowl, cracked eggs, and weighed out flour, engrossed in preparations for the next meal. A parlour maid trotted past the doorway to the stairs and peered over an armful of bed linen and tablecloths, blushing and giggling at a footman. The footman, tall and dark, a boot in one hand, a brush in the other and his mouth a little open, watched the maid wiggle up the stairs.

Philomena’s head spun with the change that just twenty-four hours had brought. Yesterday, at home in London, she had fought off Joseph’s unwelcome advances. The triumph seemed a distant memory now. She’d already be in Bristol had fortune not taken a hand. Fate, it seemed, had other plans for her that depended upon tossing her, cold, wet and terrified, into the mud of the railway cutting.

She let her eyes close but did not sleep. Her thoughts whirled back to the cutting. Noise and chaos rang again in her ears and for a second, fear returned, sharp in her stomach. She covered her ears, trying in vain to shut out the cries of the injured.

Worst of all had been the dreadful silence of the dead. She would never forget the sight of bodies in the mud. She shuddered and took a deep, shaky breath. You’re safe, here. Her fear drained away in the warmth of the kitchen. You’re not dead.

One other memory returned to Philomena. Disoriented by her fall, she’d opened her eyes to see the face of a stranger. There was harshness in the lines around the man’s mouth and eyes, and a fierce frown had etched itself into her memory. Lord Thatcham, the stranger, had been calm, as though he considered it no out of the way occurrence to hurtle to the ground from a speeding train. In the turmoil and disaster of the night, as he took control of the chaos, the steady gaze of his grey eyes had calmed Philomena.

She shook her head, trying to clear it, but the impression of his face remained, obstinately bright. Lord Thatcham was rich. His Hall was grand. He was aristocratic. Why, most likely, he even had a seat in the House of Lords, where he helped shape the law and influenced matters of importance to the whole nation. No wonder every gesture he made spoke of confidence, and his voice resonated with infuriating tones of authority.

Philomena sat straighter. Here was yet another aggravating man, enjoying easy power. Why did all men think themselves superior? She wished to have nothing to do with them. She tried to dispel Lord Thatcham’s image and focus instead on her plan. Neither the luxurious comfort of the Hall, nor its intriguing, arrogant owner, would distract her from her purpose. This was her adventure. She had defeated Joseph. She could find her own way in the world. A pair of grey eyes and a severe face would not deflect her from her purpose, no matter how fascinating.