Page 5

Ezra grinned. Simon visited Copfield Hall often enough that this was a familiar conversation. “Yes, m’ lord.”

“Very good. I shall leave him in your capable hands.”

The pummeling of rain on tile had yet to abate. Simon gazed upward and frowned.

Ezra must have caught his look. “Would ya be wantin’ to wait out th’ storm in th’ stables, m’ lord? I can fetch ya a blanket.”

Simon had a fairly good idea of what a stable blanket would smell like, and it was quite possible his sister, Martha, would not let him set foot in the house if he added that level of malodor to his already sopping state. “It’s good of you to offer,” he said, “but I believe I shall take my chances on making a run for it.”

Ezra’s grin returned. “Best o’ luck t’ ya, m’ lord.”

“I may need it.” Simon lifted the lever on the door. Cinching the front of his cloak closed with one hand, he exited the stables and started down the gravel path at a steady jog. The light was dimming, and the cloud cover made it difficult to assess the exact time. Given that Martha was expecting him, she’d probably planned to have him join them for an evening meal. After his unpleasant ride, he’d be glad of some warm food. He only hoped he’d not kept the household waiting long.

The path took him around the large manor to the front of the house. Impeccably tended flowerbeds lined the edge of the lawn. Farther away, trees, shrubs, and narrow paths cut through the vast green expanse, showcasing a small portion of Simon’s brother-in-law’s extensive property. Normally, Simon would have paused to take in the view from this vantage point. This evening, however, he wanted nothing more than to be indoors, sitting beside a fire, wearing dry clothing.

Angling his head away from the driving rain, he took the stone stairs up to the front door two at a time, landing on the top step less than an arm’s length from someone else. The person issued a startled cry. He staggered sideways, barely catching himself on the lip of the top step. “I beg your pardon. I did not see you.”

“Oh! But you can s-see m-me?”

At the sound of a female voice, Simon’s head shot up. He’d been so consumed with escaping the rain, he’d all but barreled into a young lady. Attempting to shake off his chagrin, he focused on her rather odd question. After his uncivilized approach, she deserved a reply. “Of course, I see you now. I foolishly kept my head down because I did not expect anyone else to be here.”

“Wh-where exactly is ‘here’?”

“Why, on the doorstep.” He studied her more carefully. If her sopping silk attire and stuttering speech were any indication, she was a young lady of some means who was in extremis. He met her blue eyes. Was it fear that shone in them?

“Wh-whose doorstep?” She was shivering with cold, and there was no hiding her desperation. “Please. Can you t-tell me wh-where I am?”

“Copfield Hall,” he said. A quick glance over his shoulder assured him that he’d not missed seeing a carriage in the drive. He’d just come from the stables, and there’d been no sign of any recently arrived horses beyond his own. Had she truly arrived here on foot? And with no hat or cloak? Where were those who should have been attending her? Even if her carriage had broken down on the road, she should not be here alone.

“Wh-where exactly is C-Copfield Hall?”

“Surrey,” he said. “It is the home of Lord and Lady Maidstone.”

Her hands were clasped tightly before her, but whether that was due to anxiety or extreme cold, he could not tell.

“Are you . . . Are you Lord Maidstone?”

“I am not.” Heaven help him. Had all remnants of common courtesy been washed away by this rain? First, he’d almost leveled the young lady on Maidstone’s completely unforgiving stone stairs, and then he’d been so confounded by her unexpected appearance, he’d neglected to introduce himself. “I am Lord Bancroft. My sister is married to Lord Maidstone.”

“Oh.” Her chin trembled.

“Do you know my sister?”

She shook her head. “I d-don’t . . .” A shudder coursed through her entire body.

Simon did not wait for more. He pounded on the door. She could add “interrupting a young lady midsentence” to his list of current faux pas if she wished. As far as he was concerned, the time for conversation was past. He was cold, but with no cloak, she must be frigid.

The Maidstones’ servant had obviously been standing nearby because he opened the door straightway.

“Send for my sister, would you, Hobbes,” Simon said, thankful that he knew the man well enough to bypass pleasantries. Too late, he realized that although he’d offered the mysterious young woman on the doorstep his name, he had yet to learn hers. He reached for her elbow to guide her inside. “This young lady needs immediate assistance.”

If Hobbes was surprised by his request or by the young lady’s appearance, he was sufficiently well-trained not to show it. He bowed politely. “Yes, my lord.” And then, with barely a glance at the bedraggled stranger, he started toward the parlor.

“Come,” Simon said, guiding the young lady farther into the entrance hall. “Martha will know how to best help you.”

Isla gazed around the vast room. The wood floor was polished to a shine, as were the wood panels on the walls. Small, leaded windows allowed in the last remaining light of early evening, but most of the room’s illumination came from two large candelabras standing on tables on either side of a staircase. Three oil paintings hung on one wall depicting ships at sea. On the opposite wall, a family crest hung over the archway that led into a darkened passageway. It was the direction the man who’d played the part of a butler had gone.

Was he an actor? None of this made any sense. If she wasn’t hallucinating—and the pain she was feeling in her feet suggested she wasn’t—then she had no idea how she’d arrived at this place. Or who these people were.