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“My shoe size,” Isla said. “I usually w-wear a six, but I might be okay in a f-five and a half.”

“How remarkable.” The lines on Lady Maidstone’s forehead weren’t completely gone, but she seemed intrigued. “My cobbler traces my foot to make a pattern when I need a new pair of shoes. I do not believe he has ever told me how my foot size compares to that of other ladies. He has certainly never given me a number.” She gestured toward the stairs. “Come this way. We shall see if my shoes are also a six.”

Isla wasn’t too excited about following Lady Maidstone to yet another unknown location, but the promise of dry clothes was too good to pass up.

“Thank you for your h-help, Lord Bancroft,” she said.

With a startled look, he inclined his head. “My pleasure, Miss Crawford.”

She managed a weak smile and then turned to follow Lady Maidstone across the hall. When they reached the bottom step, she glanced back at him. He was watching her, his expression troubled. Lady Maidstone must have noticed, too, because she paused, her hand already on the banister rail.

“Locate your manservant and trunk, Simon,” she said. “I have Miss Crawford’s situation well in hand, and you need to change your clothing almost as badly as she does. You are dripping water on my floor.” She started up the stairs. “Miss Crawford and I shall meet you and Hugh in the parlor within the half hour.”

Chapter 3

Have you ever heard the name before, Maidstone?” Simon stared out of the drawing room window in the general direction of the woodshed. The darkness and rain made it impossible to see the distant structure, but he knew where it stood.

“Miss Isla Crawford? Can’t say that I have.” Simon’s brother-in-law sat in one of the armchairs closest to the fire, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Didn’t someone in Northumberland’s family marry a Crawford?”

“If she’s from the north, it might explain her unusual speech.” He shook his head, trying to capture something that yet eluded him. “It’s not so much her cadence as her choice of words. She sounds English, and yet she does not.”

“Scottish?” Maidstone guessed. “Or it could be that she hails from some out-of-the-way place in Wales.”

“If that were the case, I don’t suppose Martha and I would have understood her at all.”

Maidstone chuckled. “I cannot argue with that.” He set the glass in his hand on the small table beside the chair and rose to his feet. “Stop worrying, old fellow. It should not be hard to discover how the young lady came to be here all alone. I daresay Martha will know her entire life story by the time they come downstairs.”

Simon appreciated Maidstone’s optimism, but the gentleman had not seen the deep-seated fear and desperation in Miss Crawford’s eyes. Such raw emotion was the product of a significant ordeal. Something far greater than being caught in the rain.

Footsteps and voices sounded in the passageway. Maidstone tossed Simon a meaningful look. “It appears you shall not have to wait much longer to have your questions answered.”

Moments later, Martha led Miss Crawford into the room. Martha acknowledged Simon with a smile before moving to stand beside her husband. “Miss Crawford,” she said, “I should like to have you meet my husband, Lord Maidstone. Hugh, this is Miss Crawford. She is most recently from London but was raised in York.”

Maidstone bowed. Miss Crawford offered a hesitant smile. Simon simply stared.

Martha had touted her lady’s maid’s skill in Simon’s presence before, but Maggie had truly outdone herself this evening. Gone was the sopping wet, disoriented stranger who had washed up on the Maidstones’ doorstep. In her place was an elegant young woman whose damp hair was pinned to her head in a flattering mass of gentle curls and whose rose-colored gown complemented her complexion perfectly. Her blue eyes—even brighter now than they’d appeared in the shadowy entrance hall—were framed with thick, dark lashes. And although she retained an air of hesitancy, the only word Simon could summon to describe her now was breathtaking.

“Welcome to Copfield Hall, Miss Crawford,” Maidstone said.

“Thank you, Lord Maidstone.” Almost as if it were an afterthought, Miss Crawford inclined her head slightly. “I’m very grateful for Lady Maidstone’s kindness.” She brushed her hand down her skirt. “It’s wonderful to be dry again.”

“Ah, yes. I heard you were caught in the storm.” Maidstone turned to Simon, drawing him into the conversation. “Were you en route from London, as Lord Bancroft here was?”

“I was in London,” she said. “Pickering Place, to be exact.” She clasped her hands, her gaze darting from Maidstone to Simon. “To be honest, I don’t know exactly how I got from there to here.”

“Miss Crawford is alone,” Martha said. They’d clearly had this conversation upstairs. “She has no escort, no carriage, no mount, and no luggage.”

Disbelief rippled through Simon, and he saw a similar emotion touch Maidstone’s eyes. Martha had obviously had more time to assimilate this rather shocking state of affairs, because she tucked her arm through her husband’s and continued calmly. “I have told her that she is welcome to stay at Copfield Hall until she has acquired a way to safely return home.”

“There is no safety to be had in returning to London at present,” Simon said.

Miss Crawford swiveled to face him. “Why? Has something happened there?”

“If you have truly just come from the city, I would have thought it impossible to be ignorant of current conditions.”

“Has there been a riot? A bombing?” Panic tinged her voice. “Please, tell me.”

“The plague,” he said. Was he truly the only one in the room who was mystified by half of what Miss Crawford said? “Surely you know that the alarming number of deaths from the disease has caused the theatres to close their doors and the king to delay the opening of Parliament.”