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“Lady Bradshaw,” she said softly, trying her best not to frighten the woman.

Lady Bradshaw lowered the cloth from her face, revealing a dark, ugly bruise blooming across her right cheekbone, spreading toward her eye, which was swollen nearly shut.

Honoria flinched.

“What are you doing here?” Lady Bradshaw asked, confusion giving way to alarm, until tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. “How dare you come into my room and act this brazen! Are you looking for Bradshaw in my room now? Is that a new torture he’s concocted—bringing his mistresses to my room?”

Honoria reared back in shock, her carefully prepared words evaporating. He truly had not changed at all, had he?

“No, that’s not it.” Honoria stood rooted in place, her eyes sweeping over the bruise on her face. “He did this to you, didn’t he?”

Lady Bradshaw’s hand instinctively rose to cover the evidence of her husband’s cruelty. Her voice was brittle when she spoke again. “If you are not his mistress, then who are you?”

Honoria swallowed. “I was you six years ago.”

“What are you talking about?” Lady Bradshaw shifted in bed, the silk coverlet rustling beneath her trembling hands as she clutched it closer, as if it might shield her from Honoria’s intrusion.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, and for the way I entered your home—but I’m here to help you. I promise.”

“Help me? Do I even know you?”

“No. But I used to be you,” Honoria repeated. “Six years ago. I had a cruel husband who mistreated me badly. Just like yours is mistreating you.” She paused, weighing her words carefully. She didn’t want to overwhelm the woman with too many details, with the complete, unvarnished truth. And despite the pity that constricted her heart, she could not trust Lady Bradshaw not to report to her husband about this interaction.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you get into my house?” Lady Bradshaw’s voice rose slightly with each question. Her eyes darted toward the bell pull, though she made no move to reach for it.

“It’s not important. I’m sorry, it’s not. I don’t have a lot of time.” Honoria glanced nervously toward the door, then looked around the room and found a piece of paper and a pencil on the desk by the window. She rushed toward the desk and, with hurried strokes, wrote down an address on it.

“Here’s what’s important,” she continued, approaching the bedside. “My husband nearly killed me six years ago. But I escaped.” She paused to let the other woman process the information. “And I want you to know that there is an escape for you, too. But it’s up to you.”

She handed the piece of paper to the woman lying in bed. Lady Bradshaw reached out her hand, and there were bruises there too, on her wrist—dark, purplish finger marks.

“What kind of escape?” the woman asked, her voice small.

“Not an easy one,” Honoria said truthfully. “One that would ruin you in society’s eyes. But it won’t kill you. He might.” She punctuated her words with a direct stare at the bruise marring Lady Bradshaw’s delicate features, and the woman ducked her head.

“If you decide to escape, send a note to this address by post boy. No need to sign your name—just write one word: Help. Then wait for me to contact you. And whatever you do, don’t tell your husband I was here. He might punish you for that, too.”

The door opened, and the maid walked in, carrying a silver tray with a steaming pot of tea. She froze mid-step, seeing an intruder in her mistress’s room, her eyes widening in shock. “Pardon me, I didn’t know—” she stammered, nearly upsetting the tray in her surprise.

Honoria turned and glanced at the familiar face. She’d worked for Bradshaw before, too—but she used to be a scullery maid, if Honoria wasn’t mistaken. Martha had been young then, barely more than a girl.

Did she recognize her? After all these years?

Honoria hoped she didn’t.

She threw one last meaningful glance at Lady Bradshaw, a silent communication passing between them.

Without another word, Honoria gathered her skirts and hurried away.

Chapter 24

The following night, Honoria sat in her old, narrow room, having escaped the warm bed where Jacob slept peacefully, unaware of her absence.

She didn’t want to disturb him, so she restlessly haunted the corridors, somehow ending up back in her former room, finding comfort in its familiarity.

She couldn’t sleep again. It seemed to be her constant state these days. Her mind was racing, a plethora of conflicting thoughts warring with one another, each demanding her attention.

She tried to reconcile everything that had happened over the past few weeks—her affair with Jacob, her shift in the household from housekeeper to the earl’s mistress.