She worked the worst of the knots loose with her fingers, then licking her palms, flattened the more rebellious curls and retied her plait. Once finished, with a sinking sensation she realised she had no idea what to do next. Should she wait here to be summoned, or go downstairs? In a confusion of indecision, she remained perched on the edge of the stool so that her skirts didn't dirty the satin.

Ten minutes later, came a tap on the door. Then another tap. With a start, Hope realised someone was waiting for her to respond.

"Come." She called in a shaky voice.

Ruby's head appeared around the door. "Lady Ryevale has asked if you'd join her in the morning room."

"Yes, of course." Hope rose, "only I don't know where that is."

"No worries Miss Hope, I'll show you."

Some minutes later, dazzled by an interminable maze of corridors and stairs, Hope found the doors to another grand room opening before her. Hope took a moment to get her bearings. She stared around a large room overlooking the sea; pale blue walls mirrored the sky and with a white ceiling and gilt plasterwork it was like having a sunny day brought inside. Lady Ryevale sat waiting on a chaise longue, wearing a gown of pale-pink silk, trimmed with the finest French lace. Hope's gaze fell on the lace and to her mortification, her ladyship caught her staring.

"More of your wares?" she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Hope hesitated, but Lady Ryevale smiled warmly and indicated for her to take the seat opposite. With trepidation, Hope crossed a wide expanse of carpet and sat. A thousand thoughts tumbled through her head, with the result that she was struck mute and stared at her hands.

"How do you like your room?"

"Very well." Then she remembered the costly silver brush. "Oh, but someone left a silver toilette set out, shall I give it to the maid?"

Lady Ryevale looked at her oddly. "But it's there for you to use. Don't you like it?"

Hope bit her lip. "Oh, it's beautiful...exquisite even...but I had thought....well, I a.s.sume...well. I'd rather something more ordinary. It would be expensive to replace."

Lady Ryevale frowned. "Miss Tyler, are you trying to tell me I can't trust you?"

"Oh no, I never have, nor ever will...steal...but you don't know me."

"I know that you are loyal, and brave-and deserve better than your lot."

"But to trust me with something so valuable? Not many would."

"I like to think I am a good judge of character. Are you saying I am wrong?"

"No." Hope bit her lip.

"Good. That's settled then. The brush set is yours to use for the duration of your employment. Understood?"

"Yes, Lady Ryevale."

"Excellent, so now to business. I summoned you here to outline your duties."

Hope listened.

"I will get straight to the point. I require help with the business of running the estate. Your duties will not be onerous, mainly taking notes, writing letters and the sort...."

Hope stared back blankly.

"....and also keep me company, play cards, backgammon, chess...that sort of thing. You will have board, food and clothing. Now despite what my son thinks, I am no fool. I shall be watching and you will be on a trial period of one month. If you prove satisfactory, after that you will be allotted a small allowance in addition to your wage. How does that suit?"

Hope stared at her hands folded in her lap-the skin chaffed and raw, her nails broken-and thought how she was not fitted to this work. "It sounds very well, but..."

"Now, Miss Tyler, one of the reasons I have taken to you, is that you speak your mind, so please honor me with honesty. I know you can read, and read well, so what troubles you?"

"I will do my best, your Ladyship, but my knowledge of cards is limited-and as for chess and backgammon-I don't play."

"Oh, is that all! Then I shall teach you."

"And my dress, it's hardly appropriate for company such as yours."

"And that's why I've asked Mrs Locke to come and measure you."

"I don't know what to say-such kindness."

"That's quite alright, Miss Tyler. Now, if you would be so good as to ring the bell, you can start with how to take tea in polite society."

"Would that be contraband tea?" Hope asked innocently.

Lady Ryevale positively beamed. "I can see you and I will get along famously."

The next day, Mrs Locke arrived from the village and was shown up to Hope's room. Not at all the plump matron Hope had expected, but an elegant woman with a lively manner and an abundance of blond hair. Dressed in a dimity gown cut to show off her trim figure, Mrs Locke extended a gloved hand in a friendly manner.

"Mrs Locke, dressmaker, at your convenience."

Hope cleared her throat. "Miss Tyler, a-hem."

When Mrs Locke smiled, her eyes lit up. "Now my dear, there's nothing to be frightened of."

"Really?" Hope's voice squeaked; sailing across the Solent at night was less intimidating than a dressmaker with her perfectly dainty gloves and slippers.

"You are expecting me?"

"Yes."

"I won't bite dear." Mrs Locke eyed her sympathetically. "I can see why her Ladyship said it was urgent. Let's get started then. First things first. Your measurements."

Hope folded her arms across her chest.

"Now then my dear, I can't measure you like that. Hold you arms out, thus."

Reluctantly, Hope extended her arms as shown. Mrs Locke tut-tutted.

"Nor like that I'm afraid. That gown is just too big. You're going to have to undress."

Hope froze. Somehow she had imagined a modiste would simply measure over the top of her gown, the thought of revealing the shoddy state of her borrowed chemise, filled her with horror. With determination she crossed her arms over her chest again.

"I don't want to," even to her ears, she sounded like a peevish child and cringed.

"Come now, Miss Tyler." The modiste spoke kindly enough, "It's not my job to judge, I merely want to take a couple of measurements, it will be over in minutes-not in the least painful."

"I suppose."

"Besides," she regarded her with a sad expression, "you wouldn't want to get me into trouble with Lady Ryevale would you? If I make a poor job because I couldn't measure you, what will she think of my skills? Not much, that's for sure."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that."

With chirpy resonance Mrs Locke continued. "Now Miss Tyler, her Ladyship's instructions are to measure for a full set of clothing: outer as well as inner wear, so if you would be so good as to remove your dress."

"Perhaps, if you could help me with the b.u.t.tons?" Hope said shyly.

"Of course." Mrs Locke chatted as her nimble fingers made short work of the fastenings. "There, now go behind the screen to remove the dress."

"Very well."

Mrs Locke called after her retreating back. "I believe you and I are acquainted with each other's work."

"What do you mean?" The dress, several sizes too large, slipped easily down past her hips.

"For your day dress, Lady Ryevale selected a particularly pretty spring muslin-a fabric I think you will recognise."

"Oh!" Hope peered around the screen. "Does it have darling little rosebuds in pink, mingled with pale blue daisies?"

"The same." Mrs Locke winked and lowered her voice. "There are many in these parts grateful for the work of the free traders."

Feeling considerably cheered, Hope emerged from behind the screen.

True to her professionalism, Mrs Locke worked without comment, as Hope colored in her patched and darned chemise.

"Hmm, you will need stays, you have an enviable figure, but stays are de rigour in polite society."

Hope swallowed. "Really? Stays are absolutely necessary?"

"Essential. But don't worry, you'll soon get used to them-and you'll need two night-rails, two chemises, petticoats-as well as a day dress and walking gown..."

"I can't possibly. I have no money." Hope's voice trailed off.

"Lady Ryevale insists. She's taken quite a shine to you. Apparently she knew your mother."

The room swam a little and Hope's arms fell to her sides.

"Lady Ryevale told you that?" She forced a laugh.

"Indeed." Mrs Locke seemed in earnest, jotting down figures with a stubby pencil. "Arms up again, please."

Befuddled, Hope obliged as she searched her memory for clues. What could Lady Ryevale know of her mother? That night in the garret, she'd confided in Lady Ryevale that her mother had taught her French-but that was all. Surely? Hope screwed up her eyes with the effort of remembering. Surely, she had not mentioned her high-born mother? Definitely, she had not named her, except perhaps once calling her Emma...

"I must set her Ladyship straight, tell her she's mistaken," Hope mumbled. Alarm p.r.i.c.kled across her skin. Doubtless her mother's disgrace caused a scandal in the ton at the time. If Lady Ryevale was her mother's contemporary, they must be of a similar age-gossip must have been rife. What more juicy t.i.ttle-tattle than a ruined debutante being disowned because she wouldn't give up the baby? Hope's heart rate doubled-merciful heavens, what if the young Lady Ryevale really had known Emma Castelle from her time in society?

"I must talk to Lady Ryevale, tell her she's mistaken." Hope mumbled again, wondering if the laudanum had loosened her tongue more than she knew.

"Between you and me, I shouldn't worry. Accept your good fortune and make yourself indispensable. That way, if Her Ladyship is mistaken, she will like you for yourself."

"I have no intention of doing any such thing." Hope said, with affront. "I believe in honesty at all times."

"I'm sure, dear. Now turn around and I'll measure your back."

Chapter Seven.

At the dead of night, two men rode through the woods; trees silver in the moonlight, a mist rising from the ground. Huntley and Bennett had spent hours patrolling the coast in this miserable dampness, with nothing to show for it-now their thoughts ranged ahead with hearth and home. A bird broke cover, his wings beating against the darkness. Nero shied but Huntley sat deep in the saddle and scanned the trees to the left and right.

"Hold! What's that?"

Nero stopped on a sixpence while Bennett's gelding sidled on a few steps. Huntley stood in the stirrups, staring toward a bend in the road. A low, grinding rumble of wheels and the soft thud of hooves on springy ground; the sound grew louder, a shape grew out of the mist and took on the form of a cart.

"Tis a strange time for a drive."

"My thoughts entirely. Come." Huntley nudged Nero into a canter, with Bennett close on his heels.

A mangy, sway-backed horse was. .h.i.tched to a farm wagon; a cussed determination about the creature's plodding, as if it was only momentum which kept him upright.

"Hold there!" Huntley nudged Nero alongside. With a mutter the driver pushed back his hat and pulled on the reins.

"Whoa up, Jessie!" The nag staggered to a halt, blowing hard.

Huntley circled around the cart, his eyes darting over the hay bales.

"Strange time of day, or should I say night, to be moving hay."

The man snorted. "Aye, but there's no law agin it."

"What's your name?"

The man glowered, his heavy brow exaggerated in the moonlight.

"Alan Lee." He muttered.

"Well, Mr Lee, if you are about honest business, you won't mind unloading your wagon to prove it."

Clearly, Mr Lee did mind, but after more muttering, jumped down.