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Fortune favors the bold, Annabel.
She climbed the stone steps on the left to reach the massive oak doors. The house boasted two symmetrical staircases converging onto a colonnaded portico, she noted, her mind wandering onto vague topics as her courage failed. Forcing herself forward, she stood in front of the doors and tentatively used the brass knocker.
No one came to the door.
She surmised the servants may be occupied in other parts of the house, not expecting a visit so much earlier than conventional visiting times. Bravado and caution warred, a dichotomy within her mind as she tried to work out how to proceed until a single thought, voiced in her mother’s clear tones, whispered.
Sometimes, discretion is the better part of valor.
Perhaps she did not need to convince the servants to allow her entry. This was a country estate quite a distance from the local village and, if this household was anything like Baydon Hall, there was a chance that the front door was not locked while the servants went about their early morning errands. Ignoring her deafening heartbeats, the thumping so loud it surely could be heard all the way back to Baydon Hall, she saw her hand reach for the handle as if it had a mind of its own. Her choice was apparently made—if the door was unlocked, she was going to walk into the manor and find the duke.
If, heaven forfend, she was caught, the servants would be compelled to report her intrusion and grant her an audience with the master of the house.
Chapter Two
“The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine.”
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
* * *
Philip was seated at his desk, the polished mahogany surface gleaming in the midmorning light. A soft breeze stirred the papers before him, drifting in through the open window. With the unseasonal warmth, he had propped the study door ajar to allow air to circulate. He hated working in stifling rooms. As he reviewed the figures spread across his desk, he sensed, rather than saw, that he was being watched.
“Clinton?” he called, setting down his quill. When no answer came, he glanced up, expecting his butler. Instead, his gaze landed on a young lad standing hesitantly just inside the doorway, dressed like a stable hand. Philip frowned. “Who are you?” he asked sharply.
The lad stepped into the room, his movements nervous yet determined. He walked straight to the chairs positioned before Philip’s desk and stopped, hands clenched at his sides. “Your Grace,” the boy said in a hoarse whisper.
“I said, who are you? And what are you doing in my study?” Philip’s frown deepened. “You are not one of my stable lads.”
“You recognize all your stable lads?” the boy countered.
“Indeed, I do. Now, explain yourself before I call Clinton to have you removed.”
“I have come from Filminster to seek your assistance,” the boy said, voice trembling yet resolute.
Philip leaned forward, suspicion narrowing his gaze. Something about the boy’s tone seemed … off. And that bulky coat—why wear such a thing in this balmy weather? He opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but the boy cleared his throat and spoke again. This time, the pitch of his voice rose higher, carrying a distinctly feminine quality.
Philip blinked. Could it be … a girl?
The boy—or rather, the girl—confirmed his suspicions by removing her hat and shrugging off the oversized coat. Before him stood a slender figure dressed in buckskin breeches and a billowing linen shirt. The curve of her hips and the faint outline of her bosom left no doubt. He sat back in his chair, startled. “What is this?” he demanded, dragging his gaze from her figure to her face.
“I came from Filminster to seek your help,” she said, her voice steady despite her apparent nervousness. “You are my last resort.”
Philip stared, his mind working furiously to make sense of this unexpected visitor. The girl was young, well-spoken, and clearly determined. Her chestnut hair, neatly plaited, framed a face that was earnest and intelligent. Whoever she was, she had gone to great lengths to reach him.
“Desperate enough to ride all this way, dressed as a boy?” he asked, his voice laced with incredulity.
“Yes,” she replied simply. “I would have done more if necessary.”
“More?”
“More … such as sell all my jewels and run off to Scotland.” She gazed out the window, clearly imagining a lengthy journey in her mind rather than the gardens her eyes appeared to be focused on.
He studied her for a moment, taking in the determined glint as she returned her gaze to meet his, leaving no doubt that she would do such a thing.
“Scotland.” Philip raised a brow at her boldness. “And you are …?”
“Miss Annabel Ridley, daughter of Lord Josiah Ridley, Baron of Filminster,” she said, curtsying awkwardly in her breeches. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”
