Chapter 1

After five nights, Isabelle had gotten used to sleeping under the stars. On the first night she had been mortified, but there had been no choice. There had been the occasional inn, but Isabelle had no money for a room. She had no option but to bundle herself up in her father's old overcoat, make a pillow from whatever she could find and hope for the best. She awoke at first light and had felt more refreshed than she had ever done since her aunt and cousin had arrived after her father died a year ago.

Having survived that, Isabelle decided it was a better plan to walk and sleep where she chose, rather than take the mail coach. However, the weather had not been kind, forcing her to take shelter wherever she could. She was used to vigorous exercise and she was pleased that her body did not fail her. She loved to take long walks alone at Denby Manor and her spirit relished the freedom she now had at her disposal. The old coat and breeches she wore no longer felt strange to her, but now, they were just her clothes. She had never guessed men's clothes could be so comfortable. Not having to wear a corset was a revelation and it was so good not to have to worry about her behaviour. Even the occasional traveller she met along the way did not guess there was more to her than met the eye. They assumed she was a young man, travelling to find work as a labourer and she let them think it, no sense in telling them the real reason she travelled. She had absolute freedom and she began to wish she could wander about like this forever. But, she must arrive in London and present herself to her co-guardian and solicitor, Mr Foxborough. Surely, he would know how she can determine a way out of her situation.

Being Isabelle's closest male relative, her cousin Rupert had inherited her father's title and property after he died, making him the new Earl of Denby. Her Aunt Francis and her son, Rupert, had moved into Denby Manor and began to make her feel like a stranger in her own home, not to mention the increasing pressure to marry Rupert so they could have control of all the money. Completely miserable, she decided to make her way to London in hope of finally being free of her Aunt's influence. She just hoped it would work.

Judging by the last sign post, she was still two days walk away. Now, as she stood at a fork in the road, she wondered if her reluctance to proceed was from fear of Mr Foxborough sending her back. After all, she had not actually met the man; he could be an ogre for all she knew. To her, he was just someone who managed her money until she came of age and could manage it herself. At least her aunt did not have that power, for that, she would be eternally grateful.

She lingered at the edge of the village, watching an old hay cart lumbering toward her.

"Is this the road to London?" she asked in the deepest, gruffest voice she could muster.

"Aye, 'tis," the driver of the gig said. "If you take the left road, you should reach London in a couple of days," He gestured in the general direction. "I'd find shelter if you can, looks like 'tis goin' to rain."

Isabelle made her way along the well-travelled road, passed freshly ploughed fields and grazing land. She had to agree with the old man's dire prediction of rain; she looked toward the sky, noting the dark, ominous clouds that had begun to gather. She began to look forward to her first glimpse of London. At least thinking about that would be better than worrying about what she would say to Mr Foxborough when she saw him.

The road twisted and turned into a little grove of trees in which to find shelter. She trotted through it, suddenly feeling cold due the cool breeze blowing through. She was determined to enjoy her last few days of freedom, for when she reached London, she would be forced to become Lady Isabelle Fairfield, only child of the late, Earl of Denby and to behave accordingly.

At the edge of the grove, the road led along a wall made from heavy stones, thick with ivy and from what Isabelle could judge, extremely old. She wondered what lay behind it, the park belonging to some gentleman's estate, she supposed. She had heard from fellow travellers that this area of the country there were an abundance of lovely homes on display.

The wall suddenly turned into an archway and Isabelle stopped and looked through it. She found that she was only skirting an abandoned hay barn. Her heart sank, she ran in, trying to escape the rain that now fell. It was built of heavy stone, covered in thick ivy, wonderfully silent and mercifully dry, the rain hitting the roof in a gentle rhythm of sound. Behind her, heavy oak doors hung off their hinges, the cracks in the stone pathways thick with long grass. She looked around the interior, small patches of hay still lay about on the floor. Walking further inside, she made her way up the ladder to the loft situated at the back of the barn. This would be the perfect spot to rest, she thought, lying down on the hay spread about. She was startled by a noise emanating from the doorway; she looked down and noticed a man entering with his horse, quite possibly to escape the rain just as she had.

He had thick, black hair with a loose wave to it, which caught and reflected the light every time he moved his head. His hair fell back over a high, smooth brow and an ominous pair of charcoal black eyes that completely overshadowed the rest of his well sculptured face. A small amount of hay fell down from her vantage point. He looked up at her for a few moments. He did not smile, but his features clouded with puzzlement, trying to work out who she was and why she was there. She felt self-conscious under his scrutiny and looked away, aware her own observation of him had been just as open. She retreated back onto the loft, when she looked again; she was relieved to notice him attending to his horse, removing her saddle before seating himself down and leaning back on his arms.

She could not help but watch him in his blue riding coat as he sat so she could see his profile. Obviously, he was a man of means. His riding boots shone, even with the dust they had picked up. He has a valet, Isabelle decided. Even though his clothes looked old, they were extremely well cut, fitting his tall, lean frame and broad shoulders extremely well. That meant a very expensive tailor. Isabelle was completely sure when she spotted his well brushed horse, an excellent bay mare that was quite obviously well bred.

She decided to forgive him for being there; this was a public place after all. Breaking her gaze from the magnificent man she shared her sanctuary with, she went and sat down with her pack, her eyelids growing heavy with fatigue. She was not aware of how tired she actually felt. Wrapping herself in her father's coat, she plumped up her pack and lay down, closing her eyes before falling fast asleep.

A sound emanating from next to her awoke her from her slumber. She bolted upright and turned to see the stranger sitting nearby and openly staring at her. The same puzzled expression on his face he had before. She scowled at him, her face twisting into an extremely unbecoming picture. He had joined her in the loft, how inappropriate.

"May I ask where you are headed, Ma'am?" he said, he said in a warm, deep voice.

"You do realise I am a woman, then?" she said.

"I could see when I first entered," he said, leaning back on his hands that he had place behind him. "No man I know possesses long ebony ringlets like yours, although, they are a trifle unkempt."

She blushed, starting to fidget with her torn, dirty breeches. She looked down at her shirt that once was a bright, white, was now a dull grey. Her short, chipped nails had dirt crusted underneath them, giving her the appearance of someone who laboured for a living. She pulled the hat of her head, shaking her long ebony hair out that was now lacking the sheen it once held. She had hastily put it into a loose bun that morning to make it easier to fit under her cap. What must he think of me? She thought. She must look a fright.

"May I ask you what your name is?" he asked, raising a finely arched eyebrow in question.

"Sarah Barret," she lied.

She had no desire to tell him who she really is, better to let him think she was just down on her luck, looking for a way to make a decent living. Besides, she would probably not see him again; he was probably not even heading in her direction. So what difference would it make if she lied?

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Barret, I am Andrew Thorpe," Andrew said.

"Mr Thorpe, a pleasure to meet you as well," she said. She reached out and shook his offered hand.

His hand felt warm to the touch, with skin the texture of crushed velvet. It was obvious, at least to Isabelle, he had not done a day of hard labour in his life. Maybe he was not being quite truthful about his situation either? She mused, breaking the hold he still had of her hand.

"May I be of any assistance to you, Miss Barret?" he asked, taking in her slender form so clearly evident through her breeches and shirt.

"No, thank you," she said. "I am quite sure our destinations are vastly different."

"How would you know that?" he asked, raising his eyebrow. "You do not know where I am travelling."

"Nevertheless, I am quite sure I am capable of seeing to my own safety. I have been doing so perfectly well for the past five days after all," she said. "Now, if you shall excuse me, I wish to return to my slumber."

He arose from his seat and looked down at her prone form. Her eyelids closed, hiding from view her sapphire blue eyes. Her long, black lashes fluttered against her clear porcelain skin, quite obviously feigning her sleep just to be rid of him. Sighing, he climbed down the ladder to ground floor to retrieve his horse, feeling quite refreshed after his short stop. The rain, he found, had stopped as quickly as it had begun. He mounted his magnificent mount and proceeded to his final destination, London.

*****

Mrs Francis Fairfield awoke at her usual time, quite late by country standards. She lay in her oversized, mahogany canopy bed situated in the best bedchamber that Fairfield Manor could provide. After arriving at the home of her late brother-in-law to act as Lady Isabelle's guardian, she had wasted no time in asserting her authority over Isabelle and the money her son inherited. The servants did not escape her wrath either; she continued to bully them, often leaving them in tears with her outrageous demands. Feeling increasingly despondent, some even threatened to leave, despite the fact that most could scarcely afford it. Fairfield Manor had increasingly become a wretched place to live and work.

Placing her thick, beefy hands next to her obese form, she tried to lift herself off the bed. Becoming increasingly frustrated with her effort, she reached over and rang the bell pull to summon her maid to help her rise from the bed. Almost immediately, a small, mousy girl in her mid-twenties appeared with a timid expression on her countenance.

"You require some 'elp Mrs Fairfield?" she asked quietly.

"How many times have I told you, you are to address me as my lady?" Mrs Fairfield snapped. "I am the mother of the new Earl of Rutherford; I require a proper salutation for my position."

Even though they shared the same surname, their relationship with Isabelle was only that of second cousin. Rupert's father had been a lowly banker with no prospects and did not have two farthings to rub together. Therefore, Mrs Fairfield did not have a title, something she had become quite bitter about. She felt entitled to receive one since her son inherited the land and title he deserved, at least that was what she thought.

"Yes, milady," the maid said, walking up to the bed.

"Now, help me out of this bed and be quick about it," Mrs Fairfield snapped.

Placing her arms around the enormous waist of Mrs Fairfield, she strained against the weight, trying to manoeuvre her into a position where she could lift her out of the bed. Eventually, she managed to lift Mrs Fairfield to her feet, the lady in question breathing hard from the effort, not that she had done anything to help the poor young maid who was half her size. That was why they were there after all, to wait on her hand and foot. It was a wonder the maid did not have a serious back injury for she had been doing this since Mrs Fairfield had arrived.

The maid helped her mistress into a drab, olive green gown that did nothing to improve her appearance. She still looked like a wine barrel in expensive silk. After placing a pair of matching slippers onto feet that were swollen with fluid that had accumulated due to inactivity, she made her way painfully down the mahogany staircase toward the dining room. She entered a dark room, furnished in expensive mahogany, the centrepiece being the ornate dining table that had been in the house for two hundred years. She sat down at the table and waited to be served her breakfast.

Her son Rupert had only arrived a few minutes earlier. Almost a carbon copy of his mother with the same build, he also had her mousy brown hair, grey eyes that seemed too small for his face, set into a large flaccid face just above his large bulbous nose. No wonder he had not found a wife, no self-respecting lady would want him. He sat at the head of the table, a piece of scrambled egg sitting on his chin. Oblivious to its existence, he continued to shovel food into his mouth as if it were the last meal he would ever eat.

"Have our men found the runaway as yet?" Mrs Fairfield asked, shovelling her own breakfast into her mouth.

"Not as yet, Mother," he said, his own mouth full of bacon.

"That ungrateful chit," she cried. "I have treated her like my own daughter and this is the way she thanks me."

"Do not worry, Mother," he said. "They shall find her, they are getting close."

"Let us hope so, I shall not allow your rightful inheritance flitted away by that girl. I do not even know why her father left her such a sum of money. Does he not know how expensive it is to maintain an estate of this size?"

"I am sure he had his reasons, Mother," he said, finally wiping his chin.

She appeared not to have heard him. "Furthermore, you must be able to appear wealthy, considering your new station in life. How would it look to the rest of the haute ton? They cannot see you as a pauper," she cried.

"Yes, Mother," he agreed. He did not seem willing to contradict his mother on anything.

Although Rupert and Mrs Fairfield looked similar in appearance, they were complete opposites in personality. While Mrs Fairfield was selfish and domineering, she did not know the meaning of the word no. Her son appeared to have no visible backbone, always agreeing with whatever his mother said, regardless of whether he thought it right or not. He even quite liked his younger cousin, Isabelle, to a certain extent. He did not even share his mother's feelings on her inheritance, although, he would never tell that to her directly.

"I fear we shall have to proceed to London before we planned, Rupert," Mrs Fairfield continued. "I do think that is your cousin's final destination. I do not understand how our men could have missed her. There are no horses missing from the stable and the curricle is still here, she must be on foot."

"I do not know, Mother," he said, pushing his plate away from his enormous belly. "All I can say is that she probably cut over the fields."

"You are probably right, my dear, Rupert," Mrs Fairfield said, her thin lips spread into a wide smile showing, yellowed, chipped teeth. "We shall have to go to London and see if we cannot cut her off before she meets with Mr Foxborough to access our money."

If he heard his mother refer to her inheritance as theirs he did not show it, instead, he pushed back his chair and rose from the table. His burgundy upholstered chair giving a satisfied creak as his body released its pressure on the thick mahogany legs.