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A light tap sounded at her door.

“Come in.” Estelle straightened up, expecting the maid to be bringing her afternoon tea. “Oh!” A hand flew to her mouth when she saw Lord Crawley on the threshold. “What do you want?” Her nervousness made her forget her manners. “You cannot come in here.”

His only answer was to step into the room and close the door behind him. He looked at the contents of her wardrobe scattered across the bed and raised a brow.

“Going somewhere?”

“I, er, I…that is to say—”

“Miss Tilling, or should I say Mrs. Travis?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“I sent him away,” he said softly. “He will not get past the gates again. I have given instructions to that effect, so you have nothing more to fear.”

She turned away from him lest he read the overwhelming gratitude in eyes that were swimming with tears. He had not asked for her side of the story but could not doubt that she had sought to deceive him. Her continued presence in his house would only visit troubles upon him, but he had still taken her part. No one had ever displayed such faith in her before, other than Susanna, and finding an unlikely defender in this handsome stranger made her feel weak with gratitude.

“Tell me about it?” He leaned against the closed door and folded his arms.

Estelle’s head was spinning, a fact attributable as much to his presence as to her difficulties. She was acutely aware of his commanding presence and was in danger of being overwhelmed by his kindly expression. His desire to be of service to her only increased her giddiness. This room, which had once seemed so commodious, now felt crowded as he prowled around it, covering the distance between them with lithesome grace. He stopped a foot or two short of her position by the window.

She wanted to fling herself at his feet and beg him to protect her from her brute of a father. She longed to make him understand why she could no longer do her duty by an authoritative parent who was blind to her finer feelings.

But she knew she would not behave thus. This was her battle and she must somehow find the strength to fight it alone.

“I do not understand your meaning, sir,” she said, unable to meet his eye. “But I do know that it is not at all seemly for us to be alone in this bedchamber.”

“You found the passage to my study, presumably?” She nodded. “I was hoping you would. The other branch leads to the cellar and through a trapdoor directly to the stables. Very useful it is too.”

“Why was it constructed?” She had no real interest in knowing but needed to divert his attention away from her own situation.

“Some dissolute ancestor, wishing to enter and leave the house unobserved, I have always surmised.” He smiled. “In any event, most of these old houses have something of that nature. Very useful for secret trysts, plotting against the monarchy, that sort of thing.”

“I suppose so.” Estelle’s gaze was focused on the orchards below as her mind continued to whirl. He was being so kind to her, doing so much to put her at her ease. She felt ashamed of the trouble she was causing him and could not bring herself to look in his direction.

“Come, Estelle.” He whispered her name in a voice loaded with such gentle compassion it was as though she was hearing it for the first time. His somnolent smile was full of persuasive charm. His eyes locked upon hers and caused her resolve not to confide in him to falter. “Tell me what I can do to be of service to you.”

“There is nothing. I—”

“You have no reason to be afraid of me.” He brushed her shoulder with a gossamer touch that set her senses reeling. “You will find that I am a very sympathetic listener, one who is not easily shocked. Besides, unless I mistake the matter, you are of age and can do precisely as you please.”

“It is not that.” She swirled away from the window, frowning as she placed distance between them. Her mind had a tendency to become addled when he stood too close to her, preventing her from thinking straight. But she knew better than to give way to temptation and lean upon him just because he was being gallant. “It is something I have to work out for myself.”

“You may depend upon my discretion. You and I understand the ways of the world, I think. After all, you can hardly lay claim to being a skittish miss, not if half the things that posturing brute claimed are to be believed.”

Estelle let out a gasp of betrayal. She had almost given in to his gallantry and shared her troubles with him. How could she have been such a simpleton? She should have known better than to imagine that he was really on her side. He now knew she had been married and intended to take shameful advantage of her.

He was no different than Mr. Travis’s awful son, and others too, who had seen her married to a man so much older than herself and thought she would welcome their advances. By refusing her stepson’s overtures with contemptuous disregard for his pride, she had made an enemy of him, which was partly responsible for her current difficulties.

And now history appeared to be repeating itself. She would not offer herself to Lord Crawley and would very soon find herself homeless again as a consequence.

“Please leave,” she said.

“I only wish to be of service to you.”

Estelle could easily imagine the service he had in mind. “I do not require anyone’s assistance.”

“Oh, but I think you do.” A flicker of understanding passed across his face and his expression hardened. “I cannot imagine what you think I have in mind but I suspect you have misinterpreted my intentions.” He threw her shawl on the bed and turned towards the door. “Winthrop was most interested to observe this garment in the drawing room,” he said, closing the door softly behind him.

Estelle wanted to weep with frustration, even as she wondered why she was so disappointed to discover that Lord Crawley was no different than all the rest of his gender. Despite his pretence at an innocent reason for wishing to assist her, she knew better than to believe him. She had seen the look in his eye when he called her by her name, had seen the same hunger in the eyes of too many other men since the time of her marriage to mistake its meaning. She knew what he would expect in return for aiding her and, in spite of the fact that she had no one else to turn to, she was not prepared to oblige him. She had finally had enough of being exploited.

The notion helped Estelle to banish her introspective thoughts. She placed the most serviceable gown she possessed in her valise and packed the other few items she could not manage without, including, naturally, her favourite shawl.

She stared out of the window, impatiently tapping her fingers on the sill. She was not surprised to notice that even nature had conspired against her, providing only a miniscule amount of moonlight by which she would have to navigate her way towards the long driveway and thence to the village. She shuddered, aware that her fear of the dark was about to be tested for the second time in one day.

All was in readiness and she must wait now until she was sure the household had settled for the night. Her only remaining task, and a crucial one, was to pen a few lines to Lady Crawley to account for her sudden departure. Easier said than done. Half an hour later she had still had not written a single word. Compounding a falsehood by committing it to paper was so much more difficult than merely living a lie. But eventually it was done. A sudden summons to a new post received late the previous day was a wretched excuse and one which would not stand up to the mildest scrutiny. But she could think of nothing better to account for her sudden disappearance. She added that she had left the house at first light, walking the short distance to the village in order to catch the early mail coach, since she had no wish to give further trouble by requesting transportation. She ended by offering warm thanks to her hostess for so diligently restoring her to health but avoided any mention of where she was headed.

Estelle could imagine Lady Crawley’s distress when she read this most inadequate of letters. Picturing her kindly face wrinkling with confusion and concern, she had never liked herself less. She sighed and propped the missive on the mantelpiece in her chamber where it was sure to be seen and handed to Lady Crawley by the maid.

Dressed in her warmest travelling attire, Estelle slipped from her room, valise in hand, and crept down the stairs in the direction of Lord Crawley’s study. It had been very obliging of him to mention that the secret passage had two wings. She had not noticed that it split off in different directions and was grateful that she happened to have chosen the correct route earlier. It also meant that her escape from the house would now be expediently achieved.

As expected, his lordship’s study was devoid of human presence, only the embers of the dying fire lending it any light. But that was sufficient for Estelle to make her way to the concealed doorway and slip behind it. Only then did she appreciate that she should have thought to bring a candle with her. She told herself it was no gloomier now than it had been this afternoon. The darkness of the night could not penetrate these hidden passages. But the thought did little to reassure her and she hesitated, suddenly unsure of which direction to take.

Only the sight of a pair of inquisitive eyes staring beadily up at her compelled her to gather up her skirts with a shriek and move her feet. She shuddered, her skin crawling with repulsion. Where there was one rat very likely more were lurking. She was so appalled by the thought that for a moment she considered giving up her bid for freedom. But only for a moment. She had come too far to turn back now and told herself not to be so pathetic, aware that she must now move quickly if she was not to lose her nerve altogether.

She sped along the dank passageway as fast as she dared, touching the walls on either side with her valise and reticule respectively. She spoke aloud in the hope that the commotion she was making would scare off the more inquisitive members of the rodent population. Only when she sensed a change in the draughty atmosphere did she slow her pace. Aware that she must have reached the point at which the paths divided, she stared straight into the eyes of the one rat which had refused to be deterred by her noisy intrusion into his territory.

“Which way do I go now, then?” she asked him, strangely comforted rather than alarmed by his determination to accompany her.

The rat regarded her with an air of complacent superiority and a twitch of his whiskery nose but offered no opinion.

“You are no help at all,” she admonished, shaking a finger at him.

She forced herself to take several deep breaths as she waited for the confusion that was clouding her mind to dissipate. As it gradually did so her powers of reasoning were restored to her. She decided that if she had approached from straight ahead this afternoon, and she was sure that she had because she did not recall turning any corners, then her path on this occasion must lay to the right. Blindly stretching out her hands she turned in that direction, cursing as she struck her head on an overhang which knocked her bonnet askew. She ducked beneath the offending rock and followed the path as it turned sharply to the left, fervently hoping that her subterranean journey was coming to an end. Instead she was almost blinded by the light glowing from a wall scone.

“Ah, there you are at last!” The owner of the rumbling male voice levered himself from the wall against which he had been sprawled. “I was beginning to think you must have taken a wrong path.”

Estelle gasped, her heart pounding against her rib cage. This was simply too much for her fragile grasp on reality to cope with. She had defied her father; overcome her fear of the dark and her repulsion for rodents, only to be challenged by some nameless male figure of authority before she had even escaped the confines of Crawley Hall. Her head was swimming and she staggered backwards a few paces, dizziness rendering her actions ungainly, as she struggled to come to terms with her spectacular failure.

Her last memory before her world went completely black was of a strong pair of arms catching her, preventing her from crumpling to the floor in a dead faint.