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Every room in Manderfield Hall was haunted by memories from Lady Sarah Denham’s past. It was more than a beautiful ancestral building; it was her home.

Her lips quirked up into a reluctant smile as she looked at the scratches she had made with her cousin Ralph on the main stairs banister.

Her throat felt thick as she walked one last time through the grand entry with the black-and-white-checkered floor.

She and her mother had once played a very large game of chess upon it.

Oh, how she wished she could go back and relive each moment spent with Mama!

Sarah’s breath slowed as she recalled dancing with her mother and playing hide-and-seek in the parlors and drawing rooms. Mama pretended she didn’t know where Sarah was, even though she did.

At the age of six, Sarah had always hidden in the same spot, the cabinet in the blue parlor.

But still her mother would search loudly behind every curtain and under each chair.

Sarah was five and twenty now, and she could no longer hide.

Her eyes ached with unshed tears. Saying goodbye to Manderfield Hall was like saying a final farewell to her mother. The familiar ache in her chest returned, and Sarah rubbed it, even while knowing there was no balm for such pain.

Manderfield Hall and estate no longer belonged to her father, and now she would never inherit them.

They had been sold to pay off her father’s gambling debts, and Ursula Yardley, the woman he’d lived with for the last six years and who called herself Sarah’s “stepmother,” would not give a guinea to save it, although she had inherited a fortune from her first husband.

Sarah’s father, the Earl of Manders, was now the earl of nothing.

He held the title but no land. He would now be a permanent resident of London in Mrs. Yardley’s house.

Papa had begun the process of having Sarah’s mother declared dead so that he could marry Mrs. Yardley.

Sarah walked unhurriedly one last time through the gallery, running her fingers over the frames of every portrait.

Her ancestors and relatives looked down upon her, some stern, others smiling.

All dear and familiar faces. Even the paintings had been sold to the new owner, who presumably had no esteemed ancestors of his own to oversee him and his family.

With an unfocused gaze, Sarah stopped at the painting of her mother, Lady Louisa Denham, Countess of Manders.

Around her neck was her golden locket engraved with the Denham family crest; Sarah could not remember a time when her mother had not worn the necklace.

Mama had been a beauty with dark glossy locks, bright-blue eyes, and a rosebud mouth.

The portrait was from her youth, but time had been kind to her mother and only softened her appearance.

Mama had still looked youthful seven years ago.

That evening at dusk, in her crimson riding habit and matching bonnet with dyed red plumes, her cheeks had been red from excitement for her ride—or from her fight with Papa.

She had kissed Sarah on the cheek and said she would be back in a little while.

Then Mama had walked out of the door, never to return.

More time than a “little while” had passed, but Sarah still searched every dusk for her mother to return. She feared that if her mother came back after Sarah vacated the premises, she would not know where Sarah had gone to.

Sniffling, Sarah realized that she regretted the imminent loss of her mother’s portrait more than that of the entire house.

Unfortunately, Sarah looked nothing like her mother.

Her hair was an ordinary shade of light brown, as were her eyes, and her mouth was a trifle too large.

She would never attain the title of beauty, but Mama had taught her how to be striking.

She darkened her eyelashes with kohl and skillfully brightened her lips with rose lip salve.

Sarah sparingly used carmine for rouge and powder to cover the thirteen freckles that had taken possession of her nose.

Luckily, her hourglass figure was shapely, and she spent nearly all of her pin money dressing it to perfection.

What she could not afford to purchase, she sewed herself.

“Goodbye forever,” she whispered as she caressed the edge of the portrait frame. Her eyelids felt heavy, and her chin trembled.

“Lady Sarah,” Mrs. Harmony, the housekeeper, bellowed from the other end of the gallery.

She was a small woman with a surprisingly loud voice and an abundance of yellow curls that were always escaping her white cap.

“You ought to be in the carriage by now. It’s not like you to keep people waiting, and poor Mr. Phipps has been walking the horses up and down the lane for the last half hour. ”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Harmony,” Sarah said in a resigned tone. “I shall come at once.”

She had known for months that this day was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Walking slowly down the gallery, she heard her boot heels click on the marble tiles with every step.

She tried to think of any excuse to linger, anything that needed attending to before the new owner took possession of the place, but she and the servants had made sure that every inch of Manderfield had been scrubbed and dusted from the basement to the attic.

Even the outside windows had been washed, and not one weed could be found in the gardens, nor a pebble out of place.

Since her mother’s disappearance, Sarah had been mistress of Manderfield Hall, and as loath as she was to leave it, she wanted to leave it in the best possible condition.

Mrs. Harmony cleared her throat.

Sighing, Sarah knew she needed to go. All of her possessions had already been transported to Westbrook Park.

The park was home to her mother’s sister, Lady Venetia Randolph, and her husband, Sir Oscar Randolph, Baronet, and their son, the Honorable Ralph Randolph.

Her aunt had kindly allowed Sarah to send her belongings to Westbrook Park, for Sarah no longer had a home of her own. She was now trespassing.

Her first friend and former lady’s maid, Nelly Mills, came out from the servants’ quarters and took Sarah’s hand.

“No one has ever loved or cared for Manderfield like you, but it has been sold. You must leave, Sarah. And perhaps this is for the best. It is time to let go. You deserve to marry and have a home of your own.”

She forced herself to smile at Nelly. Her maid had declined to accompany her to Westbrook Park because of a very handsome footman. “The only person who is about to marry is yourself. Has Guy proposed yet?”

Nelly nudged Sarah’s shoulder with her own. “He will soon if he knows what’s good for him.”

A laugh escaped Sarah’s lips. The footman would find himself in front of the parson before he knew it.

Tapping her foot, the housekeeper sighed loudly. “Mr. Phipps is still waiting, my lady.”

Sarah knew Mrs. Harmony meant well. There wasn’t an unkind hair on the woman’s head, and she had a great deal of hair.

But Sarah didn’t wish to marry or to move to another house.

Manderfield Hall was her home, and someday her mother would return.

She knew it in her heart. Mama loved her.

She would never have abandoned her daughter.

Nelly tugged Sarah’s hand, and together they walked to the front door, where a footman, Tom, opened it.

Mrs. Harmony followed them. They walked out into the bright sunlight of the morning.

Sarah squinted to see Mr. Phipps driving back up the lane toward her.

She did feel sorry for her thoughtlessness, but goodbyes and endings could not be hurried.

Mr. Phipps tipped his hat to her, his usual pipe hanging from his lips.

Sarah nodded and smiled. His was another familiar face she would miss.

Tom opened the door and waited to assist Sarah into the carriage, but her legs would not move.

Nelly released her hand and gave her a small shove in the back.

Having grown up together, her maid had never learned to show Sarah any deference for her station.

Manderfield belongs to another , Sarah reminded herself.

Mama was gone.

There was no reason to stay.

And every reason.

But she could not remain with the new family unless—the most outrageous idea popped into her head.

She couldn’t. Could she?

Mrs. Harmony cleared her throat and put a gentle hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “My lady, you need to get into that carriage. The butler expects Mr. Moulton to arrive at any moment.”

Sarah’s mind still whirled with possibility. “Is he married, Harmony?”

The housekeeper straightened her cap, but more curls escaped from it. “Not that I’ve heard. Just himself and his two younger sisters.”

Sarah shook her head and pulled her arm away from Mrs. Harmony’s touch. “Mr. Phipps, my deepest apologies, but would you please stable the horses?”

“Aye, Lady Sarah,” he said and tipped his hat to her again before flicking the reins to start the horses toward the stable.

Nelly stepped so close to Sarah that their dresses brushed each other. She grabbed Sarah’s arms in a tight grasp, her expression stern, and said, “I love you, Sarah, but you cannot stay. This is no longer your house.”

“I wish to meet the new owner.”

“But, Your Ladyship—” Mrs. Harmony protested from behind Nelly.

“I only wish to welcome him to the neighborhood,” Sarah said with one of her bright smiles. “Prepare tea for us and have it served in the sitting room. I will await him there.”

“But—”

“No buts.”