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Georgette walked out of the door; her entire focus centred on the knife point pressed against the small of her back.

She knew if she got into the carriage she was doomed.

Yet she knew too that Lord Amberson would save her if he could, but he would not risk Hanover using the knife.

The look in the villain’s eyes had left them in no doubt that he was quite mad and would not hesitate.

No, she must give Amberson an opportunity, but how?

As her footsteps slowed and she moved down the front steps as deliberately as she dared, she saw the carriage only feet away, and knew this was her last chance.

Moving so suddenly Hanover had not the time to grab her, Georgette fell to the floor as though she had tripped. The hard stone of the steps jolted against her bones and pain lanced through her elbow and knees, but she rolled down the steps and under the carriage.

With a yell of fury, Hanover lurched forward, but Amberson was there at once, and the two men fell, struggling desperately as Hanover fought to gain control of the knife.

―Excerpt of His Grace and Disfavour, by an anonymous author.

2 nd December 1850, Goshen Court, Monmouthshire.

Though he rode like the devil was at his heels, it was almost twenty past three before Pip made it to Monmouth. He went directly to the inn where Tilly had said they had seen Lord Wendover.

“Lord Ashburton,” said the innkeeper, Mr Turnbull, turning pale at the sight of him. “I didn’t tell him where you were, I swear it, but I—”

“Calm yourself.” Pip shook his head. “I owe you a debt of thanks for what you did, but you cannot be held responsible for the rest of the world. He was bound to find us. More importantly, where is Mrs Harris?” he added, lowering his voice.

Turnbull led Pip behind the bar and into a private room where there was no risk of being overheard.

“Poor lady was in a terrible tizzy,” he said, his round face creased with anxiety.

“Wanted to get to Norfolk. Was asking about what carriage and getting trains and the like, but a pretty young woman like that, travelling all alone? Well, it didn’t sit right with me, so I took her to Ewan Davies.

He’s a trustworthy fellow, an excellent coachman, and his prices are fair.

She said her uncle would pay the shot, whatever it was, so he’ll come out of it right, I reckon.

But he’s taking her where she needs to go, don’t you fret. ”

“Thank God,” Pip said with relief, some of the tension draining out of him. “I shall never be able to repay you, Mr Turnbull, but I shall endeavour to do so. You have put my mind at ease. I think I do not need to explain to you the need for discretion?”

“You’ll not hear a peep of it from me or my staff,” Turnbull said firmly.

“As for repayment, you just keep coming and enjoying my wife’s cooking, and bring that pretty daughter of yours, for my missus fair dotes on her, she does.

Loves the way she eats up all the Welsh Cakes till she’s fit to burst.”

Pip smiled at this description of his daughter. “That I can promise you, Mr Turnbull,” he said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a long journey ahead of me.”

4 th December 1850, Goshen Court, Monmouthshire.

“Miss Hamilton?”

Genevieve jolted awake to see the concerned face of Mr Davies staring at her.

She blinked, woken from an uneasy dream after falling asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Every bone in her body ached from so many hours in the carriage.

They had made two overnight stops and each time she had been treated with suspicion and disrespect by the innkeepers.

A woman travelling alone and without luggage could not be respectable.

Having to practically beg them for a bed for the night, she had felt shabby and embarrassed beyond bearing by their obvious opinions.

They had both relented in the end, but foisted their worst rooms upon her, and charged the earth for them too.

Too desperate to refuse, Genevieve had paid over the coins for rooms which were damp and dingy, with lumpy beds and so she had slept little.

If not for the need to rest the horses and allow Mr Davies to sleep, she would have preferred they kept going.

As it was, she had insisted they leave at daybreak and now exhaustion blurred the edges of her mind, her head throbbing with fatigue and misery.

Blearily, she forced herself to sit up straight, one hand going to her hair to see if the severe coiffure she always adopted had survived. She feared not.

“Mr Davies?” she croaked, finding her voice dry and rusty from disuse.

He was a kindly man of perhaps fifty years, with a thick black beard and twinkling brown eyes that glittered in the light of the lamp he held, for it was dark outside. Now he looked at her with a smile, concern crinkling his eyes. “I know you’re worn to a thread, miss, but we’re here at last.”

“What?” Genevieve stared at him, hardly able to believe the hellish journey was over.

She took his proffered hand and stepped down, her legs unsteady with fatigue, protesting from so many hours of sitting still.

As she looked up at the impressive facade of Cawston Hall, a sob rose in her throat and she forced it down.

She would not greet her uncle looking like a distraught waif in need of rescuing.

She had rescued herself, just as she always did, and would hold her head up.

As she watched, the imposing front door opened and footmen appeared, bearing lamps. At their head came a tall, slender man whose familiar face almost made Genevieve succumb to tears after all.

He regarded Mr Davies with haughty disapproval and then his critical gaze fell upon Genevieve, who could well imagine what an unprepossessing sight she must be at present.

“Good evening, Bunting,” she said with a smile. “Do you remember me? It’s Genevieve.”

Bunting stared at her, eyes wide, and then gave a cry, stepping forward as if to embrace her and then remembering he was the family butler and not an intimate.

“Miss Hamilton,” he said instead, his voice thick with emotion as he held out his hands to her.

“Oh, miss, you are a sight for sore eyes and no mistake. We have been so very worried for you.”

“Thank you,” Genevieve said, her spirits lifting from the depths of despair where they had crashed to what seemed like weeks ago now but could be only three days. “Is the marquess at home?”

“He is,” Bunting said at once. “Oh, how glad he will be! But come, Miss Hamilton, I must not keep you out in the cold. Wherever are my manners? I shall tell Mrs Tweedy, and she’ll cook you up something to warm you through.

How excited she will be! And I’ll have a hot bath readied for you, and your room will be prepared in a trice, you’ll see. ”

Genevieve smiled wearily, grateful to be carried along by Bunting’s cheerful chatter, and finding herself glad to be so welcomed into her uncle’s home.

It had always been strange to call him uncle when they were relatively close in age.

He had always been more a brother to her.

This was the one place she had ever felt had been her home, and though she had not believed the staff would have forgotten her, to be remembered so fondly was touching.

“Who’s here, Bunting?” called an enquiring voice from the stairs.

“Oh, Lady Wrexham, you will never believe it. His lordship’s niece, Miss Hamilton, has returned to us.”

“Oh, my dear!”

Though Genevieve had never actually met Emmeline, she felt she knew her from Delia and Rex’s letters, and so was not entirely surprised when the lovely young woman bounded down the stairs and hugged her with enthusiasm.

“How wonderful! I am so happy. Goodness, you look exhausted, you poor darling. Come at once and we will get you warm and fed so you can rest. Oh, Rex is going to be delighted. He’s been so worried about you! ”

Genevieve laughed, a little overwhelmed, but allowed her pretty young aunt to take her hand and lead her into a beautiful parlour filled with comfortable furnishing, piled rugs, and a fire that blazed merrily in the hearth.

Genevieve paused on the threshold, startled to see her uncle, the Marquess of Wrexham.

He looked different, she realised. Better.

Happiness must do that to a man. He had always been handsome and well made, but the last time she had seen him he had been in a dark place, his unseeing eyes shadowed, his face tense with stress.

Being blind, he was astonishingly perceptive, and he looked up at once upon hearing footsteps.

“Milly? Who is that with you?” he demanded, his voice full of suspicion.

“You’ll never believe it, my darling. It’s such a wonderful surprise,” Emmeline said, sounding breathless with excitement.

Rex shot to his feet, his entire frame taut with expectation. “Genevieve?”

“Good evening, Rex,” Genevieve said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.

Rex held out his arms to her. “Vivi, my dearest niece, can it be true?”

Genevieve ran into his arms and hugged him tightly, struggling not to cry as his arms tensed around her, embracing her so fiercely she wondered if he feared she might disappear like a will o’ the wisp. “It’s true. It’s really me. I’m here.”

Rex let out a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him, a source of regret he had held onto for a long time. “Welcome home, my dear,” he said softly.

Even though Genevieve was glad, so glad to be back with her family, with the people she loved, she knew this was not her home anymore.

That was somewhere else now, and she wondered if she would ever see it again.

Would the earl forgive her for what she had done?

Would he allow her to be a friend, at least to Tilly?

Overcome by tiredness and fatigue, the sob she had been holding back for so long finally overcame her, and Genevieve wept, while the uncle who was so dear to her held her close and promised her everything would be all right.