An early-morning mist shrouded the grounds of the Crosby estate as Grace Thatcher slipped out the front doors. For a moment, she stood alone in the chill and darkness, cherishing the silence and freedom where no one could see her. Then, blessing her good fortune at finding such cover, she crept down the wide steps and disappeared into the fog.  
She quickly realized her difficulty. Without so much as a candle to guide her, she walked as if blind, hands outstretched, and counted careful steps over the dewy grass separating Lord Crosby’s manor from the outbuildings.  

One hundred seventy-eight. One hundred seventy-nine. She dared not speak but kept track in her mind, grateful she had taken the time to pace the way the previous evening when the idea for this early-morning conspiracy had first struck. She took a sharp right and extended her leg slowly, foot tapping the ground, searching for the stone steps that led to the bottom of the hill and the stables. When her boot encountered only grass, she realized she hadn’t walked as straight as she’d supposed. 
No help for it, she thought, dropping to her knees and crawling over the dewy lawn. Better wet knees than a broken one. Lord Crosby’s stairs were steep and likely slippery at this hour. She’d no desire to begin what was sure to be a trying day by falling down them. 
After a few minutes of crawling, her palm struck wet, mossy stone. She started to rise but stopped, listening intently to the sound of labored breathing that was not her own. 
Her heart pounded, and she shrank back, though there was nowhere to hide. The dark and mist were her only cover and would not last forever. A little more light or a little less fog, and she would be visible.  

Exposed — and alone. 
Slowly she reached up and slid a hairpin from her bun.  
The breathing grew closer, coming from the bottom of the hill. Someone was climbing the steps. But who? Or what?  
She waited, hardly daring to breathe, when suddenly a loud sneeze rent the silence. This was followed by a great snort, as if someone were sucking up a cupful of milk through his nose. 
Just Harrison. Grace fell backward on the lawn, sagging with relief. I ought to send him home.  
The countryside did not agree with her servant at all. But as his graying head came into view, his self-sacrifice in aiding her cause did much to warm Grace’s heart on that cold morning. Seeing the older man’s labored breathing and unusually slow progress, she felt a swell of affection for her driver-turned-footman, turned her general caretaker. 
 
 
“What are you doing here?” She stood and gave her skirts a shake, then moved closer to better discern his features. “You nearly scared my wits from me, sounding like any number of ravenous creatures who might be about.” 
 
“Beg pardon, Miss Thatcher.” Harrison snorted again, then sneezed loudly. “Though it’d take much more’n a little noise to relieve you of your wits. You’ve a great deal more about you than most young ladies.” 

“Possibly because I am considerably older than most young ladies,” Grace said, not the least bothered by the fact that at twenty-four she was decidedly an old maid. And a maid she planned to remain, in spite of her current circumstances: on exhibit for a select number of men who might offer marriage. 
Harrison sneezed again, this time bending with the effort. 

“You shouldn’t be out in this chill,” Grace said, drawing her shawl closer. She’d left her cloak at the manor, preferring to have less clothing to hide after her transformation. 
“Had to come,” he said, a note of concern in his voice. “Are you still set to go through with it?” 
 
“I am.” Grace nodded, then hugged her arms beneath the shawl. “I’ve got to.” 
“Hmph.” Harrison’s usual expression could mean any number of things, depending upon the occasion.

“Best get it over with then. Take care on the steps.” 

“It isn’t the steps I’m most worried about,” Grace said, taking care nonetheless. “It’s the riding that has me fearing for my neck.” 

“You’re as fine a rider as any who’ll be going out,” Harrison reassured her. “And lighter in the saddle too.” 

“Let us hope so,” Grace said. “Were you able to get the stable boy’s clothing?” 

He shook his head. “No.” 

Grace’s heart fell. Without a disguise, she would never make it to the lawn. She’d never be permitted anywhere near the hunt.  

“I’ve something better,” Harrison said, a touch of pride in his voice. “Something the duke himself would have approved of.” 
  
At the mention of her grandfather, Grace felt a clutch of sorrow. Were he still alive, she would be acting the part of a gentle-bred lady. Instead, she was being offered up as payment from her father to Lord Crosby. 

“I needn’t anything fancy to ride,” she said. “I’m not proud.” Just desperate to escape this place without an offer of marriage. “A pair of stable boy’s breeches and a horse with a decent gait will do fine.” 
“Not for you,” Harrison said, shaking his head stubbornly. “Your grandfather’d return from the grave to flay me. He’d expect me to do everything in my power to best aid your plan — however peculiar it may be.”  

They reached the barn doors. He opened one for her, and Grace stepped inside. He followed, closing the door behind them, then taking a minute to light a lantern hanging on a peg inside the door. 
Grace rubbed her tired eyes and tried to adjust to her surroundings. Harrison trudged by, sneezing as he passed, and led her to the second-to-the-last stall. 

 
“Go on and look,” he said, holding the lantern high, which illuminated his face alight with an expression akin to a child’s at Christmas.  

Grace peeked over the stall; there was no animal inside, so she swung the door open but stopped before she’d even taken a step. Her eyes were riveted on a scarlet coat, black top hat, and buff breeches, all hanging from nails at the back.  

“Oh, Harrison.” She breathed out a sigh of utmost gratitude before turning her most radiant smile upon him. “You’ve outdone yourself. However did you come upon these? Outfitted like this, I shall be able to ride very near Lord Crosby.” 

“And unseat him when you do.” Harrison chuckled. “It would have done you no good to pose as an earth stopper. You wouldn’t have been able to get close enough for his lordship to notice.” 
  
“He’ll notice me now.” Grace imagined the expression on pompous Lord Crosby’s face after he’d discovered a woman riding with him on the hunt. He’ll be furious. 
Best not to be too close to him when that happens. 
She stepped into the stall for a better look at the huntsman’s kit. Her fingers traced the gold buttons fronting the coat. “Specially made buttons for his hunt.” She wrinkled her nose at the Crosby seal. “Disgusting.  It shallpain me to wear this. The stable boy’s clothing, at least, would not have had his crest.” 

“I wouldn’t be sure about that,” Harrison said. “Look around. Most everything bears his name or coat of arms. The fox they catch on his land today’ll probably have a Crosby brand burned into it already.” 
  
Imagining Lord Crosby doing the same to her were she to remain much longer, Grace rubbed her arms briskly, attempting to ward off the cold — and the chilling thought. Since her arrival three days earlier, he had chosen what she ate for each meal. He’d sent specific gowns up for her to wear. He’d instructed her in what to say to other guests during dinner. And in general, he had paraded her around in a manner befitting a child’s prized toy. She was to look and act a certain way, with no deviation whatsoever. 
Today I am deviating.  
Grace snatched the clothing from the wall and began pulling the stall door shut so she could change.  

Harrison turned his back to her and walked toward the stable doors. “I’ll stand watch.” 

“And I’ll hurry. I still need to become acquainted with the horse I am to ride.” Grace quickly discarded the borrowed servant’s clothing. She’d had to dress without the help of her lady’s maid, so she had nothing cumbersome to worry over.  
Men’s clothing is so much simpler, she thought as she pulled on the breeches and shirt and buttoned the coat. The latter was large, but that was to be expected. She didn’t care, so long as the fit looked decent enough for her to blend in with the others on the hunt. 
  
Her hair was already pinned up, but she took care to tuck any stray wisps into the hat. No point in revealing my identity before I am ready.  

She exited the barn and turned slowly for Harrison to see. “Well, what do you think?”  

His eyes remained averted, refusing to look at her directly. “You’re wearing women’s boots.”   

“They’ll have to do.” Grace shrugged. “I’ve got to have control of my feet, haven’t I?” 

“I suppose.” Harrison came forward, raising his head slightly. A look of consternation creased his brow. “May I?” He nodded at her poorly tied cravat.  

“Please,” Grace said. “In addition to your numerous other duties, you may act the part of valet as well.” 
  
Harrison frowned. “I’ll leave the fussing over clothes to Miranda.” But he adjusted the cravat then stepped back. 

Grace smiled at him. She took a deep breath, clearing her mind and steadying her resolve for the act she was about to undertake. “I’m ready.”  

“Ready to catch a fox?” 

Grace wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. The poor things. Don’t remind me.” 

“I meant Lord Crosby. We must remove you from his teeth before you’re good and stuck. Now, are you ready to catch a fox?“

Grace laughed. “Oh yes. And Lord Crosby is the worst kind there is.”

---

The horse Harrison had found was quite remarkable. Grace hadn’t had the privilege of riding for close to a year, and her first few minutes — albeit in a saddle and position she was not accustomed to — were sheer joy.  Freedom! Her heart soared, and it was all she could do to not ignore those gathering for the hunt and ride off on her own. But there was her younger sister Helen to think of, so Grace slowed her mount and  reined in upon the outskirts of the whippers-in.  
Harrison had said she was wearing the clothing of a Baron Davies, one of the youngest participants, who’d suddenly become ill last night. At Harrison’s request, Grace had not inquired as to how sick the baron was or how his untimely illness had come about. But she had been assured that after a day spent becoming well-acquainted with a chamber pot, the baron could be expected to make a full recovery.  
By then Grace planned to have his clothing safely returned and to be well on her journey away from Lord Crosby’s. But for now she hung back, on the fringe of those gathering for the meet. She’d readied herself a full half hour ahead of the others, and from a distance she watched Lord Crosby greet the assembly. 
 
Will he miss Baron Davies on the hunt? She had no idea how close a friendship the two had, but the baron was a guest and had been invited to hunt, which indicated that they were at least on amicable terms.  Not too intimate apparently. Grace watched with relief as Lord Crosby gave the command and the hounds moved off. The party dispersed a little, following the pack at a leisurely pace. Again Grace hung back. She didn’twant Crosby to discover her yet.  For the damage to be greatest — for him to be furious enough to be done with me — he needs to realize that I’ve been here for some time, and that I can ride. As well as he can, she hoped. 
  
The cries of baying hounds sounded across the field, followed by what Grace thought was a rather lackluster horn. Disappointing. For all of Lord Crosby’s hot air, she had expected more. 
In spite of the uninspiring call, the riders took off in earnest, Grace among them, moving from the edge to the middle of the pack. The hounds barked louder, indicating they’d caught the fox’s scent. 
  
Poor thing. She knew what it was to feel trapped. Thus far she had been fortunate in avoiding capture. Some years before she’d had a close call when her father arranged for her to marry Sir Edmund Crayton, a man known for piracy, and to whom her father owed a great debt. Her skin yet crawled when she reflected upon her one meeting with Crayton, on the way he had openly appraised her, as if she were a delectable morsel he was about to devour. Though he had only touched her arm and face briefly, she’d felt defiled. She’d had to scrub her skin raw and rinse twice in her bath that night before she’d felt clean again. Thankfully, Grandfather’s timely arrival in their lives had spared her the actual marriage. And now? Lord Crosby did not scare her as Crayton had. Possibly because she was older, but more likely because he was a different sort of man. Grace could tell he wasn’t interested in her other than as another object to own. Were he to make her his bride, she would be put on display and made to act and look perfect. There would be no affection between them, no mutual respect or friendship. And most certainly, no freedom. 

After six years at Grandfather’s — years free from debt collectors, her father’s temper, and worry over providing for Christopher and Helen — Grace could not bear to live without the liberties she’d become used to. She had to free them all from their father, but independence would not be had if she ended up in bondage to another man. 
  
“Tally-ho!”  

The shout snapped Grace from her reverie. It was time. Lord Crosby must recognize me now. She leaned forward, gripping the reins as the horse obeyed her command and flew across the field. Grace wove in and out of the other riders, her grip and concentration never slacking. She was nearing the head of the group; she could see the back of Lord Crosby’s head and how stiffly he perched in the saddle.  
As if he is afraid he may muss his hair.  She edged closer, changing her angle until she was but a length behind and riding parallel to him. She dug in her heels, and with a burst of speed, overtook him. 

“Glorious day for a hunt, is it not?” she called as she flew past. 
 
As expected, Lord Crosby quickly regained his position as lead. For a minute they rode neck and neck, and Grace dared not take her eyes off the uneven course to look at him. She leaned forward, stretching with the horse as they jumped and cleared a felled tree. Their horses slowed as they neared the pack of baying hounds.  

“Miss — Thatcher?” Lord Crosby’s voice sounded hesitant. 

He does not believe what he is seeing.

“Good day, Lord Crosby. Such a fine morning, is it not?” 
  
“It most certainly is not.” He glowered at her and reined in. “That is to say, it was, until a moment ago when you — you desecrated this noble event with your presence.” 

“Oh,” Grace said, her mouth opening with feigned shock. “Such words, and from a gentleman.” 
“You speak of words when a lady such as yourself appears at a hunt — wearing breeches.” 
“Do not forget my cravat,” Grace added, jutting her chin out for him to see. “It is tied splendidly, don’t you think?” 

The other riders had caught up and were slowing their horses and coming closer to discover the reason for the delay.  Grace took the opportunity to remove her hat and hairpins. She shook her curls out, so they tumbled across her shoulders. “Good day, gentlemen,” she said pleasantly. She had no argument with any of them — other than her main objection that they were men, and thus prone, with the exception of Grandfather and Harrison, to being a difficulty in a woman’s life. 
A few returned her greeting with, “Good day.” Most looked to Lord Crosby, open curiosity upon their faces, and a few with expressions of shock and outrage as evident as his. 
 
“How dare you.” Crosby pointed a finger at Grace and spoke so loudly that those nearby could hear. “How dare you join my hunt.” 

“Many women hunt,” Grace said. Not that I am fighting for that privilege.  

“Not on my land, they don’t. A — away with you,” Lord Crosby said, waving her off as if she were a bothersome insect. 

“Well.” Grace sat straight and tugged on the bottom of her too-large jacket. “If that is how you feel.” 

“It is.” 
  
They stared at each other for a long moment, Grace narrowing her eyes in challenge. Come, Lord Crosby, you can show more anger than that. Be furious with me — so irate that you never wish to see me again.  His face grew crimson, but not with the anger she had expected.  
Is he — blushing?  
 
 Lord Crosby broke their gaze and looked down, pretending to clear his throat.  
His bluster has been but an act. He wants a docile female because he doesn’t know what to do with any other kind. I have intimidated him, she realized with some distress. 
This turn of events was not good. She didn’t want the man cowed into allowing her to stay. 

“I suppose you would like me to return to my embroidery,” she said, in her most disrespectful tone. 

“Actually —” Lord Crosby cleared his throat again.  

“Yes?” Grace said. Be harsh now. I know you can. 

“Return to your room and pack your things.” His words came out in a rush. 
  
Grace widened her eyes and leaned back, acting as if he had wounded her. The ruse worked; Lord Crosby raised a fist. 

“When I return, if you are still in my home …” He hesitated, as if scrambling for an appropriate threat.

 
“You will throw me out without my belongings?” Grace suggested. 

“Yes!” He stood in his saddle, towering over her. “That is exactly what I will do.”  

Grace resisted the urge to laugh. Instead she pursed her lips and wrinkled her brow, doing her best to look thoroughly upset. “I never!” 

Never would have believed this could be so simple. Would that I hadn’t put up with three days of him first. 

She urged her mount forward and threw a last, disdainful glance over her shoulder. Little wonder Lord Crosby is nearing fifty and not yet wed. He is afraid of women.   

“Farewell gentlemen,” she called, perhaps a little too merrily, as her horse broke into a gallop. 
For a few wonderful moments, she felt the wind in her hair and the ground moving beneath her as she basked in the glory of her success and newfound freedom.  A step closer to it, at least, she thought as she neared the stables, where she saw Harrison waiting for her. I must play this out a little longer.

 
“Has the fox been caught already?” he asked, coming to help her dismount. 

“I was kind; I let him go free,” Grace said, smiling to herself.  

Harrison’s eyes drew together in a perplexed look. 

“I shall tell you all about it on our journey,” Grace said. “We have been summarily dismissed. It would be best if we are gone before Lord Fox — I mean, Lord Crosby — returns.” 

“Good,” Harrison said, handing her the bundle of her previously discarded clothing. “Because our next gentleman, Sir Richard Lidgate, is expecting you for dinner.” 

Grace sighed. It seemed her freedom was short-lived. But if she didn’t at least appear to be playing Father’s game, it would be Helen who suffered.  “Lidgate.” She rolled the name around in her mind. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “How much does Father owe him?” 

“Not a red cent,” Harrison said. 
  
“Then why —” 

“Sir Lidgate is one of the wealthiest men in Yorkshire.” Harrison scowled. “He’s also had more than his share of women — only now he’s looking to settle. His reputation being what it is, he has been unable to procure a bride in the usual fashion.” 

The victory of shaking off Lord Crosby dimmed considerably with this news. “Lidgate is willing to pay handsomely for a wife?” 

Harrison nodded, the look in his eyes having changed to the pity Grace had so often seen there since Grandfather’s death. “Your father’s line may be of little consequence, but you’re the granddaughter of a duke, and him not around to have a say about who you end up with.” 
  
And with a father who has no scruples about it.  Harrison would never dare to voice the thought, yet the truth of it was known by all. Grace began walking toward the manor.

“Yet again, my status as a lady appears to prove problematic. Perhaps I shall need to take up wearing breeches and riding astride in front of Lidgate. That may dissuade him as well.” 

“I wouldn’t plan on that, Miss Thatcher,” Harrison said, falling into step behind her.  “Lidgate’s not the type who’ll be concerned with your behavior, nor your mind. He’ll be feasting his eyes, in a manner of speaking.” 

A blush heated Grace’s face. “Harrison,” she admonished. “Please.” 
  
“I’m sorry, miss.” He lowered his head, as if to prove he was contrite. “Miranda and I thought you should be forewarned.” 

“Thank you,” Grace said. “Please ready the carriage. I shall be but a few minutes.”

She left Harrison near the base of the stairs and began the climb, the joy from her morning success all but gone.  Before nightfall she would be faced with yet another man, one likely worse than Lord Crosby. A man who wasn’t afraid of women, but one she might have every reason to fear. 

---