Miss Bradshaw's Bought Betrothal. Virginia Heath

Evie was a coward who never, ever argued back in case she did send her father spinning in his grave, she changed the subject. ‘This is a lovely party, Mother.’ The room was filled with Hyacinth’s cronies. Aside from Great-Aunt Winnie, Evie did not call a single person present her friend. All of her childhood friends were now married and had abandoned London years ago. Not that there had been many of them after her mother fell ill and Evie had been dragged from her own life to nurse her, then soon after had to become a nursemaid to her father as well. Clearly fate had always intended she be left gathering dust on the shelf.

      ‘It was the best I could manage on such short notice and on such a tight budget.’ Hyacinth loathed the very idea of a fixed budget. Up until Evie’s father had died, she had spent with impunity and found Evie’s control of the purse-strings galling. ‘I fail to understand why you would wish to penny-pinch for your own engagement party.’

      ‘I have hardly penny-pinched, Mother. There is plenty of everything and our guests do not appear deprived.’ And Evie could not quite bring herself to waste good money on this mockery; not when she had so many plans for her inheritance.

      ‘On the subject of finances,’ Hyacinth said too casually, ‘I am a trifle confused as to how all this is going to work, Evelyn. Running this house is expensive.’

      How many times in the last few days had they had a version of this conversation? Living entirely rent free in what was now Evie’s house in Mayfair was never going to be good enough for her stepfamily. Her father had insisted that Hyacinth should keep everything that she had been bequeathed by her first husband and had left her several thousand pounds a year, so she was hardly on the cusp of entering the poorhouse. As far as Evie could recall, she had never seen the woman spend a farthing of her personal hoard. She much preferred to leech off Evie. ‘I shall continue to pay for the staff in my absence, so I doubt that you will have to dip into your own—’

      ‘It is not for myself that I am worried. My dear girls, your dear sisters, have grown up accustomed to a particular standard of living which has led them to expect a certain kind of future. I only hope that I can maintain it on my frugal allowance, I would hate to see their chances of making a suitable match quashed because we cannot afford to attend all of the right entertainments.’

      Hyacinth’s definition of frugal left a lot to be desired. ‘Surely I am allowed to have a future, too?’ Evie even managed to look winsome as she said this, but perhaps the wistful sigh was laying it on a bit thick. Her stepmother’s lips pursed again and it took her a moment to choke out a reply.

      ‘Of course, my dear. You know that I wish you every happiness.’ Just in case Evie changed her mind and threw them all out of her Mayfair town house. ‘But I am neglecting our guests.’

      Hyacinth wandered off, leaving Evie alone hiding in the alcove and watching the festivities from a distance, as usual. Theirs was, at best, a very distant relationship. Even though they had lived in the same house for ten years, any conversation between them longer than five minutes was intolerable for Hyacinth. Her stepdaughter was merely a means to an end. If she had not had substantial ‘means’, Evie was in no doubt Hyacinth would have happily severed all contact between them as soon as her second husband was in the ground.

      ‘Their’ guests were either friends of Hyacinth’s or people Hyacinth was keen to befriend. Her stepmother was determined to climb her way into the upper echelons of society by whatever means she deemed necessary. Unfortunately, the upper echelons were less keen on welcoming the social-climbing widow of a merchant into their ranks, but Hyacinth still persisted. Tirelessly.

      Evie had no interest in the higher echelons, or the lower ones for that matter. To them, as she was to practically everyone, she was invisible. As a result, she had not bothered ordering a new gown for her final appearance in London society. What was the point? Hyacinth’s seamstress despaired of her drab and plump stepdaughter.

      Evie couldn’t blame her. Her unfashionably generous figure was a difficult canvas. In fine fabrics, it resembled a bag stuffed full of onions and heavy wool just made her wideness wider. As much as Evie hated to agree with Hyacinth about anything, she did agree with her stepmother’s often lamented assessment of her unfortunate appearance and the fact that one could not make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, no matter how much money one paid the modiste.

      Seeing her standing alone in the corner of the room, her awful fiancé raised his glass in the air in a silent toast, but made no move to come towards her. She waved politely for the sake of the charade and did her best to ignore the rising bile in her throat.

      It was difficult to find anything to like about Fergus. He was a selfish wastrel with excessive spending habits. He was also entirely untrustworthy—character traits which had made him the perfect choice. He desperately needed some money and she desperately wanted to be free of Hyacinth, but lacked the courage to tell her. As soon as she had realised that he had a small estate in the north, a good week’s drive away from London and in a part of the country Hyacinth would never visit, she tentatively offered him a bargain. On the verge of bankruptcy and with debt collectors hammering on his door, the Marquis of Stanford was delighted to accept.

      The house, a place to live whilst she bought one of her own, far, far away from all the awful memories of Mayfair, was the most important part of their bargain. A house. On her own. To do whatever she wanted. No longer the nursemaid, pitied old maid or the source of the funds. Or the dutiful daughter who had promised her father to treat his second wife as she had her own mother. This house was a painful reminder of that vow which Hyacinth took every opportunity to remind her of. The north was a place where she hoped she could reinvent herself, be happy and finally climb out of her chrysalis.

      She did not expect to emerge like a butterfly—butterflies were far too lovely an insect for Evie to aspire to—but she was quietly confident that she could perhaps be a moth. In the dark, when nobody saw them, moths still flew. In the north, without all of the responsibilities and reminders of London, there were hundreds of things that she was desperate to do. Yes, indeed, Evie had great plans for the future. And they very definitely did not include the Marquis of Stanford. Fergus could pickle his organs back in London after she was safely ensconced in the north, with her blessing. Quite frankly, she did not care if she never saw the dreadful man again.

      Thus she would finally leave this house that held so many bad memories and would start a new chapter in her life. It was time to say goodbye to Miss Evelyn Bradshaw, eternal spinster, wallflower, over-generous benefactor and doormat. Evie had no idea what her future held, but one thing she was entirely certain of. When she drove out of Mayfair later, she was never, ever coming back.

      * * *

      The journey north had been interminable. Never a good traveller, Evie had spent the duration of the five-day trip either ill or on the cusp of being ill. Fortunately, Aunt Winnie, who had always been a force to be reckoned with, had insisted that the journey be broken up with restorative overnight stays at strategically placed coaching inns so that they could regain some of their equilibrium. She and Aunt Winnie retired to their room every evening after supper and Fergus enjoyed the taprooms until the small hours. Judging by the sorry state of him most mornings, Evie wished she had had the foresight to supply him with his own coach.

      It had been dark by the time they finally arrived at Fergus’s Yorkshire estate and although she was wilting with exhaustion, Evie had been pleasantly surprised by the place. She had expected neglect and dilapidation, but the Palladian manor house was anything but. They were immediately greeted by an ancient butler who appeared totally astounded to see them. Fergus swiftly ushered Evie and her aunt into a well-appointed drawing room while he spoke to the butler and housekeeper alone. Soon a fortifying tray of tea was brought to them which they sipped while their rooms were prepared and luggage carried in. Too tired to explore the house or to socialise, Evie had retired as soon as she was able and her vile fake fiancé and carriage left to settle in the local inn.

      * * *

      Several hours later, Evie found herself wide awake and staring at the strange ceiling more than a little overwhelmed. She had done it! Quiet, plain, invisible Evelyn had done the unthinkable and escaped. Two hundred miles of relentless road now separated her from