A stormy winter's night on the Yorkshire moors can be very unforgiving.

Only those with a death wish would dare venture out in such conditions, they say. With the vast planes of grassland offering little protection from the elements, any attempting to journey on foot would find themselves saturated within minutes of struggling through the deep, viscous peat, swaying in the face of the swirling winds threatening to blow them completely off course.

Travelling by carriage would hardly be safer; in these parts the roads are no more than rough dirt tracks, the slick, wet stones just waiting to overturn a passing coach whose shivering driver is too preoccupied with blinking raindrops from his stinging eyes to take notice of the uneven ground.

The pair of figures hurrying down the kitchen steps at the rear of the great house knew all this. Despite bundling themselves up in thick, hooded cloaks, their hair soon clung to their faces in sodden rivulets, while teeth chattered and fingers grew numb as the howling gale swept its way inside the fastenings of their garments. Nature itself seemed eager to remind them of the damage it could cause; of the gravest danger their journey would undoubtedly place them in.

Yet still they ploughed on, stealing anxious glances at each darkened attic room window they passed. The building creaked and sighed as they walked its perimeter, as if the very walls of Lanmeth House wished to alert its inhabitants of their presence – but the servants' bedrooms remained mercifully devoid of any light.

The only source of light, in fact, came from the narrow windows of the stables ahead, and they moved towards it eagerly, drawn almost instinctively like a pair of fireflies. It was not simply the warmth and light that attracted them; rather the beacon of hope the lamp and its bearer represented.

Moving at last under the shelter of the compact building, they sighed gratefully in response to the pleasant change in temperature. With their identical thick, grey cloaks, it had been impossible to distinguish maid from mistress – but now, out of the storm, the slightly taller of the two lowered her hood, her identity revealed by her vivid red hair, recognisable even darkened as it was by the rain. Shaking her head so that droplets bounced off the tight curls, she turned to face the lamp-bearing stable boy; the only friend they had left.

"Is everything in place?" muttered the redhead urgently, by way of greeting.

Her words had the tone of a question; yet the blazing fire in her vivid green eyes made it quite clear there was only one answer she had any interest in hearing.

The stable boy nodded.

"It waits at the end of the drive," he replied hoarsely. "I thought it best not to risk venturing too close to the house."

"A wise move," acknowledged the woman. "Thank you, Theodore - for all you have done."

A brief smile of gratitude illuminated her face, before she turned to address her hunched, still-hooded companion.

"Come – it is time we left."

There was a slight movement from within the folds of the hood, which the redhead took as a nod of assent.

Without a moment's hesitation, she pulled the sodden grey wool about her head once more, face set in resignation as she regarded the howling gale outside. Remaining in the warmth was a far more desirable prospect; but they could not afford to delay their departure any longer. Allowing Theodore and his lamp to pass by first, the women wordlessly followed the stable boy out into the storm once more.

Theodore valiantly shielded the lantern, clutching it to him like a prized talisman; all in vain, for a particularly strong gust of wind made short work of snuffing it out. A ripple of fear seemed to pass through the redheaded woman as the driveway plunged suddenly into complete blackness, reminding her, yet again, of the acute danger they faced.

But no amount of fear for what lay ahead could deter her from embarking on this journey. Following close behind the solid black outline of Theodore, she marched determinedly onwards without a backwards glance towards the house she had called home.

It had been a lonely childhood for Miss Thorpe, daughter to the late master of Lanmeth House. With her mother unable to birth another child, the young girl had quickly learnt there was no joy to be had from residing in a great house with countless rooms, if one had no siblings to share them with. Starved of company and attention from family in the vast, isolated estate that was Lanmeth, the only friend Miss Thorpe could ever recall was her maid.

Ever since her arrival at the house four years ago, the pair had been all but inseparable. Delighted to find herself with company of her own age, and rather ignorant of acceptable social customs, Miss Thorpe rapidly formed a friendship with the girl far surpassing that of a normal working relationship between maid and mistress. Her maid was her confidante; her source of comfort when miserable; her source of entertainment when bored. Aside from the odd day or two, the women had rarely been parted all this time.

But now they were to journey to opposite ends of the country; perhaps never to meet again.

Just as Theodore had promised, the coach lay in wait at the end of the driveway, the soaked scarlet livery of the coachmen barely visible in the gloom. The redheaded woman gave a heavy sigh upon spotting the elaborate golden Royal Mail emblazoned upon the side of the motionless vehicle – there was no turning back now. From the gates of Lanmeth House they would travel to Liverpool, from whence the women would each go their separate ways: one journeying west, to Cheshire, while the other continued south towards London.

Faced with the utter finality of the moment, a hand suddenly shot out of the redhead's cloak, fumbling its way inside that of the hunched figure next to her until it clasped itself firmly around the numb fingers of her very dearest friend.

"Please, Margaret," she implored desperately, one last time. "Are you certain there is no chance you might come with me? The Earl cannot be the beastly man you believe he is – I am sure he will be understanding."

"No."

The single word was cold; devoid of any emotion. With that one syllable, any very last glimmer of hope the young woman held was extinguished as rapidly as the stable boy's lamp, and her face crumbled.

"To accept me into his home would be to publicly disgrace both himself and his family name," muttered Margaret bitterly. "You know that, Mary – you of all people know I cannot hide this forever. Once the truth is out, desire to protect his reputation shall surely precede any sentiment towards me."

Margaret was right; of course she was. At that moment, Mary found herself almost hating her friend, for speaking the very truth she wished to avoid, and she could not contain the violent howl of misery desperate to escape her lips. The strangled sound attracted the attention of the liveried coachmen, but Mary was past caring. There was nothing to care about; not now the person she held dearest in the whole world was to be wrenched cruelly from her life.

"Hush now, Mary," soothed her friend, with an anxious glance at their bleak surroundings. "We must make haste with our departure, if we are to reach the borders of the next county by the time he returns and notices our absence."

Margaret's words stirred a cauldron of guilt deep in the pit of Mary's stomach. Remembering suddenly the real reason for their fleeing Lanmeth, Mary chided herself firmly for her selfish outburst. They were doing this for Margaret, after all. While they would be separated by nearly two hundred miles, Mary took comfort in the knowledge that fate had granted her an opportunity to help her dearest friend from afar. It was about the only thought preserving her sanity at present, and so she clung to it desperately, pulling herself together.

Having alerted the postal workers of their presence with their emotional exchange, the ladies found themselves smoothly bundled into the carriage in the blink of an eye, along with the few meagre possessions they had dared gather. Gowns and jewels had been the last thing on their minds; far more important was the need to make themselves scarce as discreetly as possible. For this reason, the mail coach had been the preferred method of transportation; ghastly though it was to journey through the night in such treacherous conditions, escaping now meant their absence would likely not be noticed until the next morning.

By that point they hoped to be as far south as possible, thought Mary as the coach began to trundle unsteadily along the narrow dirt track leading out of Lanmeth estate. Resisting the urge to give the great gothic house a last, lingering look, she forced her gaze to remain firmly on the pale face directly in front of her. If Margaret felt any fear, she did not show it; her pale lips were set in a thin line of determination as she watched the persistent rain lashing at the window.

For Margaret, in her current state of health, the journey was particularly fraught with danger – but the stubborn woman had insisted, despite Mary's protestations on the matter. Margaret was not a fool; like Mary, she was acutely aware of the very real possibility that they might be robbed en route, or catch a fatal chill from sitting so long in such sodden garments. Yes, they both very well knew the potential consequences of embarking on this journey.

But they also knew the consequences of staying behind.

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A/N: I am very excited to share the prologue of my newest Regency Historical Romance with you! Hopefully this introduction has raised a few questions. Which of the women is headed to Chester, and which is going to London? What could Margaret's health condition be? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments below, and please give it a vote if you enjoyed :)