This is an unused scene from Crossing the Lyon, my contribution to Night of Lyons. I had to write 7,000 words before I found the start of the story, so I thought I’d share some of the words I took out. My heroine has knocked on the door of the hero seeking shelter against the stormy night.

Ursula thought about the Beaumont brothers as she draped her wet clothing over a laundry rack that hung from the ceiling near the stove. They knew she was a woman; she was certain of it. She had seen the realisation dawn on first the one, and then the other.

There. That was the last item. At least, apart from the bandages, everything she wore was made originally for a man. She was not hanging a female’s unmentionables in a gentleman’s kitchen.

She should go out and face them. She quailed at the thought, but took courage from Mr Roy Beaumont’s recognition of her dilemma and the consideration that came up with the scullery as a solution.

She was alone in a house with three men she did not know. On the other hand, she was warm and dry.

No one knew where she was. If she disappeared, her employers might notice when she did not turn up for work, but only Nora would miss her and make an attempt to find her. And Nora was three hour’s ride away, in London, and not expecting to see Ursula again for another five days.

On the other hand, the brothers Beaumont did not look or behave like monsters. Those who worked for them thought well of them, and in a small community, it was hard to hide misbehaviour of the sort she feared.

In any case, unless she wanted to go back out into the storm, she had to trust them, at least to a degree. However, before she left the kitchen, she took a knife from a rack and hid it in the folds of her robe. Her preferred clothing kept her safe from most who employed a handyman-gardener, since few actually looked at her and saw her.

Most, but not all. She had been forced to defend herself several times, though she wondered if she would have fought so hard if any of them had actually asked instead of merely attempting to take.

After all, ruined was ruined. She worked for a living. She dressed as a man and did manual labour. Her father had killed himself rather than face his own failures. Her sister worked as a seamstress, which in the eyes of many meant she must be a harlot, as many seamstresses were, poor things, their wages being so low.

Still, virtue—and, to be honest, pride—had kept her and Nora from taking the expected path of those who were ruined. So far. Though tonight, she was so cold, that she might do anything asked of her just to keep from being turned back outside into the rain.

Ursula put her hand on the door to the parlour, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The Beaumont brothers confirmed her belief they knew she was a woman by standing as she entered the room.

“Come and sit by the fire,” Mr Roy Beaumont invited, waving to a chair between the two the brothers were occupying.

She did as he suggested, taking heart that he offered her a chair of her own. She could feel the heat of the fire on her face and on the hands she stretched towards the flames, but still the cold racked her core, and she shivered.

“Would you like a brandy to help warm you?” Mr Roy asked.

“Just a little one,” Mr Ban Beaumont warned his brother, then turned his gaze to Ursa. “Unless you are used to brandy, Miss Ursa? A little is a good idea, but too much may leave you with a sore head in the morning.”

She was right. They had realised she was female. No point in dissembling. “Ursula,” she volunteered. “My name is Ursula Kingsmead. And yes, I will try a little brandy.” Anything to feel warm again.

Mr Roy crossed the room to a tray with decanters and glasses, and Mr Ban took a rug from the back of a sofa by the window and brought it to her. “Tuck this around you, Miss Kingsmead. Or is it Mrs? Or Lady?”

“Miss,” Ursula admitted. She and Nora had still been in the schoolroom when her father died and the creditors had seized everything. Since then, they had had offers, but not for marriage.

She wrapped herself in the blanket, and accepted the brandy. The brothers stood until she remembered the manners she had been taught so long ago. “Please. Won’t you sit down?” she said.

Mr Roy was correct. The brandy spread its warmth down her throat and into her chest. The blanket Mr Ban had provided also helped. She sat huddled in the blanket, sipping from her glass, and staring into the flames. Bit by bit, the shudders stopped as she began to warm.

The brothers made no effort to engage her in conversation, instead, they spoke to one another, casual conversation about what each had been doing during the day. Mr Roy had been out on one of the tenant farms, helping a horse that was foaling. He owned the horse, apparently, and had high hopes for the foal. “She is as beautiful as her mother, Roy, and if she is as fast, we’ll have twice the chance to breed the stallion we need.”

Mr Ban had been to London for a meeting about some sort of a container that would revolutionise—Mr Ban’s words—food preservation.

“I said I would have to consult with my partner,” Mr Ban concluded.

“Does it taste any good?” Mr Roy asked. “Will there be a market for it?”

“Military,” Mr Ban said. “The army will leap at it. Navy, too. Preserved food on a long march or a longer voyage? It will taste better than dried meat and beans, I should imagine.”

“Good point. We should try some, Ban. But if it is in the least edible, I say we invest.”

Investment. Horse breeding. Farming. Mr Beaumont senior may have lost most of the family’s money, but apparently the brothers were making it back again. Ursula wished she could have done as well. It had been all she and Nora could manage just to keep body and soul together.

At least Nora had a safe place to live with her employer. The dressmaker valued Nora’s skills, but her protectiveness towards Ursula’s sister also suggested an affection to which the woman would never admit.

Ursula, on the other hand, had come back from her Sunday visit to her sister to find the shack in which she had been living had burned to the ground while she was out, and with it everything Ursula owned that wasn’t on her back.

Thank goodness she had worn her man’s disguise for the trip to and from London, for if she had gone to work these past two days dressed as a woman, she would already have been fired.

Her sigh attracted the attention of the brothers.

“Are you back with us, Miss Kingsmead?” asked Mr Roy.

“Are you hungry, Miss Kingsmead?” Mr Ban said, at the same moment.

She looked from one to the other. “I do not wish to be an imposition,” she said, even as her stomach growled.

Mr Roy grinned, and got to his feet. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He left the room.

“It is no trouble, Miss Kingsmead,” Mr Ban assured her. “Our cook always leaves plenty for us for supper, and my brother and I have eaten. You will not object to eating in here? I could light a fire in the dining room…”

Ursula was not sure that she could force herself to leave the warmth of her cocoon of blankets. “I have no objection,” she said, faintly.

Mr Ban smiled, and put another log on the fire.