Chapter One
December 1763, in Surrey, en route to Rothgar Abbey
“Many people pray for tedium,” Genova Smith’s mother had often said to her as a girl if she complained that she was bored. It had not convinced her then, and didn’t now. Two long days in a slow-moving coach, no matter how luxurious, had tested her tolerance to the breaking point.
Her companions were not dull. The elderly Trayce ladies could be excellent company. Fat Lady Calliope Trayce was gruffly insightful. Thin Lady Thalia was charmingly eccentric. They could play three-handed whist forever.
However, being eighty-four and seventy-seven, they slipped into a doze now and then, as now. Tilted against the sides of the coach, they looked like mismatched bookends, one snorting, one whistling.
Genova’s books had worn out their appeal, and she couldn’t do needlework in the swaying, jolting coach. Though she’d never say so, even cards had become tedious.Dear Lord, send a diversion. Even a highwayman!
The coach stopped.
Genova looked out with alarm. Surely prayers like that weren’t answered. Heart beating faster, she slipped her pistol out of her carriage bag. She had to admit that her rapid heart was caused by excitement rather than fear.
Action, at last.
She’d checked and cocked the gun before she realizedthat highwaymen would make some sound. Didn’t they shout, “Stand and deliver!” or some such?
Besides, no sane highwayman would attempt to stop an entourage of three carriages and four armed outriders, not even if tempted by the gilded ostentation of this vehicle. The Trayce ladies were ensconced in the personal traveling chariot of their great-nephew, the Marquess of Ashart.
Genova had a low opinion of the marquess from a portrait of him that hung on his great-aunts’ wall in Tunbridge Wells, showing a vapid, powdered, and primped creature. This coach had confirmed her opinion. No true man needed deep padding, silk-lined walls, and ornate, gilded candle sconces—not to mention paintings of nubile nymphs on the ceiling.
The coach was still stationary. Genova was sitting with her back to the horses, so she couldn’t see the cause. She leaned forward and craned.
Ah. A coach was in the ditch, and the stranded traveler, a lady, was talking to Hockney, the chief outrider. The sky was low and trees whipped in a sharp wind. With the icy temperature out there, the poor lady must be freezing. They would have to take her up to the next inn.
Genova glanced at the Trayce ladies, wondering if it was within her powers to decide that. They’d asked her to come on this journey as their lady companion—“For you’ve had such adventures!” Thalia had exclaimed—but her precise duties had never been specified.
Anyway, Genova knew her “employment” had been an act of charity as much as necessity. The ladies had known she was uncomfortable in her stepmother’s house, and offered escape. She wanted to reward them with good care, however, so what should she do here?
Her neck was protesting the angle, so she straightened. Perhaps Hockney, too, wasn’t sure he had the authority. She shrugged and gathered her cloak from the seat beside her. She despised ditherers, and what choice was there?
She opened the door and climbed out, gasping asthe icy air bit. She shut the door quickly before too much of the warmth escaped, then swung her cloak around herself, pulled up the hood, and fastened it.
The thick blue cloak was a gift from the Trayce ladies, and the most luxurious Genova had ever owned. It was even lined with fur. Rabbit, to be sure, but fur, and in this situation, she appreciated that. She wished only that she’d remembered the matching muff.
Tucking her hands under her cloak, she hurried over, feeling the cold already nibbling through her thin-soled shoes.
The woman turned, showing a pretty but sharp face framed in rich, dark fur. She looked Genova up and down. “Who are you?”
Well! No wonder Hockney was hesitating. There was a saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Of course, the sable-trimmed woman probably knew rabbit fur when she saw it.
“This is Miss Smith, ma’am,” Hockney said in a flat tone. His long face was chapped with cold, and an icicle was forming on the end of his nose. “Companion to Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope Trayce. Miss Smith, this is Mrs. Dash, whose coach has come to grief.”
“Trayce!” Mrs. Dash exclaimed, transformed. “How kind of the ladies to stop! I am quite overwhelmed by the honor.”
Perdition. A toadeater, and just the sort to presume on this encounter.
“Oh, would you possibly, could you possibly…”
How in the stars could she say no?
“…take my baby on to warmth?”
Genova gaped. “Baby?”
Shining smile was replaced by piteous pleading.
