CHAPTER 4
The storm had calmed by morning, leaving a silence broken only by the slow drip of water from the cottage eaves. Lydia emerged from the battered doorway, the woolen blanket serving as a makeshift shawl over her dress, and looked with satisfaction at the coach waiting on the drive, its left wheel bearing the splint and bandage of a hasty repair. Outside, the world was transformed into a landscape of mud and broken branches, the air thick with the calm of the aftermath.
Lydia descended the steps, her crimson skirts collecting the dirt of the lane, and approached the carriage with cautious optimism. The coachman, face pinched with cold and frustration, hovered by the wheel, arms folded. Maximilian stood to oneside, his boots sunk to the ankles in mud. The Dowager Marchweather emerged behind them, wrapped in layers of shawls, her taxidermy squirt tucked close to her chest, and promptly declared it a splendid day.
"Ready as she will ever be, Miss," the coachman muttered, casting a doubtful look at Maximilian as if hoping for reassurance.
Lydia examined the repairs critically. The wheel—once a perfect circle—now seemed slightly off, the hub reinforced with iron struts in a haphazard pattern. She ran a gloved finger over the binding.
"It will hold," Maximilian said, his voice flat. "For at least a mile. After that, the village smith can attempt something more permanent."
"A mile is more than some of us hoped for last night," Lydia replied. "Especially considering the countryside's hostility."
He ignored her remark, turning instead to the coachman. "You will drive slowly. Avoid the worst of the ruts."
"I shall ride alongside the coachman, for I wish to see the countryside," the dowager declared, moving to mount the box.
"Lady Marchweather, I must insist you ride inside the coach," Maximilian said.
"Nonsense." The dowager started to climb up onto the coachman's seat.
Maximilian moved to stop her, but Lydia stilled him, placing her hand on his arm and shaking her head. They should insist she ride inside the carriage, but Lydia knew the dowager would do as she pleased no matter what they said.
The coachman nodded, and with an uneasy glance between his passengers, mounted the box. Moments later, he snapped the reins. The horses started, hooves churning the mud, and the carriage lurched forward.
Lydia barely settled before the next jolt sent her sprawling sideways, the blanket twisting around her shoulders. She righted herself, ignoring the way Maximilian's hand hovered before withdrawing. The interior still smelled faintly of panic and brandy. Oddly, she found it comforting.
Lydia traced droplets down the window, her mind drifting to the memory of heat, hands, and the press of lips in the dark. She glanced at Maximilian, whose profile was etched in concentration. No trace remained of the man who had held her fiercely hours before.
She wondered if he regretted it or if he had filed it away as an aberration in the neat ledger of duty.She fogged the glass with a breath and traced it clear with a gloved knuckle, unwilling to mention it or anything significant.
The carriage gave another shudder, then slowed to a crawl. Lydia heard the coachman curse under his breath, muffled but emphatic.
Maximilian was out before the vehicle fully stopped, leaving the door swinging. Lydia followed, ignoring the chill that cut through the wool, and trudged to where the coachman and Maximilian now crouched by the left wheel.
"What is it now?" she asked with nonchalance despite the sense of foreboding churning in her stomach.
The coachman jabbed a finger at the hub. "Look here, miss. That iron’s gone bad. I mended it as best I could, but?—"
Maximilian interjected, "The binding is cleanly sheared. That is not the work of a rut."
Lydia squatted beside them, feeling the cold seep through her stockings. The struts were not merely loosened; they had been wrenched, some forcibly bent. She brushed away a clump of mud and saw, with a thrill of alarm, the jagged edge of a break—sharp and bright.
She reached for the brake strap and ran herfingers along its length. Halfway up, the leather had been cut, merely a nick, but it would eventually tear through. The edges were greasy, as if someone had daubed them with oil to hide the damage.
She glanced up at Maximilian, who knelt opposite. Their eyes met, and she knew he saw it too.
"Someone tampered with the carriage," she said.
Maximilian nodded, his face unreadable.
The coachman sputtered, "No one was near it all night. I slept with the horses, and the boy was?—"
Maximilian stood over them. "You sleep more soundly than you think. Or the tampering happened earlier—at the inn, perhaps. It may even have started before we departed London."
Lydia rocked back on her heels, a mix of fear and excitement rising in her chest. "Why would someone bother? Is there a surge of highwaymen I am unaware of?"
Maximilian considered the question, scanning the empty road. "This was not the work of a common thief. There’s nothing to steal but our company, and we are not valuable enough to warrant murder by accident."
