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They were on the road by eight, a fact confirmed when Nicholas snapped open his pocket watch. It would’ve been scandalously early in London—Jane wasn’t entirely sure that either Lady Margaret or her mother had seen the early side of the day in the last five years—but in the morning air it seemed fitting. The rain had given way to brilliant sunshine that shone down on the emerald- and wheat-colored countryside. Everything smelled fresh and new.

As they rode on, Jane quietly tended to the spark of a new hope secreted deep in her chest. Any formality between them had fallen away, and as they rode, they spoke with the ease of people who’ve known each other for decades. He teased her as she corrected his recitation of poems his teachers at Rugby had made him memorize, and once he leapt down from his horse to pick a bunch of crocuses to brighten her modest dress. She wore the little posy as a boutonniere, letting him pin it to her bodice and steal a few more kisses out in the open fields.

Mostly, though, they talked about everything. They rode into the first village that day on a wave of laughter as Nicholas told her the story of the time he’d dared his sisters to box him.

“Effie would have none of it, of course,” he said with a chuckle. “She didn’t see the point in playing such childish games.”

“And what of Helen?” she asked as they brought their horses to a halt.

“Well, Helen’s quite a bit different,” he said, jumping down, tying up his mount, and then circling around to help her.

“She hit you square in the eye, didn’t she?” asked Jane with a laugh.

He helped her down. “How did you know?”

“Call it a hazard of the trade,” she said.

“I suppose that makes sense,” he said thoughtfully, “except you’re only partially right. Helen hit me once in the eye, and as soon as I stopped clutching it long enough to look up, she got me square in the other one before hitting me in the nose for good measure. I was black and blue for weeks, and my mother was furious.”

“What of your father?” she asked.

“He laughed and told me that if I could let my sister whip me, I deserved every painful second of it. I sat with a steak planted on my face for hours that day,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. “It put me off beef for a while.”

“I hate to play the devil’s advocate, but do you think perhaps you might’ve done something to deserve your little sister’s wrath?” She held her hand up as he began to protest. “Remember how many little brothers and sisters I’ve seen argue over the years, with all of Lady Margaret’s friends and cousins coming and going.”

He grinned. “I might have put a frog on her chair in the schoolroom that day.”

“Nicholas,” she chided.

“I can promise you she deserved it. Besides, it’s an older brother’s responsibility to torture his sisters, and I wouldn’t have shirked it for the world.”

“You know, I’ve often wondered what it would be like to grow up with brothers and sisters,” she said as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and they began to make their way toward the inn’s door. This one was called the Wallowing Pig, but she hardly noticed. It was just another in a blur of inns she’d seen on this unexpected journey.

“You had cousins, didn’t you?” he asked.

She pulled a face. “It’s not the same thing, at least these ones weren’t. The boys were all as thick as thieves and I was an interloper, although occasionally I would be conscripted into the large-scale battles my cousins used to enact in the front yard. Going to school where there were other little girls who wanted to play with me was almost a relief.”

He covered her hand with his as they crossed the threshold. “It sounds like you did well for yourself no matter the lack of siblings.”

“You know,” she said, cocking her head to one side, “I think you might be right.”

“We’ll check with the innkeeper and then perhaps have luncheon,” he said.

“It’s rather soon after breakfast, don’t you think?”

He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her to him. “And if I suggested a private room?”

A smile slid over her lips and she was just about to reply when a gasp filled the entryway.

“Miss Ephram!”

Jane’s head snapped up at the woman’s voice. Just inside the inn on the landing half a flight up from the ground floor stood Lady Margaret.

Chapter Ten

One day when Jane was very young, her cousin Robert had forced her to play the Battle of Waterloo. He’d insisted on being the Duke of Wellington, enlisting his brothers as his various lieutenants and leaving her to fill Napoleon’s diminutive shoes. She had just been about to launch her cavalry attack when Robert had drawn back his balled-up fist and punched her square in the stomach. She’d buckled over, gasping for air, eyes watering as she wondered why he was standing over her, victorious. All she’d wanted to do was curl into a ball to protect herself from a further onslaught of punches.

Now, more than twenty years later with Lady Margaret staring down at her in shock, she had exactly the same feeling, only this time it warred with the powerful urge to turn on her heel and run.