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“It’s black with two white horses.”

Sanity returned in a rush. Simon released Isla and took a step back. Confusion clouded her eyes.

“Are you o—” She caught herself. “Are you well?”

“Yes.” He ran his fingers through his hair. He could do better than this. He must do better than this. “I was obviously more winded than I thought, but I am well.”

“Come quickly.” Sam arrived at his side and grabbed his hand, towing him toward the drive. “Who do you think has come?”

In his present befuddled state, Simon would be hard-pressed to recognize his own stallion, let alone the horse and carriage belonging to one of Maidstone’s or Martha’s acquaintances.

“Their carriage is shinier than ours,” Will said, joining Sam.

It was, indeed. And the crest on the door was gleaming equally brightly in the autumn sunshine. Simon studied it uneasily as the vehicle followed the bend in the drive.

“Do you recognize it?” Isla stepped up beside him and watched the approaching vehicle curiously.

The carriage slowed, coming to a stop opposite Copfield Hall’s front doors. Hobbes immediately descended the steps and opened the carriage door. An exceptionally wide, yellow, silk skirt appeared in the opening, and as the young lady descended from the vehicle, awareness of who had come fell upon Simon in the form of a boulder in his stomach.

“It is the Whitelys’ carriage,” he said. “It appears that Lady Whitely and her daughter have come to visit Martha.”

“The Whitelys who live in the house we can just about see from the fallen tree?”

“Yes. Although their daughter is now married and no longer lives there.” He squared his shoulders. “She must be visiting whilst her husband awaits the opening of Parliament.”

“The daughter married a peer, then?”

“She married a duke.”

Vaguely aware that Isla was staring at him, Simon kept his attention on the two women now standing outside the carriage.

A little shorter and plumper than her daughter, Lady Whitely had changed very little since the last time he’d seen her. Neither had Lydia, he supposed, although her wardrobe was even more elegant today than it had been eight months ago. She was positively resplendent in her embroidered yellow gown. Her Medici collar was tall and trimmed with wide, stiff lace. A large, deep-red gemstone and a string of pearls hung from her neck, and her dark hair was ratted to perfection. She was, in fact, a picture of flawlessness.

Sam tugged on Simon’s jacket. “Uncle Simon?”

Shaking off his torpor, Simon gave his attention to the little boy. “Yes, Sam?”

“Can we play What Time Is It, Mr. Wolf, now? It’s Miss Crawford’s turn to be the wolf.”

“It may be time to end the game, Sam,” Isla said, answering before Simon voiced a reply. “But I would be happy to be the wolf when we play next.”

Sam’s face fell, but his twin was not willing to give up.

“One more time?” Will begged. “Miss Tomlinson has not yet come for us.”

Simon looked at Isla. “What do you think? Did that last run wear you out?”

“Not at all.” She lowered her voice slightly. “But if you wish to avoid an awkward reunion, you will need to act quickly.”

He raised an eyebrow. He would do well to remember that Isla was more preceptive than most. “Martha’s guests will wish to avoid that as much as I do.”

“I would not be so sure.”

Isla had scarcely finished speaking when Simon heard the crunch of gravel beneath approaching feet.

“Good afternoon, Lord Bancroft.”

Schooling his features, Simon turned to face Lady Whitely and Lydia. He bowed. “Lady Whitely. Your Grace. What an unexpected surprise.”