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She stood on the pavement, watching as the coach pulled away. It looked as if Adam were leaving her, rather than she leaving him. She realized that that, too, had been part of the captain’s plan. The March wind tugged at her hat and cloak, and she quietly vowed not to let London change her.

* * * *

A farmer took Nate and Miranda in his cart down a few miles of country lane from the coaching inn where they’d left the stage. In a thick accent the farmer told Nate how to find the turning to enter the Hartwood grounds. You can’t miss it, the farmer assured them. Nate and Miranda had been arguing over the man’s words ever since.

Because Miranda had not trusted the inn to keep their belongings, Nate carried their cases. Miranda limped along behind him. She was having a tough time of it, and he was grateful for the sharp wind that whipped her cloak around her and took away half her words.

“Why haven’t we reached the turning yet? You must have missed it.”

He wanted to say that they’d be there if she had worn sensible half boots instead of fashionable slippers.

“If you have a stone in your shoe,” he said, “I can help you take care of it.”

“I don’t need your help. I need you to find the fogged duck or whatever it is we’re supposed to find before night.”

Fogged duck was their agreed upon interpretation of the farmer’s words. Nate had tried several times to reproduce the man’s exact syllables, but he could make no other sense of the sound. He repeated the mystery phrase in his head and kept his gaze trained on the dusty hedge lining the road. It would be cold again tonight, and he hadn’t seen anything that looked like a barn. As if Miranda would consent to sleep in a barn.

At the top of a little rise he stopped, waiting for her to catch up. He tried not to look at her. She hadn’t told him the real reason she agreed to come with him, but he hoped to get it out of her. As he gazed out over the endless hedge, he saw a tree apparently blasted by lightning at some time in its life. The farmer’s fogged duck suddenly made sense—forked oak. Just beyond the blighted tree a turning opened. Nate gave a whoop of satisfaction and hurried forward, the cases banging against his knees.

“Found it,” he called back to Miranda.

In front of him the road sloped down through a little wood to a tree-dotted park in the center of which stood a wide-fronted, three-story house of mellow golden stone. Its rows of tall windows blazed a fiery orange in the light of the late afternoon sun. A stone balustrade crowned its top, and the square tower of a small church rose up behind the building. When Miranda reached his side, she gasped. It was her first view of a grand country house, the sort that looked like an entire street of posh London houses smashed together.

“We’re not going in the front door, are we?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Visitors go round to the housekeeper,” he said. Captain Clare had explained the custom and given them the housekeeper’s name, and Nate guessed they’d find her in the one-story service wing extending north of the house.

“What if they turn us in for impersonating Mr. Pickersgill’s relations?”

“They won’t. Come on.” They had planned what they would say. As long as Miranda didn’t lose her nerve, they’d be fine.

As they came down the long drive, Miranda’s limp grew more pronounced, and Nate slowed his pace. No one came out to stop them. When they reached level ground, he led Miranda around to a likely looking door and rang the bell. A pimply girl in a blue pinny and white mobcap answered his ring and stared out at them from a long plain passageway.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “We’ve come to see Mrs. Wellby.”

“Well, it’s not a public day, ye know,” she said. The girl looked warm with work and fires, wispy curls of damp hair curling out from her cap, while Nate was conscious of Miranda standing in the March chill.

“My sister and I have come about a relation of ours,” he said.

“A relation, is it?” said the girl. “Yer not the new man?”

“No. We’ve come to see Mrs. Wellby.”

“Avis,” said a smooth firm voice of unmistakable authority, “who have we here?”

“Dunno, ma’am. Nobody, I think,” the girl said over her shoulder. Having dismissed them, Avis turned on her heel and disappeared through a door off the passageway. A tall woman in deep burgundy silks with a lace collar and a ring of keys at her waist appeared. From her plain calm face and clear bright eyes, Nate guessed she was good at sorting through any kind of nonsense. He began again.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Wellby?” The woman nodded. “My sister and I have come to inquire about a relation of ours. He may be in service here.”

“A relation, you say.” She looked them over shrewdly but not unkindly.

“This is Hartwood Manor, is it not?”

“It is, but I suspect you’ve been misinformed about your relation. Most everyone in service here comes from the village.”

“Our relation is quite old now. He may have left service.”

“What is his name?”