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At the interval between dinner and the tea tray Sophia squealed with delight upon seeing Lucy, and with an unerring instinct for causing discomfort, she settled down to probe in earnest about Lucy’s mother.

“I’ve just learned how dire your situation is! Poor you. You can’t be presented at court, can you?” she asked. “Not until you resolve the question of who your mother’s people were. I wonder that your father did not make some provision for telling you.”

“Oh, not so dire, I think. I can’t be presented while still in mourning, in any case,” Lucy said.

“Quite so. Your father was innkeeper, was he not? I expect he was just the sort of careful man one expects an innkeeper to be. Did he never mention the church where your parents married?”

Lucy shook her head. She had a sudden rueful realization that as a child she asked more questions about Adam than about her own mother. She had accepted her father’s explanation that her mother died in childbirth and that both he and she must not dwell on their loss. “Tell me about your—”

“Oh, well, I suppose you could try St. Botolph’s. It is likely that they were married right there, and their names would be in the book. Or...” Sophia bounced in her seat, her splendid bosom covered in old gold braid. “...or, you could try your father’s solicitor. Solicitors are shockingly privy to all manner of family secrets, I dare say.”

* * * *

Nate did his best to stay awake in the moving coach. Miranda had drifted off miles earlier. Now she leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, one of her hands looped through his arm. The story of her ailing mother and Miranda’s beauty had won them the front-facing seat inside. The soft velvet crown of her bonnet rested against his left ear.

They’d survived the awkwardness of waking in their room in the morning, but she’d been in low spirits as they’d wandered Sunley. They had sent an express to Captain Clare to tell him they’d be on the Rocket. Then Nate had dragged Miranda through churches and graveyards, and treated her to linen and lace shops. Only the stockings they’d found to replace her ruined ones cheered her briefly. Still he could not regret their adventure. Wherever they went, he’d turn and catch a glimpse of her profile, or feel the weight of her hand on his arm as they crossed cobbles and climbed stone steps. Now in the rocking coach he enjoyed the warm weight of her body against his and the huff of her breathing. He just needed to outlast his fellow passengers before he looked for anything hidden in the coach’s secret pockets.

Nate had noted the coachman Cole as they’d boarded. A smile split his broad red face, and coins from the passengers jingled in the pocket of his many-caped greatcoat. He carried a short tommy, a murderous weapon of weighted whalebone that could extract the last burst of speed from a flagging horse. The Rocket itself was a ton of wood, leather, and steel built for speed by London’s premier carriage maker.

Nate did not catch the guard’s name, but he didn’t like the exchange of glances between Cole and the guard as they entered the coach. Nor had he liked the guard’s notice of Miranda. At the moment they bowled along at a steady pace on a road that seemed mostly in good repair. By the dim light of the carriage lamps, he watched the two men opposite him. Once he was sure the other passengers slumbered, he would check the lining of the coach’s side panels.

* * * *

Miranda was not sure what woke her. Her bonnet was askew on her head, its ribbons cutting into her throat, and her right arm felt tingly from sleeping on it. An unfamiliar weight pressed her to the seat of the coach. It was Nate Wilde stretched across her lap in a shocking way. He was reaching into a pocket in the side of the coach. She tugged at his shoulder to pull him upright, but he was too heavy to budge.

“What are you doing?” she hissed in his ear. Across from them their fellow passengers snored.

He closed a panel on the side of the coach with a soft click and righted himself next to her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered.

“What were you looking for?” she asked, whispering like him.

“There’s nothing there,” he said, his voice puzzled.

“What did you think—”

Shots, splintering glass, and sudden darkness cut off her question. The horses veered sharply to the left, and the coach leaned alarmingly. Above them the outside passengers shouted. Miranda clutched Nate’s arm and held on as the coach wobbled like a blancmange. Just when it seemed likely to topple over, it stopped.

Over the squeaks and creaks of the vehicle and the rattle of harness, a contemptuous voice said, “Cole, you annoy me. What have I said about using a tommy on your horses?”

“They’re Radcliffe’s cattle, not fit for the clapper most of them.” Miranda recognized the coachman’s voice.

“Highwaymen,” whispered one of the passengers opposite them.

The voice outside spoke again. “Your fellow creatures, Cole.”

“Just get on with your business, man, and let me do mine.”

Then the highwayman spoke in a foreign tongue. From the woods on either side of the road came a gang of shadowy figures. There were more voices in the strange tongue and the jingle of harness and clop of horses’ hooves.

“They’re freeing the horses,” Nate whispered. “Like the last time.” He shook off her hold and turned the latch on the door, pushing it slowly open. That was just like him. She was frozen with fear, and he was going to stick his head into trouble.

Without letting down the steps, he dropped softly to the ground.

Miranda hesitated an instant, then stuck her head out of the door. “The steps,” she said to Nate.

He put a finger to his lips and lifted his arms to catch her.

“You there. You’re in league with the thieves. Stop!”