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“Monsieur Mazarine has gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean, ‘gone’? Why? Did you say something to offend him? What did you say?”

Pomona studied her mother. Lady Alford’s ability to fly into a rage in the blink of an eye had always frightened her. But now she wasn’t frightened. “Monsieur Mazarine left after being exposed as a French spy. I would advise you to keep this to yourself. With any luck your association with him is not widely known. But of course, you must do as you see fit.”

“That is the most ridiculous… What are you talking... No. Have you gone mad? You have always been peculiar. Everyone knows what I have suffered having a peculiar daughter! But this”—

“Ma’am." Pomona rose. "Hold. Your. Tongue.”

Lady Alford stared at Pomona. “What did you say?”

Pomona rang the bell. A footman appeared. “Frederick? Please show Lady Alford out.”

They were well past even the farthest outskirts of London before Pomona felt as though she could even take a deep breath.

Although they hadn't left until late afternoon, the summer evening was still long and their progress was faster than she'd realized it would be. Most of their journey followed the same route that the mail coaches took on their way to Holyhead—the Welsh port from which packet ships departed for Ireland—so the road was in excellent condition, and there were coaching inns at regular intervals along it where they could change horses.

She stared out the carriage window. The countryside was outwardly peaceful. The harvest was underway and the fields were busy with workers. The inn where they stopped for the night was busy and seemed prosperous. On the second day they began to cross the growing sprawl of coal-powered factories that was spreading across the middle of the country. Some of the people she saw walking looked thin and miserable, but even so, there seemed nothing that Townley could seize on to justify sending soldiers to oppress them further.

She rested her aching head against the squabs. She’d tossed and turned the night before as late arrivals clattered into the inn yard, replaying the argument with her mother in her mind, worrying that she was being dramatic and making a fool of herself by rushing to Shropshire. Sir Anthony didn’t seem like the sort of man who would exaggerate. But what if West brushed off her warnings—the way he’d brushed off what she’d said in Venice? He’d saved her gloves, she reminded herself. But of course, that had been before they were married. It was quite possible that he'd idolized her then, and was tired of her now.

They were at a standstill on the road outside the inn gate, waiting for an overloaded mail coach to depart. Two other drivers were shouting at each other. She rubbed her forehead. She was traveling in full state—reasoning that no one would be likely to interfere with a carriage accompanied by two outriders and guarded by footmen standing on the back in full livery.

Harding studied the road. “We cannot be more than a few hours from Shrewsbury now, your grace.”

There was a clatter of hooves behind them. At first Pomona assumed that it was another stage coach. But the noise grew louder and louder. A column of mounted soldiers was trotting up the road. The carriage was blocked as the large company passed on either side of them and all tried to enter the inn yard at once. They were surrounded by milling horses and armed men in high spirits. “And if they give us any trouble we shall break heads!” one of the soldiers shouted, to laughter and cheers from the men around him.

“Who’s that?” shouted another man, pointing at the coach. He sounded drunk. “Let us open the door and find out!”

Pomona drew down the blinds. Her heart was thudding. This was not the disciplined, respectful behavior that she’d always expected from soldiers. And it was terrifying.

A moment later the coach drew forward. Instead of turning in, they continued along the turnpike. When they reached the next coaching inn, the coachman opened the door for her. “I apologize, your grace. I thought it best to, er… avoid the crowds. We may change horses more easily here.”

“Very good. Thank you, John.” She exchanged a look with Harding. Neither of them had to say what they were thinking aloud. There had been something unsettling in the swagger that she’d seen in the soldiers—as though they knew that they wouldn’t be held to account for their behavior.

She told herself that it was only one or two of the men, and that they were simply drunk. But she couldn’t quite make herself believe it. Even if she hadn’t known what Sir Anthony had told her, she would have sensed that trouble was brewing.

By late afternoon they’d left the turnpike and turned into a network of country roads that led gradually higher into the western hills. Finally, a meandering dry stone wall and a pair of old gateposts topped with weathered limestone bears appeared to mark the boundary of the Castle March lands.

For many more miles, the road wound through forested valleys and along sloping hillsides where ripe wheat rippled and sheep grazed. Then a grander pair of stone gateposts with newer carved stone bears marked the entrance to the park. A well-maintained drive led into a wood.

It was on the other side of the wood that she caught her first sight of the castle. From a distance it seemed squat and toylike. But the closer they got to it, the more rapidly the carriage seemed to shrink. The drive continued straight through the wall via a gloomy arched passageway.

They were in a courtyard. And it was filled with soldiers.

Harding leaned forward. “Are those the same ones that we saw on the turnpike?”

"I think so." Pomona’s heart was pounding. “They must have beaten us here.”

A footman was already dashing out of the house. She heard him exchange a few words with John. He opened the door and bowed. “Your—your grace? I beg your pardon! We did not realize”—

She had to stop him before he could say more. She didn't want anyone thinking that she wasn’t expected. “Thank you. Please see to the luggage immediately.” She stepped out.

Thirty or forty soldiers were waiting in the courtyard, holding their horses’ heads. Why had so many come here? She could only imagine that this was intended as a show of force. She tried not to think what this could mean.

Footmen were rushing out of the house to begin unloading the luggage. The soldiers, watching, bowed belatedly. She lifted her chin and swept past them what was obviously a newer residential wing of the castle. She felt as though she was playing a part... because she was. She took a deep breath.

“Her Grace, the Duchess of March!” boomed a tall footman as she entered the house. A man who must be the butler made a deep bow. “Your grace, I beg your pardon! We had no idea”—