New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hobby quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors. Stephanie lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters.

For information on Stephanie and her books, including details of upcoming novels, visit Stephanie’s website at www.stephanielaurens.com.

Readers can write to Stephanie Laurens via e-mail at slaurens@vicnet.net.au. Readers can also e-mail that address to be included in the PRIVATE Heads-Up e-mail book announcement list for notification whenever a new Stephanie Laurens title hits the shelves!

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Nora Ryder was expecting the village of Wimbury to be busy, small though it was. This was the first day of May, after all, and Cowper, Mrs. Witherspoon’s handyman, had warned her that the maypole had been set up on the village green and that there was to be a fair about its perimeter. Everyone from miles around would be there, he had told her.

Except Mrs. Witherspoon herself, of course. She never went anywhere.

And except him and the other servants, Cowper had added somewhat wistfully.

Mrs. Witherspoon never celebrated any event-not even Christmas or birthdays or the first snowdrop that poked through the grass to bloom in the springtime. Working as her companion for the past six months had not been a joyful experience for Nora-and that was grossly to understate the case.

It might have been better to choose another day than May Day for going into Wimbury, Nora realized, but really she had little choice in the matter. It was true that she had resigned from her position and might conceivably have stayed one more day if it had been an amicable ending to her employment. It had not, though. In fact, she had resigned scarcely one whole minute before Mrs. Witherspoon sacked her.

Mrs. Witherspoon had told her she was to leave immediately, and Nora had replied that that was not nearly soon enough. They had settled on the following day.

She had not been paid-not once in six months. There had been various excuses for five of those months. Once it had been the apparently reasonable argument that since Mrs. Witherspoon never ventured beyond her own home and garden, then neither did her companion, and so there was nothing upon which to spend money. But now, after half a year, Mrs. Witherspoon had informed Nora that her annual wage had been agreed upon at the start of the employment-and that meant it was to be paid annually. Since Nora had seen fit to abandon her post, she was not entitled to be paid. Was it not enough that she had been fed and housed in the lap of luxury all this time?

It would not have been nearly enough even if there had been luxury, which there most certainly had not. But Nora, recognizing a hopeless case when she saw one, chose not to argue the point beyond giving herself the satisfaction of informing her erstwhile employer just before she left exactly-exactly!-what she thought of her.

Eloquence could be marvelously satisfying to one’s bruised sensibilities, but did nothing to fill one’s purse.

Yesterday Cowper, who had been running an errand for the old lady, had bought a stagecoach ticket to London for Nora-not out of the said lady’s bounty, it might be added, but out of the last of the meager supply of money Nora had originally brought with her to Dorset.

The journey itself might prove to be a hungry one, she realized, since she had enough left in her purse to buy perhaps half a cup of tea if it was being sold cheaply, and Mrs. Witherspoon’s cook could not be expected to risk her employer’s wrath by packing up some choice morsels of food for Nora to take with her. But at least she would be free again and sane again. And woefully penniless-again. Jeremy, her brother, would sigh and favor her with one of his long-suffering looks when he discovered her on his doorstep-again!

She was going to have to search for some new employment, something more permanent this time, it was to be hoped.

She had been saved from having to walk the five miles to the village with her heavy valise when Mr. Crowe, a neighboring farmer, had decided to take advantage of the holiday to visit his daughter ten miles away. Happily for Nora, his journey was to take him through Wimbury. His aged gig had wooden seats that threatened the legs and derriere of the unwary with a thousand splinters. Its squeaky wheels set one’s teeth on edge with every turning, and it smelled strongly of manure even when empty of that commodity, as it was today. However, squeezing herself up beside Mr. Crowe’s rotund frame was preferable to walking, and Nora had accepted his offer of a ride with heartfelt gratitude.

She was expecting to find the village crowded, then, even though it was still morning when they arrived. What she was not expecting was the frenzied press of activity about the Crook and Staff Inn, the very place where she was headed. There were those, of course, who would have taken their places early in the taproom, intent upon imbibing as much good cheer as they could before the day’s festivities began in earnest. But they ought to be quietly and respectably ensconced inside.

These people were all outside.

So was the stagecoach, which Nora could see above their heads. It had arrived early. She felt an uncomfortable lurching of the stomach as she sat forward in her seat. What if it went rumbling off in the direction of London before she could weave her way through the crowd and board it? What would she do then? She would have to wait a whole day for the next one-assuming, that was, there would be room for her on tomorrow’s coach. Whatever would she do in the meanwhile? She could not go back to Mrs. Witherspoon’s. She had certainly burned a few bridges there. Not that she regretted a single one of them.

It quickly became apparent, however, that she was not in imminent danger of losing her ride. The stagecoach was listing at far too sharp a sideways angle to be occasioned by an obese passenger or a particularly heavy piece of luggage stowed too far to one side.

“That thar coach must ha’ met with an accident,” Mr. Crowe remarked sagely, breaking a conversational lull of ten minutes or longer. And he drew his gig to a halt some distance away, lifted Nora’s valise out of the back, held out a massive hand to help her alight, nodded and grunted when she thanked him, and climbed in and drove off just as if he did not possess an inquisitive bone in his body.

Nora picked up her bag and hurried forward into the noisy fray. Crowds of people, doubtless a mingling of the stagecoach passengers and curious villagers, were clustered about the gateway to the inn yard and the coach itself, most of them talking excitedly, several of them doing so at great volume and with wild, even menacing gestures.

“What happened?” she asked the people closest to her.

They all spoke more or less together though none of them turned their heads to look at her.

“There has been a terrible crash. I swear my heart stopped for a whole minute when I heard it. I expected to see at least a dozen dead bodies.”

“That coachman did not blow his yard of tin before turning into the inn yard, and he was going too fast anyway. He collided with a perfectly innocent gentleman’s vehicle that was on its way out.”

“He did blow his horn. Are you stone deaf? It came near to deafening me. The gentleman was not paying proper attention, that was all.”