“Thought he had the right of way just because he had a natty new curricle and pockets stuffed full with half a fortune.”

“Three-quarters full, I would wager. Did you catch a look at his boots? He didn’t get them for ten quid or even twenty.”

“The coachman was not looking where he was going, and see what happened as a result. It is good for him no one was killed. He would be swinging for it before the week was out. It was his fault right enough.”

“He had his eyes peeled. It was the gentleman who was looking over his shoulder-probably at one of the chambermaids.”

“A public vehicle has the right of way.”

“No it don’t. Where did you get that daft idea? The carriage that is leaving gets to go first.”

“The coachman was swearing the air blue just a minute or two ago. You should have heard him. He told that gentleman a thing or two, I am here to tell you.”

“That’s as much as you know of the English language. The gentleman swore rings around him.”

“The coach has lost a wheel and its axle has been badly damaged. It may not even be possible to repair it.”

“The gentleman’s curricle has been smashed to smithereens.”

“No, it hasn’t. It merely has a split axle. I don’t think it’s even in as bad a way as the coach.”

“And who do they think is going to mend two broken axles and a broken wheel today of all days when everyone is on holiday? They’ll expect it, though, mark my words.”

Beyond the group closest to her, Nora could hear the stagecoach passengers, their voices raised in appeal and outrage. What were they supposed to do until tomorrow? And what if they could not wait until tomorrow to get where they were going? How could they be sure anyway that the coach would be ready to resume its journey even then? Someone was going to hear about this. Someone was going to answer for it. Someone was going to pay.

Nora felt slightly weak at the knees even though it did not appear that anyone had sustained any physical injury.

What was she going to do?

Within a few minutes everyone was beginning to drift away in the direction of the inn itself, and Nora was able to elbow her way forward until she stood before the man who must be the stagecoach driver.

“When do you expect to be on the way again?” she asked, realizing the foolishness of her question even as she spoke. She could see the carriage more fully now.

“Tomorrow, if I have anything to say about it, ma’am,” he said none too graciously, not even looking at her. “If you have a ticket, you are just going to have to come back tomorrow.”

“But what am I to do today?” she asked him.

He shrugged and scratched his head, his eyes on the damage to his vehicle. “Take a room at the inn like everyone else, I suppose,” he said. “You had better hurry, though. There aren’t going to be any left pretty soon.”

It would not matter if there were a hundred rooms left. Nora’s mind was humming with the realization that she was well and truly stranded. With nowhere to go and without a feather to fly with.

“Perhaps,” she said, “I can have back the price of my ticket.”

Though that was no real solution to anything, was it? If she spent that money, then she was going to be stranded here forever and a day.

“It’s not possible, I’m afraid, ma’am,” he said with surly impatience, bending to peer under the vehicle. “No refunds are allowed.”

And so that was that. Somehow she was going to have to stay stranded here for a whole day-and a whole night-before she could even hope to begin the long journey to London.

She did not know anyone here. Even though Wimbury was only five miles from Mrs. Witherspoon’s, she had not once before left the house and garden, and there had never been visitors.

It was going to be a long, hungry day. Nora glanced up at the sky as she wandered aimlessly toward the inn entrance, where everyone else had disappeared. She stood just inside the taproom door for several minutes, undecided about what to do or where to go. Other people milled about her. All seemed to have somewhere to go and someone else to talk to.

She felt suddenly and horribly lonely and isolated and-stranded.

A lanky young man wearing a soiled apron and carrying a tray of empty glasses stopped close to her. He was looking slightly harried.

“If you are another of the stranded passengers, ma’am,” he said, “you are going to have to make other arrangements for tonight. We are full, what with the May Day fair and the coach crash.”

“I-”

Nora was never afterward sure what she was about to say. Someone else spoke first. It was a man’s voice, soft and cultured and clearly accustomed to commanding and being obeyed.

“The lady already has a room,” he said. “She is with me.”

Nora, startled, looked to see to whom and about whom the gentleman was speaking. But clearly he was speaking to the waiter-and he was looking directly at her with lazy blue eyes, above which his dark eyebrows arched.

She had a fleeting impression of tallness and broad shoulders and slender hips and well-muscled thighs, all clad in fashionable, expertly tailored clothing that looked as if it had been molded to his handsome frame. But then other thoughts intruded.

It could not be.

Surely-

The light inside the taproom was dim, the windows being small and half covered with heavy curtains. It was impossible to see with any clarity after just stepping inside out of the sunlight.

Even so…

It could not possibly be, though.

But it was.

Or rather, he was.

Richard.

He was Richard.

But she had missed something. He had said something else during the second or two of numb shock she had felt as she recognized him. The words were only now imprinting themselves on her hearing, like an after-echo.

“She is my wife,” he had just said.

“Ah, that is all right then, sir,” the waiter said as he turned away about his business.

Richard Kemp, Lord Bourne, had made an early start on his journey. He had left Dartwood Close behind him when dawn still barely reddened the eastern sky. He was going to spend a few days with his grandmother in Hampshire before continuing on his way to London, where he would stay for the rest of the Season.

It was a sunny morning with no appreciable wind-a perfect day for traveling by curricle. His carriage, with most of his baggage and his valet, was to follow him to London in a few days’ time.

He made a stop at Wimbury for a change of horses when the morning was already quite well advanced, though he resisted the temptation to step inside the inn for refreshments. The taproom looked crowded, as was to be expected on a holiday, especially as he could see that there was to be a fair here-and the maypole was up. He would surely allow himself to be drawn into conversation if he went inside, and before he knew it an hour or more of valuable traveling time would have gone by. He would relax when he reached his destination. His grandmother would be delighted to have his company.

But what was that old adage about more haste leading to less speed? Old adages had an annoying habit of being right, as he realized when he thought about it later.

If he had started out from home at a more civilized hour, or if he had stopped sooner to change horses, or if he had stepped inside the taproom here for a glass of ale and a pasty, or if he had done a number of things more slowly than he had actually done them, then he would not have been pulling out through the gateway of the Crook and Staff’s yard at the exact moment a stagecoach was pulling in. And he would not have been delayed by a whole day as a result.

But that was precisely what did happen.

He was pulling out of the yard with full care and attention upon what he did despite the fact that the maypole with its colorful array of ribbons was directly in his line of vision, when suddenly all hell broke loose. He heard the simultaneous sounds of a horn blasting and hooves thundering and imprecations being shouted-some of them coming from his own lips-and metal and wood crashing and screeching against metal and wood and hysterical screaming. And he saw horses rearing, their eyes rolling in panic, and a florid-faced, gap-toothed coachman hauling on the ribbons from the large box of a stagecoach as it attempted to occupy the same space as his curricle in the gateway.