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horse was the correct one was a more difficult matter.
    Turning to the man whose livery proclaimed him the head hostler at the inn, she asked in an authoritative voice, “Which horse belongs to the Marquess of Wylington?”
    The man nodded in the direction of a sleek roan placidly chewing a mouthful of hay, but otherwise he made no move to help her. Nor did any of the other men who were standing around appreciating the humor of her predicament, although one of them snickered, causing Harry to guffaw openly.
    “They ain’t none of the others going to help you none neither, so don’t think they will. They’re my friends.” Harry taunted her from a safe position behind a phaeton.
    Well, he who laughs last, she thought. Untying the horse, she quickly and efficiently harnessed it to the gig and led it out into the yard, where she recovered her luggage and effortlessly tossed it up into the vehicle. Then climbing onto the driver’s seat, she proceeded on her journey without further delay. She made the turn out of the courtyard before it belatedly occurred to Harry that he was being left with no transportation.
    She could hear him calling for her to wait, but she did not bother to look back, nor did she check her pace, which was perhaps a bit reckless for the crowded streets of the market town. She was a good whip, however, and was determined to convince not only the groom but the townspeople as well, that she was not a person to trifle with.
    Thanks to her informative chat with Miss Jennings, Anne was able to pick the correct road out of town, and by the time the last house had been left behind, so too had the sounds of Harry’s pursuit.
    * * * *
    For the primary residence of a marquess, it was not excessively large. Anne pulled the horse to a halt, the better to survey Wylington Manor. Of uncertain architectural design, it sprawled in the sun, giving the impression of immense age. A regular indentation around the central portion of the building was evidence of an earlier moat, and behind the house the moor stretched away, bleak, desolate, and timeless.
    Even while she watched, a cloud passed overhead, blotting out the sun, and the manor became at once forbidding and downright sinister. It was a good thing she was blessed with a practical disposition rather than a nervous one, or she would be quick to imagine the manor filled with villainous relatives, treacherous servants, and of course, the requisite ghost, more than likely stalking the battlements at midnight with his head tucked securely under his arm. Or under her arm, of course, if it were the female variety of unearthly apparition.
    Indeed, it appeared to be the sort of house where secret passageways were the norm, and where sliding panels concealed hidden rooms filled with dusty bones. The library was certain to contain books of ancient magic, interspersed, of course, with fake books containing ornate keys or cryptic treasure maps in their hollowed-out cores.
    The sun reappeared after its short absence, and once again the manor looked perfectly normal, concealing nothing more dreadful behind its ivy-covered facade than two “hell-born boys” and a gaggle of poorly supervised servants.
    Clucking to her horse, Anne drove along the broad, curved drive to the front door. From past experience she knew it was vital to establish her standing in the household from the very beginning. So far, wherever she had been employed, she had never used the servants’ entrance, nor did she intend to start now.
    Tying the horse’s reins to a hitching ring, she boldly mounted the flat, wide steps to the main door, where, using the lion’s-head knocker, she loudly announced her arrival.
    After a short wait, she pounded again, and this time was rewarded when the door creaked slowly open. Have the hinges oiled and the door knocker properly polished, she thought, beginning a mental list of tasks to be accomplished.
    The butler, if indeed he was such, stared at her out of red-rimmed,